I wrote this one a couple of months ago and posted it on MySpace - I know, how very "tweener" of me. But I'll post it here because it bears repeating (and because it makes me look I spent a really long time today composing my thoughts and writing them down today).
An open letter to email forwarders:
My dear "friends",
For many years now, you have thoughtfully included me in every "cc" to every inane, inappropriate, misguided, misinformed, and downright ridiculous email chain letter that has come along.
You have warned me of gang initiations, protected me from Achilles slashers lurking under my car, enlightened me to all the secular humanists trying to remove God from quarters and schools and courts and everywhere else (after all, we all know separation of church and state is for Communists, anyway). I've learned all the things my cell phone can do that I never knew, and all the reasons I should vote Republican, or Democrat, or Green. You've provided countless chances to change my luck for the better (or worse) and money-making opportunities. Incidentally, Bill Gates has still not sent me my check for that email beta program, did you get yours? I digress. Even when I change email addresses, you steadfastly track me down to make sure I have all the latest vital information care of an anonymously composed and forwarded email message of dubious origin.
Today, I have realized, with great shame, how very selfish I have been. In all these years, I have never returned the courtesy to you. Not once have I forwarded warnings, opportunities, or critical political information to you. In fact, I have failed to even prove what a good friend I am by sending messages to 20 other friends including the one who sent it to me. When I think of how many chains "died" right there in my inbox…well, it is almost more than I can bear. Many people would have given up on me long ago. "Fine," they would sniff. "Let her flash her bright lights at the '79 Caprice Classic low rider with the rear hydraulics and thumping subwoofers and see what happens to her and her small children. My conscience is clear." But not you, my good, loyal, tenacious friend. Not you. No, you send it again and again. A sort of cyber-intervention aimed at protecting me from myself by perpetuating stereotypes, preying on fears and furthering urban myths and legends like some giant game of grown-up "Telephone".
Because you have invested so much time and effort into this endeavor over the years, I feel I owe you the following explanation as to why I have failed to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me.
"Friend" emails: If I call you friend, it is because I have genuine affection for you. I care about you and things that happen in your life. I trust you apply the same definition to me. If you know me well enough to call me friend, then you probably know my life is very busy, chaotic even. I have two small children who are not yet school-aged who I care for just about all day, every day. I run a household, managing most of the family admin including scheduling, shopping, boo-boo soothing and maintenance, and even occasionally cleaning (when I can find my vacuum amongst the clutter, that is). I own and operate a small business. I am a freelance writer in my "spare" time. I try to devote equitable chunks of time to my family, my in-laws, and friends. I also volunteer at preschool, and stay active in various business and civic organizations. Friends, there have been days where I have been awake for 4 hours or more before I've found two minutes to use the restroom (though by then, it usually takes more than two minutes to expel the 15 gallons of urine that have collected in my superhuman mom-bladder). Please don't give me one more thing to do in my already jam-packed day. We are friends. There, I've said it for all the world to hear. Please don't ask me to validate it and prove it daily by sending a flowery email back to you and everyone else in my address book. We're not dating. We're past the "prove your love to me" phase of our relationship. I don't have time and if you really love me as much as the little flapping butterfly and doe-eyed cartoon child in your email says you do, you will understand that. Also, what kind of a person sends an email about friendship that ends with a promise of horrible, disfiguring, tragic luck for not responding? God help me if I don't answer the phone when you call. Do you call in the hit squad for that, "friend"?
"Warning" and "Informational" emails: I appreciate your concern for my safety and the health and safety of my CPU and hard drive, I really do. Three words for you: Snopes Dot Com. Please take the two minutes it would normally take you to blindly and blithely forward these emails on to everyone you ever met to look up the subject matter on this highly informative site. You'll find somewhere in the neighborhood of 99.0 to 99.99% of them are completely false.
And my favorite, "Political" emails: Like most people, my political beliefs are a complicated amalgam of my upbringing, my gender, my socioeconomic status, my family status, my level and quality of education, the amount of time I spend independently researching and reading about the issues of import to me, and myriad other factors. Please don't insult my intelligence by assuming some random facts or quotes taken entirely out of context (or thin air, even) slapped into an email will, in any way, inform my vote or influence my opinions. And please don't assume my political leanings are the same as yours just because we live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery store, cheer for the same tee-ball team or visit the same OB/Gyn. If you really want to make a difference this election year, save the political forwards and instead compose a brief but heartfelt note to everyone in your address book encouraging them to get out and vote. Democrat, Republican, it matters not. Here, I know how you like to forward, so I'll make it easy for you to cut-n-paste:
"Dear Friends,
In this election year it is critical that you get off your ample American derrières, stuff your sorrys in a sack, get to the polls and cast your ballot. Each candidate has many pros and many cons. Please take a few moments to learn what each stands for then decide which most closely represents the views and opinions you'd like to see implemented in this great country of ours. If you aren't willing to head to the polls (the threat of drizzle IS a good reason to abdicate your primary right as an American citizen), consider registering to vote absentee by mail. If you are not willing to do that, either, then let's make this deal right now: In exchange for the vote that you will not be casting, you promise that you will keep your pie hole shut on any and every political matter for the next four years. Not one peep about the administration, not a cross word about the IRS, not the slightest utterance on Roe v. Wade. If you don't care enough to engage in the process, I sure don't care what you have to say about the system.
Please forward this message to everyone in your address book immediately or you will develop a hideous case of hemorrhoids, hammer toes, and halitosis* within a matter of days.
Have a lovely day!"
*(I like the "h" conditions; they are the most fun to say)
To summarize, I would be eternally grateful if, in the future, you would use a bit more discretion in deciding which emails to forward to me. The marzipan babies? Those were cool. I don't mind the funny little fruit carvings and even the guy who paints his hands to resemble all sorts of exotic animals. Oooh, and that guy who does the sidewalk chalk? You know, from one angle they just look like some weird out-of-proportion drawing but from another they become really detailed 3D creations? Yeah, those'd be OK, too. I don't even mind the occasional "Edna" email (she's that old lady from the cards). For pretty much everything else, don't worry – it won't hurt my feelings if you leave this "strong, smart, independent woman" off your list. We'll still be friends, even if I don't validate it by forwarding it on to my Great Uncle and my college roommate's brother's wife.
Your Friend,
Mary
Thursday, November 6, 2008
They are Trying To Kill Me
This was really not the topic I had in mind for my inaugural blog. My first blog was going to be something erudite and full of insight. "This will not be simply a 'mom' blog," I said to myself. My first entry would be thought-provoking, world-changing, even. People who know me would be rendered speechless. "We had no idea such genius walked among us," they would muse, wiping tears from their eyes as my words moved their souls. But as the title of this blog suggests, I live a cluttered life inside a cluttered head. So, much like my cluttered house, I've decided sometimes you just deal with things as they present themselves to you.
It is not unlike my method of house cleaning: I start out with a plan to clean the kitchen but that requires moving the preschool projects into the "preschool projects folder" (it is far less organized that it sounds). In that process, I will find any number of toys that need to be returned to the playroom upstairs, so I will search for an empty laundry basket for that purpose. There are, of course, no empty laundry baskets necessitating that I start a load of laundry to empty one. But, invariably there is a forgotten and mildewing load of clothes already in there that must now be re-run before I can put the new load in.
With the laundry basket still occupied and the washer unavailable, it is back to the original plan of cleaning the kitchen. Next step, sort the week-and-a-half worth of mail that gets plunked on the counter by the door (I'm just saying, if you aren't going to sort it, don't bring it in...but that is a blog for another day). Oh, look at that! There's that bill that will be coming due on the 2nd. What? The second was LAST Tuesday, you say??? Great! Now it is off to the computer to pay bills. And while I'm here, I'm going to be very selfish...I'm going to take thirty seconds and check my email. I might even RESPOND to one or two! How decadent!!! Oh, wait, no can do. The four year old needs help wiping his bum. ONLY my help. NOT Daddy's help. Mommy has apparently earned some sort of advanced degree in Rectal Sanitation Engineering and as such, the customers agree, is the far superior choice for all matters fecal related. At which point the three year old will most assuredly run by naked, screaming in wild-eyed terror as the puppy nips after her. This prompts a discussion about a) appropriate times and places for one to disrobe and b) not feeding the puppy 38 pounds of treats and then expecting him to leave you alone when you run away with one still in each hand. During this discussion, said puppy will have chewed the limbs off of at least one cherished toy, "Which should never have been brought down here in the first place, dammit! What is it going to take for you to start taking care of your things? If you cared so much about it, it wouldn't be where Spooky could get it! Maybe I'll just call Santa myself and tell him to skip our house this year! Go to your room! And as for you, into your crate! Bad dog!!!"
By now it is bath and bed time. I am on the verge of a stroke. The kitchen is still not clean. In fact, I'll admit it. It has not been clean since 2003. The laundry will sit in the washer overnight and get funky, AGAIN. And, at some point, between the laughter which turns to screaming/crying/fighting and back to laughter going on in the bathtub, I will try to remember what my life was like before these two little tornados blew into it. You know what? I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, maybe reverting back to the pre-child levels of poo interaction on any given day would be nice.
In the posts to come, the topics will vary widely. But ultimately, no matter how hard I try, I know this will end up being a 'mom blog'. Because for mothers, from the moment those little people enter your life, every opinion, every thought, every breath is influenced from its inception by "momness". It is a permanent prism through which you will forever see world.
As for the title of this very first blog, I sat down to write it moments after my three year old daughter very nearly succeeded in pulling a dresser over onto her tiny person. In a moment that convinces me further of the need for instant replay in my own life, I somehow managed to leap from across the room, over a train table (stubbing a toe on my right foot and landing square on a metal toy airplane with the heel of my besocked left foot in the process) and execute a perfectly thrown shoulder block - you'd have been proud, honey - to slam the dresser back up and into the wall before it squashed my baby. Then I sat down on the aforementioned train table until I stopped shaking enough to walk again (and pry the airplane out of my left heel). And as I sat there, I hoped that the 80's are overrated (the age, not the decade) because I am pretty sure I lost those 10 years in that one harrowing moment. The 90's were wiped out early on by my son and his various exploits in his first three years of life. Like the time he hit his head and needed a CT scan (the doctor told us to watch for "jerky uncoordinated movements"...he was 12 months old - ALL the movements were jerky and uncoordinated), or the time he burned his hand in a fire pit, or the time he broke a tooth wrestling with my dad, or the time he licked a printer cartridge (for your own reference, poison control said he would be OK), or the time he found a knife and wandered around with it (jeez...just reading over that list makes me want to call social services on myself). So whether it is by attempting to induce a stroke or a heart attack by pushing my various buttons, or by trying new and unexpected ways to kill themselves, my kids are trying to kill me. But I gotta say, most of the time, I really enjoy being on their hit list!
It is not unlike my method of house cleaning: I start out with a plan to clean the kitchen but that requires moving the preschool projects into the "preschool projects folder" (it is far less organized that it sounds). In that process, I will find any number of toys that need to be returned to the playroom upstairs, so I will search for an empty laundry basket for that purpose. There are, of course, no empty laundry baskets necessitating that I start a load of laundry to empty one. But, invariably there is a forgotten and mildewing load of clothes already in there that must now be re-run before I can put the new load in.
With the laundry basket still occupied and the washer unavailable, it is back to the original plan of cleaning the kitchen. Next step, sort the week-and-a-half worth of mail that gets plunked on the counter by the door (I'm just saying, if you aren't going to sort it, don't bring it in...but that is a blog for another day). Oh, look at that! There's that bill that will be coming due on the 2nd. What? The second was LAST Tuesday, you say??? Great! Now it is off to the computer to pay bills. And while I'm here, I'm going to be very selfish...I'm going to take thirty seconds and check my email. I might even RESPOND to one or two! How decadent!!! Oh, wait, no can do. The four year old needs help wiping his bum. ONLY my help. NOT Daddy's help. Mommy has apparently earned some sort of advanced degree in Rectal Sanitation Engineering and as such, the customers agree, is the far superior choice for all matters fecal related. At which point the three year old will most assuredly run by naked, screaming in wild-eyed terror as the puppy nips after her. This prompts a discussion about a) appropriate times and places for one to disrobe and b) not feeding the puppy 38 pounds of treats and then expecting him to leave you alone when you run away with one still in each hand. During this discussion, said puppy will have chewed the limbs off of at least one cherished toy, "Which should never have been brought down here in the first place, dammit! What is it going to take for you to start taking care of your things? If you cared so much about it, it wouldn't be where Spooky could get it! Maybe I'll just call Santa myself and tell him to skip our house this year! Go to your room! And as for you, into your crate! Bad dog!!!"
By now it is bath and bed time. I am on the verge of a stroke. The kitchen is still not clean. In fact, I'll admit it. It has not been clean since 2003. The laundry will sit in the washer overnight and get funky, AGAIN. And, at some point, between the laughter which turns to screaming/crying/fighting and back to laughter going on in the bathtub, I will try to remember what my life was like before these two little tornados blew into it. You know what? I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, maybe reverting back to the pre-child levels of poo interaction on any given day would be nice.
In the posts to come, the topics will vary widely. But ultimately, no matter how hard I try, I know this will end up being a 'mom blog'. Because for mothers, from the moment those little people enter your life, every opinion, every thought, every breath is influenced from its inception by "momness". It is a permanent prism through which you will forever see world.
As for the title of this very first blog, I sat down to write it moments after my three year old daughter very nearly succeeded in pulling a dresser over onto her tiny person. In a moment that convinces me further of the need for instant replay in my own life, I somehow managed to leap from across the room, over a train table (stubbing a toe on my right foot and landing square on a metal toy airplane with the heel of my besocked left foot in the process) and execute a perfectly thrown shoulder block - you'd have been proud, honey - to slam the dresser back up and into the wall before it squashed my baby. Then I sat down on the aforementioned train table until I stopped shaking enough to walk again (and pry the airplane out of my left heel). And as I sat there, I hoped that the 80's are overrated (the age, not the decade) because I am pretty sure I lost those 10 years in that one harrowing moment. The 90's were wiped out early on by my son and his various exploits in his first three years of life. Like the time he hit his head and needed a CT scan (the doctor told us to watch for "jerky uncoordinated movements"...he was 12 months old - ALL the movements were jerky and uncoordinated), or the time he burned his hand in a fire pit, or the time he broke a tooth wrestling with my dad, or the time he licked a printer cartridge (for your own reference, poison control said he would be OK), or the time he found a knife and wandered around with it (jeez...just reading over that list makes me want to call social services on myself). So whether it is by attempting to induce a stroke or a heart attack by pushing my various buttons, or by trying new and unexpected ways to kill themselves, my kids are trying to kill me. But I gotta say, most of the time, I really enjoy being on their hit list!
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