Friday, September 28, 2012

How awkward is this?

There's this couple in my church. I will call them Ross and Rachel.

I have a friend. I will call her Monica.

Rachel had a baby, their first baby. Monica and I wanted to stop by, bring them a gift and a meal, to congratulate them.

"Well, we don't want any visitors, you know, with a newborn. Could you just drop it at the door and leave?"

(Side note: I'm not going to lick your baby's face or stick my germ-covered hands in his mouth. I don't even need to hold him. Stop telling people to stay away from you, first time parents, it comes off as neurotic.)

Monica reminds them that we are bringing FOOD, and it is more than a little weird to leave that on the doorstep for an undetermined amount of time.

(Side note again: Yes. I think eating food that may have begun to rot is grosser than letting people I know be in the same room as my children.)

Monica and Rachel text back and forth for TWO HOURS trying to come to an agreement about when we should be able to stop by. Rachel keeps pushing it back "We need thirty more minutes" over and over again. Eventually we decide that 5:00 PM is a good time for everyone.

Monica and I get in the car, with Monica's kids in the backseat. Her kids are big enough to be responsible in the car for five minutes, but not quite ready to be home alone for a half hour. We head over to Ross and Rachel's house. I knock on the door and we hear Ross yell... something.

"Did he say 'coming'? Or 'come in'?"

He yells again. "COME IN!"

As Monica chants "awkward awkward awkward" under her breath, I push the door open and...

They're hoarders.

No joke, straight up, HOARDERS. The house is FULL of broken stuff (including, I kid you not, the innards of an upright piano). The halls are literally cut in half because there is so much stuff stacked up against the walls. The house is dark and dank, and there is absolutely zero horizontal space for me to set this dinner down on. Somehow, I don't think strangers breathing the same air as their baby is the biggest health risk that baby will face during the first few days of her life. Just saying.

Walking through the (dingy and cramped) hallway, I say, "We brought you dinner!" as brightly as I can.

Ross responds with, "I know. Sorry. We're just not that kind of people."

We're. Just. Not. That. Kind. Of. People.

Who eat dinner? Who answer their own door? Who expect visitors occasionally?


Never mind. Don't answer that.

I set their dinner down, someplace, and Monica gives them the gift. They set it aside. We've apparently interrupted their TV time.

They stand and Ross says, "I've never seen either of you before in my life."

Well, now it's double awkward, because I spoke to Ross SIX DAYS before this happened. We had a discussion in Sunday School about repentance and asking for forgiveness. (He didn't think you need to ask for forgiveness, in case you're curious about the substance of that conversation. You're probably not, but the point is that I REMEMBER WHAT HE SAID. He doesn't remember we spoke.)

Monica and I try to politely remind them of who we are, Rachel remembers and refers to us both by what I can only assume are code-nicknames they use amongst themselves. They refer to my husband as "The Screamer."


Background: My husband spoke in sacrament meeting about how he has trouble controlling his temper. In order to make people understand that he does NOT hit me or our children, he was very clear that his temper displayed itself as a lot of shouting. And it's true. Controlling our tempers is something both hubby and I have worked long and hard on. It's a struggle, it's not something either of us are proud of, but it's the truth. And we're both improving (thus the fact that he mentioned it in sacrament- God truly loves us and will help us to become better people).

Ross tells me over and over and over again how highly he thinks of my husband for being proud of being a screamer. (Please note: NOT a screamer. Sometimes, rarely as of recently, a shouter. Also: not proud of it.)

I stood there (because, of course, there's no room to sit), listening to Ross, who didn't want me to come over in the first place, who doesn't remember speaking to me ever, and who didn't get up to answer his own door, rehash one of the most sensitive and painful pieces of my personal life.


Monica interrupts (bless her) with a change of subject. "Oh, that is such a pretty blanket!" (wrapped around the baby).

Ross responds with, "Ugh. We asked for all green stuff, and this was the closest we got, this weird blue and green thing."

They had a baby girl, FYI. (And named her something ridiculous, of course, but that's beside the point.)

Monica kinda grabs me by the elbow and is all, "Well, we have to go, my kids are waiting in the car, see you later! Congrats!"

As we are walking down their walkway, Monica asks, "So, do you think they'll like the pink polka-dotted blanket I got them?"

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My own version of insomnia

I struggle with sleep.

Sleep and I do not see eye to eye.

I need a lot of sleep to feel my best. Nine to ten hours, preferably. Of course, with three small children, that rarely never happens.

I do everything I'm supposed. No screens for an hour before sleepy time, no food for three hours before sleepy time. Bedroom is a haven for sleep: it's neat and organized with no TV. I get myself in bed and under the blankets by a reasonable hour (ten, most nights).

Yet sleep eludes me.

Oh, I sleep for a bit. But then, somewhere around two in the morning, my brain fires up and starts doing the nuttiest stuff.

Like singing just one line from Tangled's "At Last I See the Light" ad nauseum. No exaggeration, it sounds like a broken record in my head, and I kinda want to cut someone to make it stop.

Or making mental lists of all the things I will need to do SOMEDAY. Not even tomorrow or next week. Like... next year. And I get all panicky about it; heart races, stomach ties itself in knots. Major panic.

And then I realize I have to pee.

By that time, it's three-thirty, and my alarm is set to go off in ninety minutes. Considering it generally takes me a solid thirty minutes to fall asleep, it hardly seems worth it.

So, here I am, having eaten a bowl of cereal already, at four in the morning, writing.

Always writing.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Memes I Hate- Volume 1

If you're on Pinterest or Tumblr, I'm sure you've seen this little gem:
Whether you've seen it before or not, please read it carefully. 

Now, I know this was probably written by some sixteen year old airhead, and I shouldn't take it so seriously, but here's what I hate about it: 

"Pick her up and pretend you're going to throw her in the pool. SHE'LL SCREAM AND FIGHT YOU, but secretly, she'll LOVE IT." 

and then this: 



"Get her mad, then kiss her." which is really just reiterating the earlier version of "When she starts swearing at you, tell her you love her."

What manipulative pre-rape education is this???

Girls, here's a hint: We do not want to be teaching boys (who will someday be men) that when we say "NO" we really mean "YES." 

Girls, here's another hint: When you are justifiably angry, do not let him kiss you or say he loves you and then get away with whatever bad behavior he was doing. 

I suppose it's possible that this was written by a boy, but let's be honest, it's extremely unlikely. It seems to be an endless stream of single teenaged and twenty-something girls pinning, reblogging and forwarding this meme. It reeks of "girl" in every pathetic line. 

So, please. 

Stop this meme.