Twenty-four

I have approximately 28 minutes of silence to myself, so I thought I'd use the time to do a little bit of housekeeping.


Not my house, obviously. Don't you know me by now? That place is covered in dog hair and muddy paw prints, because where we live, it's been raining for two days, and the rain has apparently called the puppy by name, each drop screaming in dog tone, "Dumb puppy! Come pounce in my mud!".


The housekeeping is for my blog house. This one right here.


I fear that if I were a fish, I would be a selfish.


I've been looking at this blog as mine. Meaning, a place for me to get out my thoughts and questions and ponderings. Then I sit and wait, and you people (all 5 of you or however many are taking the time to read this on a regular basis) write me back. Mostly the response has been a resounding "Me too!" or "That's my life. Are you a spy?" or something of that nature.


But lately, I inadvertently have been putting questions out there that are then creating some questions in other people's minds.


The first one was when I wrote about Paula Deen. Who knew pie was so divisive? I certainly didn't. But it was just my opinion, my point of view, my feelings on the topic at that time. And although I love hearing the opposite point of view, I didn't (and don't) write here to get anybody's panties all bunched up. It's just me on me.


The second one was the last one I wrote...I have a feeling that it was internalized and thought about a lot. Some of you wrote to me and said again, "Me too!" or "That's my life. Seriously, stop spying on me.". But I think there are a different set of you - probably some of you who know me personally - who are thinking that me writing and wondering about where I live or where I am in my life is about you.


I'm here to tell you it's not. It's still just me on me.


I question everything. I worry about everything. Including where we live and the quality of our relationships and whether our daughters are happy enough and engaged enough and settled enough and eating enough. See? It's a tangled web I manage to weave, and I think some of you who are physically close to my sticky threads felt like I wandered over and bit you. Just a nip.


Side note: I gotta get off the spider analogy because I am afraid of them and am now fighting a case of the heebie jeebies. Also, I just really wanted to type heebie jeebies.


Back to the matter at hand, with 17 minutes left.


If you know me at all, you should know that I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I don't lie because I'm really bad at it and also because I can't keep the one true life I have straight, do you think I could keep another story going alongside? Well, I can't. 


Also, if we're truly friends, you know that as a Taurus, I'm loyal as hell to those that are true to me. I'm stubborn and I'm grounded and if you're my husband, you might call me a cat, because I'm perfectly content to find a warm spot and lick myself into oblivion, then roll over and go to sleep.


I don't like change and I don't need any more of it. I'm content sipping my tea or Chardonnay, just knowing that my coral - near and far - is at the bottom of the ocean and always will be. I love to be near you, but I also love knowing I'm near enough, even when I'm not physically right next to you, because you're right where you belong in my heart of hearts.


If you know me at all, you know that. And you know that if I write about moving away or moving aside or moving around, you know me well enough to know that if I've put you in my heart, I'd never move away from you, and I'd never move you aside and I wouldn't mess around with a good thing. I'm cool like that.


So. With 12 minutes left, I'd like to end this little love letter to my friends and readers with a plea. I'm worried about everything and everyone else. Continue to be the thing that makes me uncrazy, if you will. I gotta put it out here, because it helps me, and if me putting it out here does anything but inspire you or make you think or push you to write back to me with an Amen, Sister, then just say something to me, please.


My psychic power "on" button got lost a long time ago. I think it eloped with the "off" button that used to push itself after a couple of glasses of wine, telling me to switch to water. I hope they are very happy together. And I hope we will be too, forever and ever and always.


Seven minutes left. I think I'll meditate. And by meditate, I mean do sit ups. And by do sit ups, I mean play Angry Birds.


Good night, friends.

Interlude

1. I don't understand the reaction to Paula Deen's announcement that she has diabetes. I think someone going through something like that in private, let alone with a billion people watching, deserves compassion. Yes, she fries food and she cooks with fat and salt. But I've never heard her say "You should eat food like this three times a day, seven days a week.". Not even one time. She herself said she only tapes 30 days a year, and I've only seen her take a couple bites of each dish on camera. So that probably means she's not cooking and eating like this every day either. The woman pulled herself up by her boot straps, doing the only thing she knew how to do in order to provide for her kids at that time. Nobody is forcing people to cook and eat her recipes, just like nobody is forcing people to eat at McDonald's or smoke cigarettes. So Paula Deen building a life off of biscuits and gravy and then getting judged harshly when she gets diabetes feels a lot like a woman dressing provocatively occasionally and getting blamed for being sexually assaulted. Also people, mind your own beeswax. Sheesh.

2. Rush Limbaugh probably gets paid per click or each time his name is mentioned. As nauseating as it can be to swallow fury, maybe the best thing to do is to remain totally silent and unresponsive. If the squeaky wheel loses it's audience, eventually it will stop squeaking because nobody is listening anyway. Won't it?

3. Late Oscar note: Angelina - You have a family with one of the sexiest men ever created. You should be languishing in the most cushy comfort zone known to humankind. So what was with the forced Barbie pose in your dress? It just felt weird, even if your measurements do match Barbie's exactly. If the dress only works with the stick figure leg poking unnaturally out of the slit, then the dress isn't working. You know that. Suggestion: Start planning your next gown now, and each day, as you review the sketches, EAT A MAYONNAISE SANDWICH AND SOME PIE.

4. General awards show note: Why do stars act surprised when their name is called as the winner of the award? There is generally a 1-in-5 chance it's going to happen, and no matter how many times they skipped math class when they were in school, I'm pretty sure they understand those odds. So stars, if your name is called, stop looking like Taylor Swift does after every performance when people clap for her (I love you Taylor, but girl, all your teenage gawk and awe is gone now...move on from looking surprised when people do what comes naturally as a singer finishes a song.). Also, stars, if you are going to cry, please make sure you actually cry. I don't want a shaky voice, and an angst-filled facial expression, and no actual tears. You aren't going to get another award for this performance, no matter how good it is. And if you can't fake a few tears, it ain't that good. So if you feel overwhelmed, let the mascara run. And if you don't feel overwhelmed, for the love of Christ, compose yourself, graciously accept, thank Jesus and everyone else, and go make your next million. Don't feel bad, I'd be slap happy too.

5. Who, exactly, do I think is going to come up behind me and pick up the dog hair/shoe/corner of a granola bar wrapper/backpack/ blueberry/tissue/dried mac and cheese noodle/pencil that I just walked by? Every time, I look at it on the floor, roll my eyes, and mentally summon the energy to bend over (for the 100th time that day) to pick it up. I'm actually trying to mentally summon the Magic Clean-Up Fairy, but it turns out that if it's on the floor, it's going to be me at some point picking it up. Because unfortunately for me, I am the Magic Clean-Up Fairy. Granted, when the traveling husband isn't traveling, he picks up a lot of dog hair. Also, the puppy enjoys eating socks and underwear, so if I could get past the whole next-time-that-dumb-pup-eats-clothes-he's-going-from-dumb-to-dead thing, then I would actually appreciate the help. But for now, I need to find a way to fix my broken bender overer, because that thing is tired.

Now you can imagine what my house looks like tonight. May you bask in the glory that is your tidy home, and may you have some pie, too. I hear Paula Deen makes a chocolate one that's so sweet, it'll practically give you diabetes on the spot.

What? Too soon?