Phoney

It occurs to me that one of the biggest obstacles that I have perpetually created for myself since childhood, is honesty. In most cases, I will always be myself. I will say what I think, do what I know and admit what I don't know.

This particular character trait has gotten me into more than one awkward and embarrassing situation. I was nine when I told a friend that I didn't like her freckles and her hair wasn't pretty. I loved hanging out with her, she had smurfs and the best doll house, and a laundry shoot to throw her barbies down. I figured the fact that she had freckles and shitty hair was incidental. She didn't. She wasn't my friend after that.

When I was eleven I made the gymnastics team. I was pretty good. The problem is that I knew this. It never dawned on me to use it to my advantage, I was just excited every time I learned a new trick. My favorite was a back handspring on the balance beam. I made the mistake of showing my friends at the bus stop one morning. They stop talking to me.This was a regular happening in my life. Those "open mouth insert foot" moments. I lack appropriate social etiquette. All of this wouldn't be a problem in my life except that I never mastered the art of "phony", so it can cramp a relationship in the beginning.

So far, we have dweled at the end of our cul-de-sac for 4 months. Enough time to know that I'm not exactly being welcomed with enthusiasum. I've done my best not to be offensive. I can't say that I've been perfect, but I'm not sailing headlong into the wind without taking precautionary meassures. I'm not doing back handsprings at the bus stop. I've not protested when someone makes an inappropriate inquiry or comment, armed with information that I did not, and would not, share with a stranger. But it's difficult to hold ones toungue when a perfect stranger arrives at your door or calls you on the phone and attempts conversation with this information that they should not necessarily be privy to. It's NOT a stretch to know that the information is gleened at Relief Society in the after class gossip ring. I did not just fall off the turnip wagon.

I've with held my opinions in these instances and just politely nodded my head as I did again tonight, but I feel like a pressure cooker that needs the heat turned down. I'm going to blow. I sat amongst a few hundred people tonight and attempted to say hello, mingle, be friedly. But I felt like I did in Jr. High and Highschool, the weirdo standing on the outskirts hoping the popular kids will throw you a bone. They never do.

What's tragic is that this isn't school. These are grown-ups, or so I thought. I ended the picnic, wine filled water bottle in hand, walking home with my dinner. It appears that, once again, the infamous culture in this state, doesn't want to throw me a bone. I still feel the same as I did in High school when I arrive home, the stupid, ugly kid that everyone hopes will just go away. You know the line, "Go away stray dog"

Life Decisions

I don't recall ever making a decision to grow up and get married. It was never a question. It is/was just what little girls do/did. I never contemplated an alternative. I don't think most of us do. I was more paniked at 18 that no one would ever date me, let alone marry me.

Being that I never considered other options, it stands to reason that my thought process included the whole package. Husband, 1.8 kids, house with picket fence and of course, dog. So, what is the alternative? Especially in such a religiously saturated culture such as this one.

My guess, is that most of us never THINK about it. Unless of course, we want for the cultural opposite. In which case we probably spend most of our lives hiding what we want. I know a lot of people like this. The thought I'm entertaining isn't the one you think.

One weekend with a great date could be the momentary decision you make that alters or determines the rest of your life. Once in that position, how many of us make the grown-up decisions that we should make, versus the selfish decisions that most of us make. Not as many as we hope. And being the right religious persuasion doesn't make you immune or positioned to make a better decision or a more elevated one.

You make your bed. You lie in it. Against the wishes of those around you. What they wish is not what you know for yourself. Their wishes be damned. Right?

Follow your dreams. Fullfill your passion. It's the American mantra. And with his OCD, focus to follow that mantra was simple. He did just that. Small detour along the way, but it proved to be less than significant. The result was eye candy for a wife and baby he adored. His career success never faltered so being billed for a lifetime of marriage seemed a small potatos. How hard could it be to fake for life? After nine years, harder than he thought.

Smallville

I didn't grow up in a small town. But, I might as well have. My high school graduating class had about 300 kids in it. Not to shabby. Certainly not my cousin's graduating class of, drum roll please, 9. That, is small town. And not my Dad's graduating class of 1200. (He graduated from Glendale High School, California)

Three hundred students is still small enough to be familiar with almost every face. Considering that we were all compelled to be incarcerated with each other for 7 hours a day for three years. I don't remember every name, and I've forgotten many of the faces, but, I still remember most.

My twenty year reunion is next month. No, that isn't a typo. Twenty years. Yes, I'm old. Enough with the jokes and snicker. The truth is, I'm not relishing the idea of going. Given to my own devices, I wouldn't go. But, pseudonymous hubby graduated the same year, from the same high school. He WANTS to go. (You can't imagine my consternation at his damn self esteem. He's ALL happy and comfy with himself.....bastard)

With the impending get together, looming on the horizon, I've had the tremendous, eye poking, pleasure of running into many of the geniuses that I graduated with, in various places around town. (My stupidity for not vacating this damn state, town and neighborhood upon immediate possession of my parchment.)

I...was not "popular". In fact, I was one of those I like to call, forgettable. As pejorative as it sounds, it's not meant to be. You see there are a thousand labels one is gifted with while in the adolescent years. In my Smallville the more astute were labels such as Jock, Cheerleader, Cowboy, Stoner, Geek, Nerd, Thespian and that "guy". My pseudonymous hubby was a Geek/Nerd. One of those confoundedly intelligent jackasses that also possessed a killer sense of humor. I would call most of those in the above categories people that we would all remember in one way or another twenty years after graduation.

I, was not any one, of those labels. I was a small handful of them. But not good enough at any one of them to be remembered. I always wanted to be popular while in high school. But not for the same reasons that most of us would choose the maniacal mayhem of popularity at the ripe old age of 15,16, or 17. Most of us would chose popularity in order to be recognized. To be remembered. To be looked fondly upon. Me, I just wanted to be liked by the damn fuckers so they would stop torturing me.

You've seen those "types". The classic movie nerd. Eugene from Grease is a good example. Pushed around in the halls, called horrible names, made fun of in gym class. Only, Eugene has something going for him, his smarts. Me, I had nada. I got all the bullshit and none of the silver lining. And one bitch in particular seemed to have a propensity and joy in making me miserable. She was just down right mean. And mean people suck.

I'm not going to bore you with the details, but I will tell you that I stayed home with horrible stomach pains on more than one occasion, brought on by worrying about what threats or teasing she had invoked. I was bullied. Period. Let's be honest, I have an understanding of the horror that kids like. Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris were driven to by being bullying. It, fortunately never occurred to me to do something like that when I was 16.

But this isn't about the misery I had in my adolescence. Please, who needs to revisit that kind of crap. Except that it keeps coming back to haunt me. Yesterday I was the apathetic recipient of news that my most "beloved" high school memory, still lives in my town, (as if this should surprise me, people in this state never fucking leave. But I should talk.) And, even better, she's in my sister-in-laws church congregation and my nephew's Sunday school teacher. Hmmmmm, W-T-F!!!!

Not looking for any sympathy here, just one more reason to avoid getting to know the neighbors.

And The Winner Is......

Have you seen the annoying bumper sticker? "He who dies with the most toys wins"...? It's recently been gnawing at me and I've attempted to just ignore it. Avoidance isn't working. (Get over the hump, yes, I'm writing again after.....some months.)

While the financial position that I am in makes some of what I say seem hypocritical, I choose to make the observation anyway. This, life, is not a contest. We are not here to out do each other. What I accumulate, what you accumulate over a life time is not an indication of relative status in life. And it most certainly is NOT an indication of your righteousness and blessings from the Lord.

Cliche, I know. We've all heard it our whole lives. With the economy in it's current state, we are hearing it more frequently. But, (let's throw in the proverbial conjunction), we excel at spewing what sounds logical and we fail miserably at putting it inot practice. That failure is no accident. Believe you me, what we all preach is great for the other guy, as long as we feel no pain, physical or mental. What's good for the goose may be good for the gander, but here in Zion, it's all about appearance. If we appear to be charitable, humble, perfect souls, then...we are, right?

In March, I was bequeathed with a most wonderful gift. My Dad built me a house. And it is nothing short of amazing. It's big, ridiculously big. No human needs as much space as we now occupy, but, it is my gift. We chose to build and relocate. I will admit that the neighborhood we chose to build our monstrosity in, made me nervous. Pristine, pricey, religious, step ford wives. I was determined to believe that all this was just a figment of my active imagination. Surely I would move in and the people would prove me wrong. Surely all those perfect "condo yards" were just illusionary visions that would reveal real people that lived within.

Diverging for just a moment.....Move in day! I hired movers. Smart, mostly. We cried...a lot!! But they packed up our old house and moved it to the new house. We cried as they packed. We cried as they pulled the van away. We cried watching the van pull up the new street. We cried....a lot.

Despite our sentimentality, the movers were tremendous. They jumped right in and tried to make it the exciting occasion that it was supposed to be. They were happy and laughing with us and trying to make it less stressful. 20 minutes after they arrived the "guy in charge" came up from the basement to let me know that the carpet was wet. Ha ha what, the, F-U-C-K!? I ventured down to the depths of basement-dom to find an inch of water in my new furnace room with feces floating in it. It smelled like a bad baby diaper.

Welcome to your new home! The sewer has backed up and you are swimming in shit! Good grief Charlie Brown, are you kidding me?

It took a plumber, the general contrator, rooter guy, the county and micro-camera to find and fix the problem. Note, the problem is fixed!

Now back to our regularly scheduled bitch session.....

I wasn't in my home 24 hours and I had neighbors bring me treats, goodies and well wishes. See, they are nicer than I imagined. Surely they didn't bring goodies to size me up, investigate the interior of my home to see how it compared to their own and certainly not to "see" what a home schooler looks like. Customary roll of the eyeballs, I didn't just jump the turnip wagon. Please, if your greeting consists of "Hi, I'm so and so, and I live such and such and I hear you home school", then, at the very least, you are goss, uh, talking about me in Relief Society. Yes, you are. That doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out. I realized, with hovering disappointment, that you are taking inventory to see where I fit in the neighborhood,("ward") pecking order. And it doesn't bode well for me that I'm a proud Unitarian.

The last of these "well wishers", (looky, nosyloos) was a girl that atteded the same high school as me. You know that sinking feeling you get when a popular throw back encounters you in the grocery store and they have no fucking clue who you were...are. Imagine that in the entry of your home. That's a Titanic feeling.

I began feel a strange sort of judgement contest looming with every knock on the door. That feeling that you must characterize me and put me in the acceptable or unacceptable category for future reference. Worse, I couldn't get the feeling to go away. I would get excited when the doorbell would ring and feel the sting of disapproval as I shut the door. The last draw seems to have been in the last few weeks with the constant stream of cars that drives by at all hours of the day and night.

I appreciate the curiosity about my home. It is unique and I have no doubt that I am a topic of conversation at church. How else would so many people that I've never met, know that I home school? But the initial interest has subsided. I'm not getting any dinner invites, party invites or playgroup invites. No one wants to get to know us, they just want to see my house. No one wants to play with my kids, they just want to know that they have more, make more, are better than us.

It bothered me in the beginning. It doesn't anymore. I have something that my neighbors, with all their stuff, their perceived social position, their religious angst and perfect projection don't have. I have real friends and family. I have a brother with the most hideous mullet you've ever seen, and I love it!!! I have friends who are loud, who drink to much, and who scare the b-jesus out of the "normal" world. And I know that anyone of them would go to the ends of the earth for me and my family. I know they would because we are all doing it for one of our own right now. A sweet baby girl who is going through Chemo. My neighbors look perfect. I don't. And I don't want to. I want my weird imperfect world.