Oh god, it’s Pi Day again, and literally everyone is LOLing at all the pie jokes while I’m over here rolling my eyes because math jokes are not my jam. Also because I think pie is the worst, which I said on Facebook today and basically got excommunicated by all my friends. Apparently not loving pie (or cheesecake, my other nightmare) makes me “weird” or “a criminal” or “worthy of death.” Which seems extreme, but everyone has something they are passionate about, and desserts seem like a good cause, so I get it.
Facebook turns 11 this month. Happy birthday, time suck!
Lately I’ve been having a Facebook issue.
Not a “what the EFF have you done to my timeline, now, Zuckerberg??” issue. More like a “What the EFF is this even all about?” kinda issue.
I’ve never been one to hair-flip off of social media when someone pissed me off. I enjoy social media, and for a while, it even paid the bills. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the relationships we form on Facebook and how that carries over into real life. The beauty of Facebook is significant, I think. Keeping up with friends and family, old and new, in a way that would never be possible 20 years ago. Celebrating our achievements and milestones together. Reaching out when times are bleak. Reconnecting with lost loved ones. Hell, laughing at George Takei. Those are all good and real things.
But then there’s the bad. So much bad, sometimes. Ugliness, drama, annoyances, VAGUEBOOKING. All of that can make us all SWEAR we are DONE with this WASTE OF TIME and we are NEVER logging back on AGAIN. Except, we do. We always do.
If you’ve been around me at all in the past couple of weeks, you’ve heard me say that. “I’m hungry.” Why? BECAUSE I AM ON A DIET FROM HELL.
Ahem. I apologize for that outburst. That was very unlady like.
Over the weekend, I attended a Happy Hysterectomy Party, and I’m sure many of you did as well. Tis the season and all. For the few of you who have yet to join the hysterectomy party circuit, a HHP (as they are known, obvs) is an event a woman plans to celebrate the upcoming removal of her uterus. Because nothing says “PARTY!!!” like having the center of your womanhood extracted. P!nk’s next album really focuses on this, I hear.
No, in all seriousness, this was a great event. A dear friend is having the procedure young, and was hit with the reality that the surgery represents more than just removing a troubled organ from her body. The uterus pretty much effects 90% of a woman’s lifetime in various ways, whether you have kids or not. So to suddenly LOSE this aspect is a little sad and a little happy. My friend decided that the best way to say sayonara to the old broad was to gather together some of her fave girls and have a celebration of womanhood and what that means to us. Yea, it sounds a little like a coven, and we might have burned some spices and other witchy things, but it was honestly a BLAST. The case of prosecco helped, as well. Give me enough bubbly and I’ll set anything on fire.
It’s time for me to say the things here that I say in my home, in safe place, inside my walls.
It’s time to say we have a problem. And I want to be part of the solution.
Tonight, I’ve been glued to my tv, watching the news about Michael Brown and Darren Wilson. I waited for the announcement that Wilson would NOT be indicted for shooting an unarmed man 10+ times, despite knowing in my heart that it wouldn’t happen.
It was never going to happen.
As the world reacts to our beloved Renee’s new face, there’s a backlash going on for those of us who had the human reaction of “WOW” and I think it’s misguided.
My take over at The Powder Room.
So often these days, we hear about what a thankless job parenting is. How long and hard the days are, but how fast the years pass us by. We are encouraged to let go of the tough moments and relish the beautiful, sun-kissed moments in fields of wildflowers, with random chalkboards and Mason jars strewn about. To laugh! And hug! And plaster our home with inspirational quotes found on Pinterest!
So I can’t tell you how warm my heart was yesterday with my precious family. This is one for the scrapbooks!*
My latest piece over at The Powder Room explains why I can’t laugh at a story that everybody else seems to think is funny.
I really hate being a party pooper. I do. I don’t consider myself a fun-hater or devoid of a sense of humor. I’m not easily offended, nor am I above laughing at basic, idiotic moments in life.
So I’ve decided to take part in this challenge to write every day because god knows right now, I’m writing once every season, and it seems stupid to keep paying for my domain name if it’s not being used.
Writing has been way harder for me since coming off my happy pills, but rather than continue using that as an excuse, I’m going with the old adage about practice makes perfect or something else about practicing … I dunno. Just Do It? Something.
Anyway. One thing I have to get over, if I’m going to do this (and you guys know I won’t, but we are going to pretend), is the thinking that everything has to be well-thought out and meaningful or perfect. I bet you didn’t even know those were standards I held, did you? WELL I DO. But in order to write more, that means I just gotta WRITE SOMETHING, so sometimes that something is going to be about rabbit balls.
We are officially more than halfway done with 2014, and I am so happy to be on the downward slope of this dog turd of a year.
Seriously, is 2014 the worst or WHAT? For me at least, the first six months of this toilet bowl was lined with nothing but bad news, bad luck, heartache, headaches and overall foul-smelling refuse. NOT TO BE DRAMATIC.
But now that we are over the hump, I am DETERMINED to make the second half of 2014: The Dumbest Shit Known to Man, a real winner.
I’ve started out my quest for better times with a bit of a makeover of sorts. Let’s see if you can tell what I had done.