A Surprisingly Sane Blog

I enjoy watching train wreck relationships.

It’s awful, I know, but it’s the real-life version of what you see in the movies, and there’s always so much more drama in the real-life play-by-play.

*devilish grin*

Current Mood: Mischievous

1. I never wanted a boy, just girls. The reason? Baby peen freaks me out. They get boners!
2. I have a busted, swollen foot. I just keep wrapping it and dancing on it because I have 2 performances and a bunch of lessons to teach this week. The doctor is probably going to take a baseball bat to it just to keep me off the damn thing once I give up and make an appointment.
3. Sometimes I really want another kid. Not a baby, just a kid, but the baby comes first so I just deal with that fact. Then I remember the painful natural childbirth, postpartum nightmare, breastfeeding, the Prozac, the crisis center, and the fact that my stellar long-term memory is a dark void from that era of my life as I struggled to fight that knife at my wrist more than once. And then I remember that James had his balls snipped last year, and I sigh with relief that I don’t even have to worry about fighting any urge to procreate.
4. My garden gnome has a Facebook profile. It chats with my sister and bro-in-law’s gnome as well as my parents’ gnome. We’re all a little weird.
5. Though my dog is certainly fluffy and cute, poor Lucy really is quite fug. She has this underbite that juts out for days, and it never ceases to attract comments from every visitor in our home.
6. I totally believe that feet and dick size go hand-in-hand in most cases. Go ahead and tell me if I’m way off because I’ll totally believe you. I’m kind of gullible. Plus, I don’t have tons of experience to argue it. But let me say this: from what I’ve seen, it’s true.
7. I have a heart of gold. With all my sailor talk and quick sarcastic wit, you’d think I’m a total bitch. But if someone needs help or a shoulder to cry on, I’m there in an instant. But this heart of gold has gotten me into al kinds of trouble more than once.
8. Two words: Shower Sex. It’s the quickest, easiest way to get it on during the day in this house. Thank you, Dora the Explorer. I’m wondering when the kids are going to figure it out, then I remembered I didn’t realize until I was an adult that my parents showering together probably wasn’t just to conserve water.
9. I have turned into a true girly-girl: I have been LOVING playing with makeup.
10. I paint my girls’ nails whatever colors they want. Currently, Julie’s are bright turquoise with black crackle over the top. April’s are sparkly blue. I also let them pick out their own clothes and fix their hair however they want. Even when it’s a little crazy.
11. I vowed a long time ago to never be the “frumpy mom”. Thus far, I have remained chaste to that promise.
12. I have the olfactory senses of a dog. If you’ve just had sex, use cocaine, or shampoo with Pantene, I can smell it on you if you’re close enough for me to touch. That also means that if you haven’t showered or washed your clothes, I’m holding my breath as discreetly as possible for a reason. And no, I’m not going to turn you in, though I might flash you a dirty look if that’s not your girlfriend’s perfume I smell and she’s standing right next to you.

Current Mood: Cool

Before I say anything, let me get this straight: I love comments! Leave them! They’re awesome! They make me feel loved! And please don’t forget that while my words just tumble onto this page about why I disabled comments on most of my posts. And it’s a post I have to write because, dammit, a chunk of people who care are bitching at me (and I mean that in the nicest way possible) for blocking comments on posts that they want to say a word or two about. And honestly, I love you peeps for it because that means you actually do care. And that rocks.

Ugh, so here it goes. Bear with me. This is hard to write….

I go through blog identity crises on a very regular basis. I know, this sounds stupid. But it’s true. Initially, I wrote in a blog that I never expected anyone to find. It was my only patient outlet to which I could sob out my stories of depression during pregnancy, and eventually, the heinous postpartum depression that I didn’t want to admit I was dealing with. Then I added a stat page, and was kind of shocked that so many people were silently watching the train wreck. Eventually, though, comments started picking up, and I found it a relief to have the support even though I was originally quite embarrassed by the attention.

This blog has always been a therapeutic sounding board, but when I started getting emails from advertisers, I admit I toyed with the idea of trying to make some money off of it. Then I became horribly unwell when the postpartum depression switched gears into full-blown rapid-cylcing bipolar I. The diagnosis was devastating. I could hardly see straight, much less go through the process of advertising my blog and deal with the negative comments enough to actually turn my website into a business. I just couldn’t deal with it all.

I never intended for my blog to a source of entertainment for people when I started it. It’s great that it is, and I’m flattered when people leave comments and crack up about my silly posts, but that’s not why I started writing publicly. I left my blog out for the world to see because I felt like while I could lie to myself about my mental illness and pretend it wasn’t as bad as it is, I couldn’t fake it for the masses. Writing publicly has helped me cope with reality. However, I started feeling frustrated because I began to see that if the topic wasn’t PENIS or pot-smoking morons or something controversial, people read silently with only occasional support to the sort of posts off of which this blog was founded. As a result, I started writing more of those “eyerolling posts” because it seemed to make sense to just write for my readers.

I went through a few months where I barely wrote anything, trying to figure out a place for my blog in my life. I made it pass-word protected, felt no motivation to write, and eventually decided that if I’m going to blog, it’s just going to have to be a public thing. When I reopened it, though, I started feeling upset by commenters. It wasn’t what the comments were, it was the fact that my blog went from people supporting posts relating to the mental illness I struggle with to the most heartfelt things I could summon being left with crickets chirping while my stupid, pointless posts were the ones attracting all the conversation.

So I made the decision that if I didn’t allow comments, it would force me to be more truthful to myself about what I needed to get out of my head. In a sense, it made my writing much more therapeutic. And honestly, it has worked. And wouldn’t you know that as soon as I did that, magically, my stats went up? Kind of strange… but my assumption is that it’s a direct result of my writing what is more true to myself rather than just trying to please an audience. Funny how that works.

So yeah, I’m sorry to be an asshole and turn my comments off. It’s not that I don’t like comments- I love them! It’s just that, well, I started getting a weird complex about it. I know, stupid. I’ve been going through an extremely rough time for a couple months (you probably didn’t know that, my apologies), and it really messes with my perception of things.

Don’t forget, I’m only human, and I guess blocking comments isn’t the smartest thing ever. Mea Culpa.

Okay. Comments open. Go.

Current Mood: Alarmed

I fail to realize on a daily basis just how much I let people take advantage of me.

I appear to be allergic to the word “no”. Need help booking that appointment? Sure! Act like an asshole and expect me to clean up the feces? Absolutely! Want me to act like your personal assistant and find a new office building for your practice over and over again since each one is perfect for you, but you want something else, all on my free time (it’s not like I have a life!)? No fucking problem!

Everyone runs into this at some point, but I am the epitome of DOORMAT. My life seems to revolve around taking care of everyone else, cleaning up their problems, and making sure life is a comfy journey for people regardless of what cost it is for me. My kids, well, I owe them that- that’s my job. It’s the adults in my life that I have this problem with. I take full responsibility for this obnoxious, life-ruining fault of mine, but I don’t believe it was my fault entirely that I ended up this way.

I was always taught to be a do-gooder. To love others the way God loves us. To help people in need. That sort of thing. Thanks, Catholic school brainwashing. I was also taught to cover up people’s faults to make potentially awkward crap a smoother transition when shit hit the fan, and to parent people I love even when the roles should have been reversed simply because they weren’t capable of being the adult or bigger person.

That fine. It’s all fine. I’m a caring, loving person, albeit one with a sassy mouth who isn’t afraid to at least say it like it is. I might- just might- get some heaven brownie points (though I’ve learned that according to some ridiculous over-the-top religions, I’m doomed to the fiery depths of Gehenna, even though just a small part of the world believes in their bullshit religions that would condemn the vast majority of God’s creatures, who He supposedly loves and is supposed to be the one true Judge at the end of the day… but don’t get me started…) for being a “good” person. But honestly? I am sick and tired of being a freaking doormat. I’m tired of just smiling and trying to smooth over the crap when people act like shitheads. You know, it’s kind of time for them to learn how to do some crap all by themselves.

Am I doing anything about this? No. Yes. I don’t know. I’m trying. No, I really am. It’s just hard. My issue is that I seem to refuse to believe that people actually choose to be passive aggressive or secretly bitchy behind one’s back or lazy about working out their own issues. I might see it, but I’m terrified of confronting them because I don’t want to cause any waves, and I just don’t want to believe they are kind of, well, bad people in some ways. It’s not going to make life easier if I try to actively stop them. I just have to figure out my own role in all of this.

It just feels like another spiral. I’m either the nice person, or I’m the asshole to some. I just can’t see how to find a happy-medium.

Current Mood: Alarmed

I create Sims characters based off of people I hate or folks who disgust me.

And then I do bad things to them. And I get sick pleasure out of it.

And yes, if you’re one of those people who have tried to humiliate, backstab, fuck with me etc., then it’s very, very possible I have created a twin Sim with your name on it. And that Sim is probably getting knocked up by aliens, unshowered, tortured, and miserable. And my sister and I? We’re probably laughing at your Sim’s expense.

Immature, but oh-so-satisfying. I’m so glad I live in the 21st century.

Current Mood: Mischievous