I Didn’t Clean up for You
I Didn’t Clean up for You
Hi. Welcome to my new blog design. It’s a mess. There’s stuff that’s broken. There’s stuff that looks WTF? But whatever. Here we are.
Since my blog is sort of home for me, let’s pretend I just moved and you’re visiting me while my house is full of boxes. I’ll get to all of it eventually … or at least most of it. Anyway, I’m not going to wait to invite to invite you over until my house/blog is spotless. Life is for living, not for creating a lifestyle brand on Instagram. Shit gets messy in real life.
With that in mind, here’s the desk that I’m working at this morning.
I keep trying to beat back the clutter. It’s better than it was.
Oh, but here’s my overflow onto the dining room table.
And just for context, this is where all of that is. In my little nook in the corner of the dining room. That’s where I am. I think it’s nice to know where people are doing what they do.
And here’s me. I’m the one waving at you. Hello!
That’s what I slept in. That shirt is about 16 years old and I hardly ever wear it but my laundry is not done. It’s not sexy. And I feel bad for all of you that you have to look at me when I’m not sexy or put together … because seriously, don’t we all come to the Internet to see pictures of people living their best lives? And if you’re a woman, doesn’t living your best life entail being effortlessly sexy at all times? It probably does.
By telling you that my laundry isn’t done, I can give the impression that if it were done, there’s the possibility that I would’ve slept in something adorable. Now do me a favor … close your eyes and imagine me as a cutout paper doll. You know, the kind we had when we were kids with the foldy tabs to hold the clothes on. Now use the foldy tabs of your mind to dress me in whatever your idea is of what a gorgeous, totally-together, confident woman would wear upon first getting up before taking care of her maternal duties and then going on to slay the day like a suburban ninja. While also being effortlessly sexy.
Also, I haven’t brushed my hair. Oh God, wait, yes I did. But it didn’t take because I had a water gun fight my 9 year-old son last night and he cornered me by the back door and just absolutely annihilated me until I was soaked straight through to my underwear and I came in smelling like a wet dog. My hair never recovered.
Also, I don’t have makeup on. Dear God, I hope that’s obvious.
But anyway, there I am. Me.
One thing the pic doesn’t show? I’m not particularly hot (as in temperature-wise) but my armpits just started sweating like a whore in church. Or a whore’s armpits. Whatever. I’m just sitting here. I’m not exerting. So there’s no particular reason for this whore sweat, other than the fact that I’m forty-freaking-six.
So why am I telling you all this? Because, other than speeding and trespassing, my worst habit is generally oversharing. Like, if you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you probably know that I’m divorced and that I was really poor right after that and I had to declare bankruptcy and shortsell my house and grocery shop at the Dollar Tree. These things are my most shameful secrets … except they’re not secret at all because I tell everyone about them.
This sort of talk makes people uncomfortable. It’s not nice to talk about money or the lack of money when you’re a nice white lady who lives in a shiny white suburb. But I don’t know how to not talk about it.
I also don’t know how to not talk about all the things that people are just supposed to shut the eff up about … politics, religion, sex, weird obsessions about paranormal things and killer whales (although I’ve walked that one back quite a bit … I appear to be in a club of one there).
I sort of relaunch this blog every couple years. It is always simultaneously terrifying and also thrilling. What if I don’t remember how to do this? How long can I do this before I tick someone off? How much can I say about my life without saying something too personal about someone else’s life whose life touches mine? Will this be the time I don’t let myself just burn up on the launch pad and, instead, finally just ride the momentum and see where we go?
So relaunching. I’m not totally ready … but it’s time to start.
My friend Nicole says the greatest thing. “You’ll know you’re my friend when I don’t clean up before you come over.”
So, hey, friends … make yourself a seat out of a packing box and ignore the dust bunnies. Welcome.
Help a sister out
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