…that I can’t have a bite of chocolate in my own house without cowering in the laundry room? I’m really not a so-called emotional eater — unless you consider it an emotion when a grown woman spikes a heart rate of 185 bpm while deep-throating a Hershey bar because her ravenous 5-year-old approaches.
…that I don’t own a single pair of thong underwear? I have tried them, okay? And I will never but never believe women who continue to tell me that G-strings are more comfortable than my giant cotton Hanes tablecloth panties “once you get used to them.” I’d probably get used to poking an uncooked spaghetti noodle repeatedly into my tear duct if I did that on a daily basis, too. And I don’t care how sexy men find thong undies. They’re gross. The day my husband starts using these pretty metal bun cages to make his junk look more attractive is the day I sport panties that need be tweezed out during foreplay.
…that I don’t text? Why would I take 10 minutes to laboriously type out a message that I could just as easily speak in 10 seconds? Please don’t tell me it’s more discrete. So is braille. I don’t see people running out to learn that. Please don’t tell me I’d understand better if I just got a phone gadget with a QWERTY keyboard. QWERTY keyboards were designed to slow people down. Using them for speed-socializing just seems wrong. Also? Texting barely qualifies as conversing. It’s glorified Morse code. I just don’t get it. Like an angry senior disputing Medicare billing practices, I shall continue to shake my little fist at the vulgarity of the vanity-plate dialect that is texting! Blerg!(Maks me wn2 e@ my own gizzard. KWIM?)
…that I have completely lost all sense of style? I don’t know what happened to me. I really don’t. But somewhere between age 25 and stay-at-home motherhood, I got hit by the tacky truck. No matter what I try, I always seem to look like 1986. I think this might be because in 1986, even young girls had a mom look — big hair, shoulder pads, high-waisted jeans. While I don’t sport any of those looks now, I know for a fact that on an empirical level, my hair simply looks better big, a pair of shoulder pads would do wonders for offsetting my butt girth, and high-waisted jeans would preclude my granny panties from sticking two inches over the rim of my Levi’s. (See? Does anyone else even wear Levi’s anymore?) It’s not that I don’t know what’s in style. Well, yes, it actually is that, but what’s in style just never looks stylish draped over my particular body type or under my particular head. When I try on clothing in H&M, for example, the only hip store that has prices I can afford, I always look either (a) pregnant or (b) ridiculous. We’re talking middle-aged-man-in-drag ridiculous. So, over and over, I resort to the same “timeless” look that has carried me for a decade — the one that hasn’t turned a head in as much time.
…that I get nervous around my own child? She’s a bright, imaginative kid with a winning personality who I’m told behaves even when away from home (or I should say especially when away from home). But I have this sense that she’s sort of like Scotch-taped together that way, like she’s always five minutes and one misunderstanding shy of an emotional holocaust. Because she is. It’s a little something I like to call apple not falling far from the tree. See this post for more information.
…that I used to do a bang-on impersonation of Geri Jewell, the Facts of Life character with cerebral palsy? Of course, it’s not wrong that I can do the impersonation. My sister would even argue it’s one of the few things that was so, so right about me as a kid. But that I ever even thought to try doing it, and in mixed company? So wrong.
…that I hate seeing people smiling while by themselves? I look at them and my mind quietly screams, “GRRRR! Apetard!” Why is that? What’s my problem? There used to be a girl in my hometown who had a permagrin that would have been perfectly complemented by a swirl of exclamation points and ampersands around her head. Vacant is the term, I believe. She rode my schoolbus, and an open-mouthed smile was her natural expression. No, she was not slow. But because it was her natural expression, I could often hear her sucking back spittle through her molars. That might sound kind of sad, but believe me, if you listened to someone sucking spittle back through her molars for, oh, five or six years — even if it’s someone you love — you’d get jaded about smiling apetards, too.
…that I explained tampons to my 5-year-old today? It certainly felt wrong. But I tell you, she asked. She asked as she followed me into the bathroom, and well, if her mom isn’t going to answer that question, who is? I felt pressed upon to just dish. Over-dished is more like it. Judging from the look on her face, I bet she’ll think twice about asking Mom about anything else for a while. See? She makes me nervous!
…that I’m blogging instead of packing for our move right now? Or did I forget to mention that we found a house and are moving — in 10 days! Funnily enough, it’s a totally ’80s house that needs some updating but is totally livable without the updating. Kinda like me, no? Kinda like me.