It’s Stupid To Share A FaceBook Page

Okay, can we talk for a minute? I’m interrupting my regularly scheduled blog post to ask a serious question:

WHAT is the deal with the couple-shared Facebook accounts?

Why are we teaming up?

Why do you need to be one person TrishaAndMike Williams instead of the two people that make up the union, Trisha (née Smith) Williams and Mike Williams?

Do you share one mind?

Do you never have your own personal thought?

Do you think for one another?

Are your political viewpoints always exactly the same trite, misogynistic thoughts, (mm-hmm, true story & this one bothers me)?

Who of you is going huntin’ with the guys?

Which of you is, Heading out to ladies night, and can’t wait to hang with the Bitches?

I don’t know the answer to any of this. I can make some educated guesses on a few, but I don’t want to have to. Frankly, I usually only want to be friends with one of you. You’ve made it impossible for me to comment on your status, “LIKE” a post, or share anything with you on your page for fear the wrong one of you will see it first and respond inappropriately.

I’m actually rethinking our online relationship as I type this.

And I’m sorry, but Jeff Angela Rubenwitz, I’m actually not sure which one of you is selling LuLaRoe online, or working full time at the chiropractor’s office, and moonlighting at the coffee-house, but it would be nice to know since Jeff and I aren’t familiar with each other, but I feel pretty confident that Angela would comp my $5 espresso drink so, yeah, it would be nice to know.

If I may be honest, folks, I have some theories as to why you’re coupling up on social media, and you won’t like it because my mind goes down dark corridors…

I read into your paired-up page as a massive cover-up filled with insecurity and regret. I start to think that one of you, or both of you had an illicit affair that may have started by connecting with an old flame on a dark, addictive, dishonest social media site. Maybe you both cheated on your former partners and ended up together and the fear that one of you may do it again looms overhead and so an ever present watchful eye is necessary to keep each other in line…online.

Do you manage your account “LIKES” with the same veracity you monitor your joint checking and Amazon Prime purchases?

Are you building a larger following by combining friendships?

What happens when you eventually become bored with each other and divorce? Who gets custody of the SHARED page? I have a lot of questions and I don’t think you’ve thought this through.

I’ll say it because apparently nobody else will: IT’S STUPID TO SHARE A FACEBOOK PAGE. It’s absurd. You’re absurd. You share a home, that’s enough, now sign up with your own email address…WAIT, you’re the assholes that also share an email address. GODDAMMIT. Well, no one can win here, People.

No one. Certainly not this GROSS couple:

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I Hid A Bag of Dark Chocolate Covered Almonds – For My Sanity.

IMG_5002I am wildly uptight when it comes to cleanliness and basic household etiquette. Think Monica from ‘Friends,’ but maybe a little worse (and for another day, let’s discuss the ‘Friends’ Haters… just stop, people. Stop it. I’ve watched it so many times, forwards and backwards, and you’re wrong; it’s delightful, and perfect, period).

My mother has long referred to me as fastidious.

I suppose cleaning is my way of controlling the chaos of life. There are worse “habits” used to control the uncontrollable, like not eating, binging & purging, excessive exercise, and I’ve dabbled with them all; but honestly cleaning is the one that makes me feel the most in control amidst the chaos. It’s not just the act of cleaning, it’s that a clean environment allows me to relax. And as far as addiction and personalities go, I repeat, there are far worse things than being fastidious.

It’s not just cleaning. I have to set hard boundaries within my living environment, too. You are allowed to be yourself in my home and not conform to my standards of cleanliness and I’m okay with it, but if you start to impose upon my boundaries I freak the fuck out. Maybe you do too and maybe you don’t even know it…

I have an almost 2-year-old toddler. Guess what he does? He throws food on the floor and thinks it’s funny, so I laugh and also try to teach him that food stays on our plate or at least on the table or preferably in your mouth to consume. And I don’t freak out, because he’s a baby and I can clean it and it’s totally fine. But when my 35-year-old brother in law does it and doesn’t give two craps about who will be cleaning it and what stain it may leave or that it’s happened at all, I start to panic. I swallow down the annoyance that starts to build up inside of me. I push it deep, deep down and I breath and smile, and I stare daggers at him, but I bury the pending freak out because he’s my guest, and family to boot.

I stare at his brother (my husband) and wait for a signal that it will all be fine and that he will clean it up and then I take several deep breaths, plan a 4 mile run, skip the next two meals, and buy and squirrel away a giant bag of dark chocolate covered almonds to shame-eat secretly, without sharing, and it calms the monster brewing in my belly.

You guys! It’s not just dropping food on the floor with abandon that gets under my skin: it’s the week’s worth of toothpaste stains on my new dark wood bookcase; it’s his toenail clippings in my high pile shag rug; it’s razor blades on the floor of the shower my toddler bathes in; it’s a beer bottle cap in the small hands of my 21-month-old who desperately tries to shove the jagged edged piece of metal down his throat after scraping it along his tongue.

Daggers staring down a dead man walking.

It’s wet underwear strewn across my front porch and wet towels left on top of stuffed animals to grow unneeded mildew and create more laundry that will be left for me to do. It’s empty Starbucks cups and plastic straws littering my front lawn. It is used tea bags everywhere, except in the trash.

It is so much more. It’s interminable.

And, AND it is all so unnecessary. UNNECESSARY. There are towel hooks for wet towels; there’s a dryer for your underwear; there’s a trashcan in so many different rooms plus several outside for EVERYTHING ELSE!

My eye is twitching right now, you guys. Writing this out for you is almost like reliving the frustration.

I watched for a week as our baby gates were treated as mere decorative obstacles and left open for his 35-year-old male convenience whilst my nearly 2-year-old eyeballed the staircase with Olympic-gymnast-enthusiasm.

I tell you this not to be a tattletale, not to open myself up to criticism regarding my rigidity, not to hurt feelings, but to understand myself better because I didn’t handle it well you guys. I did not.

You see, I couldn’t stop him, I couldn’t clean fast enough. The mess was OUT OF CONTROL! Dirt, stains, odor… CHAOS!

I set boundaries and I believed that manners were/are self-evident. I believed baby-proofing, dining tables, and towel hooks should invite use. I expected our houseguest to know all of this without having to be told. My home is not a hotel; that’s the guesthouse out back (see that blog post) and for God’s sake the total strangers renting that out treat it better (and pay us) than my B-I-L treated our actual home while we lived in it with him for a week.

And then I lost it.

At him. On him.

I freaked the fuck out.

And I told him that towel hooks are for wet towels to be HUNG ON and baby gates are not for the convenience of adults to use at will, but to protect the life of a BABY, and that knives & razorblades & sharp jagged beer bottle caps are DEADLY WHEN SWALLOWED and that it is MY HOUSE and he should TREAT IT WITH RESPECT.

Silence.

Slowly he opened his mouth and without an ounce of thought he yelled back. Absurdities such as, ‘he didn’t know that it would require work to live with a baby’ and that ‘he didn’t know that toddlers cannot comprehend basic safety.’

The irony.

So I banished him to his (my son’s) room where he screamed and threatened to leave (on the eve of his flight home).

I agreed he should leave. A hotel is a much better place to treat with reckless abandon.

He said nothing.

He didn’t leave.

And after an hour of separation and a loaded dishwasher and cleaned counters later, I invited him to come back downstairs.

He picked up where he left off – sullying every square foot of surface area I had just spent a very angry hour cleaning to regain the control I had lost.

That one cleaning left me with a night’s worth of control, and I felt better long enough to wish him well on his flight, take a family picture with genuine smiles, and not resent the weekend-visit-turned-into-9-long-days.

My house is not completely back in order by my standards, but it is back in my control and I can sleep more soundly tonight.

And those dark chocolate covered almonds are now out in the open for everyone to share, by everyone I mean new visitors and Jason.

Armchair Psychologist

IMG_4982Hm.

You know what’s hard? Accepting people even though you know they’re assholes. Obnoxious assholes. Obnoxious Assholes who represent everything WRONG about other people.

What a dick thing to say. I get it, you either relate to what I’m saying or I’m the obnoxious asshole in your opinion. Valid.

Like you, I am bound by my civility to accept everyone, flaws and all… no, really.

“Love your neighbor…”

“Be the change…”

“Do unto others…”

It’s not like I can gather 700,000 protestors to march against the stupidity of one bad acquaintance, or neighbor, or peer… or can I? No, that would make me the bad person and on the wrong side of right and I need to be on the right side of right because I need to be RIGHT.

Ugh.

You see my dilemma.

It’s frustrating.

The more obtuse they become the more indignant I find myself.

I’ve begun to dissect the minutiae of conversations with the obnoxious assholes surrounding my immediate space. I maddeningly map out all their exasperating behaviors: how it transpired; in what context; what was said leading up to it; and the response immediately following.

I combine all that with the little bit of history I have learned about them. The people they’ve dated, married, divorced. Do they have pets, bought, adopted rescued, dogs, cats… rats.

After I’ve pieced together the puzzle of their personality from a million different perspectives, I then refer to Psychology Today while cross-referencing WebMD to make my best analysis of whether or not they indeed have a personality disorder (which, yeah, of course they do) and I label them in my own personal file folder: The Narcissist.

Typical.

Right?

But I cannot be satisfied with my own analyses; I need the reassurances of others. So I gossip about these obnoxious assholes. I emphatically underscore my righteousness while stressing the misgivings of the Narcissist and then I wait, smugly grinning until I am told how brilliant my assessment is, which rarely comes because everybody wants to play Devil’s Advocate these days. Everybody wants to do the work themselves’ and come to their own conclusions. No one wants to take my word for it.

Assholes.

And now I have another asshole to analyze and the cycle begins again. Part of me wonders if this is the reason I am slowly losing my mind or if I am sharper than I’ve ever been. Who is to say?

Well anybody psychoanalyzing me right now based on this blog post, for starters.

Armchair Psychologist? Maybe. Or ten years of therapy, a lifetime spent as an observational writer, and a child of Crazy, is rather how I like to define my resume, but that’s not over-qualifying me either.

Maybe I’m becoming the intolerable asshole.

Maybe.

Who Me? Change? Never.

I don’t write parenting posts because having a kid hasn’t changed me.

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Bahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Change, you ask? First, now I wear high-waisted jeans and think they’re the “bomb.” Kill me… no, don’t! Please don’t do that EVER! I have a baby now and I need to be right here for him forever.

Did you just read my light-hearted joke and the fact that I immediately retracted it in fear that someone would read that seriously? Like the Universe might not get that I was joking when I said, “kill me”and just might send in the Grim Reaper??? Did you just read all that? Yeah, that’s new. New panic. Death – in jest or in reality – has me very anxious now.

Also, every time I hear the word “kill” in a children’s movie or cartoon I think, “SERIOUSLY?? I DON’T WANT THAT WORD AROUND MY KID! WHY DOES HE NEED TO HEAR THE WORD “KILL” FROM A DISNEY MOVIE… OR EVER? HE DOES NOT NEED THAT WORD IN HIS LIFE!” I would rather he say the word “fuck” by mistake than the word “kill.” I mean that. But please don’t let him go around saying the word fuck either.

If I wasn’t clear, I’m trying to say I have changed and mostly for the better… (whispers) in my honest opinion.

For example, I don’t put myself down so much anymore, especially about the physical things, like my face…or my body image. Because my son is beautiful and I want him to grow up without insecurity and self-hate. I want him to see himself (and he will see a lot of his mom in him) and know he is perfect the way he is… because he is. So I try harder to feel love for myself so he’ll know how to love himself, too.

And, I don’t care as much about the things I cannot change, instead I concentrate on those things I can

I cannot change the fact that Trump was elected president, but I can be an active participant in making sure our country isn’t devastated by the actions he and his merry band of thieves try to enact.

I cannot change the way some folks see me or feel about me, but I can change the way I feel about it.

I cannot change the fact that I am an aging actress who has not yet met her big break, but I can change the way that sentence reads: I am an actor who has been so lucky to work and continue to pursue work with the same enthusiasm I’ve had from day one.

I have better insight now because I see the world through my son’s eyes, everything is new and shiny, and bright and I don’t want to take that away from him ever.

I’ve changed, yes, becoming a parent has made me a little soft (both physically and emotionally), it has made me brave, and most importantly it has made the important things far more evident than they were.

Just in case you were worried there were only good things, here is a list of the bad things that have changed since becoming a parent:

  1. I have no patience when my husband interrupts my five minutes of alone time (which is also known as Mom’s Shower Time) to brush his teeth, pee-pee, or bring in our toddler to say, “hi.”
  2. I do not have time for stupid people now. They used to be amusing, now they’re just a time-zap.
  3. I eat painfully, horribly, and without structure and it sucks, but we’ll get back there Food, we will.
  4. Dates nights are near non-existent.
  5. My clothing money goes to a constantly growing toddler.
  6. I worry a lot more. Yes, it is possible.
  7. If there’s a poopy odor, it’s usually because there’s poop… on me.
  8. Everybody wants to know when I’m going to have more babies. This is annoying. I do not need to have another child to be a good parent or fulfilled mother and if I do have another child I don’t have to be the one that carries it (I can adopt/foster/or trade) and frankly you either only have one more child than me or have no children so WTF? Step off. Thank you.

Life is good.