15 minutes of free-writing - again

I've done it before, but I'm not going to take the time to find it now.  I've been reading blogs for days, weeks, months - forever.  Fertility/infertility/parenting - it's everywhere.  I think I need to take a break from it all.  Maybe vacation is coming at the perfect time.  I can't wait.  I'm dreading the next two days at work, the fullness of them, but I can't wait to have so many days off in a row, to be away and doing things that aren't work.  With my favorite person by my side.

We moved our bedroom into the front room, the fire room, today.  The room that was our bedroom until about 7 o'clock tonight, we were going to turn it into a nursery there for about a week - now it'll be a big-ass walk-in closet.  I'm cool with this.  It's cheaper, for one.

I like this moving, upheaval thing we've been doing.  i like the change of it, the newness, the freshness.  And the fact that we're vacuuming each room as we go.  My sinuses are forever grateful.

I shaved my legs this weekend.  I don't think I had since the last time I blogged about it.  I'm not looking up how long ago that was, either.  It was too long.  Kimmie said I looked like a teenage boy - I let that marinate for a week or two and finally decided I was shamed enough to do something about it.  I always have the best of intentions - Kat used to shave every day.  Why can't I be more like that?  When the hairs are only a day old, it's easy to run a razor over your legs real fast while you're in the shower.  But I skip a day, then two, then a week, then four...and then you're hiking up your pantleg to show your co-worker/friend your shamefully long leghairs and for some reason it jars you when she says "you look like a twelve-year-old boy".

What the fuck am I talking about?

Let's talk about you - you there, reading this.  I love you.  I do.  You make me feel special.  Less than a month ago I had fewer than 45 people subscribed to this here life-expose'; now there are 90.  Whoa.  Really?  90 of you think I'm saying things here that are worth checking in on regularly?  I'm flattered.

And I love reading the things you all have to say.  I find so much comfort in the day-to-day of your lives, the struggles we share, the thoughts you have that I recognize as ones that I thought were only mine.  I had no idea this is what blogging could bring to my world, and I'm grateful to have found, or been found by, each of you.

And now Jimi's yammering something about something making fun of something on TV and this is my life and I wonder how in the world I got so lucky to be here, in this place, right now, at this time.  There is nothing I would change.  There is nothing I'd exchange or trade or switch.  This is my life, and my life is so good.

I hate drama. (In a not-at-all sort of way.)

I love drama.  I really, really do.  I love a good trainwreck.

Well, wait.  Let me clarify:  I love drama...in other peoples' lives.  I don't want or love drama in my own life, which is why I live such a boring happy little life.  I don't love drama when it adversely affects my friends or loved ones (my brother's drama?  Totally not funny).

BUT, I really love watching from the outside looking in.  Girlfriend wants to get all passive aggressive on her blog toward chicks who make passes at her man - knowing the other women will read the rant and know it was meant for them - LOVE IT!  There are at least three people in my Facebook friends who I'm friended-up with only because they are the sort who love drama in their own lives, and, as a result, I love watching their news feeds.  Kim will say "I thought you couldn't stand them?!" and I'll be all "Well, I don't AGREE with their choices, but I sure do like watching how they play out."

I'm a bad person, I know.  I should be ashamed of myself, but I'm not.  It's no worse than watching Jersey Shore, I rationalize - except I know most of my drama-sources in real life and so I can get the inside scoop, not just what an editor decided was most television-worthy.  I'm a really bad person.

Not all of what I consider "drama" is bad, though.  Some of it is good.  Watching Monica Bielanko via the internet for the last year or so via her blog and Babble posts, her husband's blog, reading about their efforts at raising their daughter, trying to conceive a second child, ALL about her pregnancy, and now, the birth of their son, born yesterday, and who was named, I assume, in honor of the deceased eldest child (Henry Granju) of another blogger, Mamapundit, - that's been pretty awesome.  And I know way more about the reality of pregnancy now, too - apparently it's not all big boobs and cute baby bumps and little flutters.

Reading Mamapundit's tales of life after the death of her child, the birth of her youngest only weeks later, and, recently, a pregnancy that ended in miscarriage - it's heartbreaking...  inspirational, also; it reminds me of how amazing humans are, women in particular, at adapting and overcoming the ridiculous and horrible obstacles life throws at us.

And then there's Allison O over at O My Family - she makes me want to join a church, get pregnant, and quit my job.  Go look at her pictures.  Seriously.  Have you ever seen a cuter family?  Reading her older blogs about her struggles with motherhood, I think "'O' goodness, if it's this hard for her, how would I ever manage?  I'm not half as patient and sweet and good as she appears to be..."  But oh my goodness, she also makes it look like so much freakin' fun!  I want to be more like her.  (I'll start by trying to make the baby, I guess.)

Anyhow.

Not all drama is Jersey Shore quality, but it certainly has its place.  As do the uplifters, the encouragers, the redeemers, the examples.  I love it all.

I was going to call it voyeurism, and it hit me...

I just realized...

I think I've done this post before.

I'm pretty sure I have.
I think I even linked the same blogs.

Oh well.

About Me.

I'm 30 years old.  I turned 30 in April.  For my birthday party, we had a cotton candy machine and a pink and purple Barbie Princess bouncy dollhouse.  "How old are you, Natalie?" my mom asked with a sneer.  "Only as old as I feel, Momma!" I answered with a smile.

I'm not married.  I've been married, but I'm not married anymore.

I live with my boyfriend.  He's been putting up with my particular version of crazy for nearly 4 years.  We probably won't get married, but we'll live happily ever after anyhow.

I don't have any children.  As far as I know, I've never been pregnant.  I'd really like to know what it's like to be pregnant.  I'm not sure I want the responsibility of raising a whole other person, though, so we'll leave this as it is for now.

I have a job.  It is alternately the best job in the whole wide world and a soul-sucking whore.  Which definition fits is dependent upon which day you ask the question.

I've never been a member of any organized religion.  When I was growing up, it was a special treat if a friend or family member would let me tag along and go to church with them on Sundays.  Yet I was raised by two parents who have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  My Granny read us Bible stories and taught us how to say our prayers.  My entire religious upbringing consisted of "Know to whom you are thankful for your blessings" and "you don't have to go to church to get to Heaven".  Now my religious views are something like: Don't be an asshole, and you'll probably be okay.

I love Mormons.  I would join their church, except for the whole tithing thing, and all the service requirements, and the religious beliefs.

I like to smoke.  I like to drink.  I like to cuss.  I'm trying to not do all of these, or to at least do them not as much.

I am tactless.  I'm an open book.  I am obnoxious.  I am self-obsessed.  I'm moody.  I'm lazy.  I'm a perfectionist, when I do try.

I love plants.  I don't exactly have a green thumb, but there are definitely shades of blue and yellow mixed in there somewhere.  I've got a house and front porch full of things I've managed to not kill.  I've never tried to garden, but I'm going to one of these days.

I want to have a year's supply of food stored in my basement.

I want to be a runner.  Most days, I can't find enough motivation to take the dog for a walk.

I love to cook, but sometimes I forget.  The work and effort required to get the kitchen clean, do the cooking, then clean the kitchen all over again...it makes me forget and carryout sounds easier.

My parents are fantastic, good, warm people.  They adore me and love me and are on my side even when the rest of the world is against me.  My Daddy told me once, "No one will ever love you the way your mother and I love you.  No one will ever want good things for you the way we do.  You can trust us always, because we will always want only the best for you."  They've never let me down.

My brother is...not someone I want to talk about.  I love him.  I want good things for him.  I want to bitchslap him.

I've only got the one blood sibling, but my cousin Stacy is like a sister who didn't live with us when I was growing up.  Maybe she went to boarding school?  A close one, though, because we still saw each other all the time.  She was my partner in crime, my worst enemy, my true bff, the person I played "doctor" with (our own version, more "E.R."-esque, that didn't involve any touching or taking off clothes), the person I got into trouble with, the person who explored The Property with me, the one who I told all my secrets to and who loved me anyhow, the one who "got" me, always.  (And later confessed that she looked up to me and wanted to be like me, and I'll always love her forever for thinking I'm cool.)

I'm a voracious reader.  I prefer books, paperback ones, but a hardback will do, and if a computer's all that's available, bring it on, too.  I don't want a Kindle and I don't want an IPad, but I will if I must.  I love to go to the Book & Music Exchange and sort through the mishmash of titles on display - and I can't walk away from the shelves until my arms are full or my basket is heavy.  I come home and line up my new-to-me selections on the second shelf from the top, on the bookcase closest to the front door in the front sitting room.  Then I spend the next few days/weeks/months making my way through that shelf, saving this silly romance for later, after the serious Oprah's Book Club selection, and then after that we'll have Amy Tan because hers are always good.

I love elephants.  My Granny loved elephants.  Maybe I get it from her.  Maybe they're just really awesome creatures.  This video makes me teary-eyed, and made me decide I'm going to Thailand on my next real vacation.  And I'm going to buy this:

and two or three like it and I'm going to hang them all over my house.  

I'm a sentimental sap.  I hold on to ticket stubs and show programs and little origami figures he makes out of the foil ripped from the inside of a fresh pack of cigarettes.  I have a treasure trove of shit/garbage/junk stowed in various boxes and drawers and bowls and vases all over the house.  In our last home, I even displayed it, using push pins, on the wall in the kitchen.  When we moved, I packed it all into a box.  That box is in the upstairs closet.  Yes, you probably will see me on an episode of Hoarders one day.

I don't watch television.  (I'll give you a minute, I know it's a shock.)  But no, I don't watch TV.

That's kind of a lie.  I watched 6 episodes of Weeds last night. We have a Blockbuster subscription and they mail movies to our house.  It doesn't count as TV watchin'.  And Friday?  When we were over at Rick's?  I totally watched a half hour of DC Cupcakes (which I'd never seen, and adored) and (you'll never believe it) Say Yes To The Dress!  (Can you believe it?  Jimi and Rick both put on their big boy panties and let me watch the pretty dress show!)  But before that, I probably didn't turn a TV on for 2 weeks.  That's why I say I don't watch TV.  I don't have "my shows".  I don't care.  It's all a bunch of shit, and most of it is gross or depressing or nasty.  (But some of it is great, like the cupcake show and the pretty dress show and the one where those people have all those kids, that one's good too.)

I'm a bad story teller.  I go off on tangents and forget the point and then can't find my way back to it and so I just get to the point and everyone's standing there looking at me like "Did you really just take ten minutes and a detour to talk about gun control legislation to tell us that cherries are on sale at Kroger?"

Now that you know all this...aren't you glad you started reading my blog?  I'll bet you can't wait to hear what kind of crazy shit I talk about next.

It ruins a perfectly good blog.

I'm talking about those effing media player things that people have embedded into their blog, so when you open their page, you're inundated with bad music.

Elevator Music.

Teenybopper music.

Badtouch music that I don't want to listen to.

And it makes me jump every time.  I like quiet.  It scares me when the loud starts suddenly and makes me pee a little.

Okay, that last part only happened one time, but ONCE IS ENOUGH.

Please, don't put media players on your blog.  And if you don't care what i think, if you insist that sharing your questionable taste in music with the rest of the blog reading world is a good idea and/or necessary to fully portray your awesomeness, can you at least put it at the top of the page?  So I can pause it quickly?  Or know it's coming, and maybe make a preemptive-pause strike?

Cause you're messing up a good thing.

I can't stop reading blogs.

I can't make it stop. This unending, unquenchable thirst for complete details about the lives of ... complete strangers.

My boss says this makes me a voyeur. And you know what? If I came across a blog where some Mormon chick was talking in intimate detail about her sacred sex life, I would totally keep reading. I'd have Jimi make me some popcorn. I'd be glued to that shit. I'd ignore the stack of orders to be entered and the delivery receipts needing to be invoiced and I'd read that blog all day at work.

So yeah, i guess that makes me a voyeur.

I want to know the day-to-day mundane details of the lives of everyone. I want to know their secrets. I want to know when they have a fight with their best friends (and I want details, dammit! None of this passive-aggressive wishy-washy shit - CALL HER OUT!!! A link to her blog where she responds is much appreciated, too.).

My first real experience with blogs was LiveJournal. A friend had one. She posted all the good shit. And I judged her for it, harshly. I was a complete cunt, to be perfectly honest. There aren't many things in my life I'd do differently, but that's one. I was hateful and mean and I loved every second of knowing everything about her and pretending I was somehow better than her.

What a bitch.

Then my world came crashing down around me when my husband of 3.5 years told me he didn't love me anymore and wanted a divorce. I wanted the divorce too, but to actually make it a reality? Whoa. So much for my soapbox/pedestal. My friend forgave me, for some reason. And I discovered social network blogging.

People read my divorce blogs. Women sent me messages of support and understanding. I made a bunch of new friends on the site, and I was surprised when they didn't know my history, as I'd been blogging about ALL of it.

(I totally share the good stuff.)

Then there came Jimi. And happy. And I just didn't seem to need to toot my own horn so much. No longer did I feel the need to shout from the rooftops about how awesome my life was and how happy I was and how much fun i was having and how in love I was...living life was just more fun; being in love was better; loving was better; quiet, just the two of us, was better. Who needs to brag to the world when I had all I needed, right here at home, in front of me? And so we settled in, and the random messages stopped coming, and the party invitations dwindled off, and the blogging - what's there to blog about? "I went to work today and it was hard. I came home. I smoked a bowl. I drank a beer. We watched more 'Weeds'. We went to bed. We had sex. I slept like shit."

I know, you can hardly wait to hear more, right?

So that's why I don't blog so much anymore. Even though we bought a house 8 months ago, and there's always something up with that. Even though we bought a canoe a few weeks back, and have already had a few interesting adventures (one of which I started to write a blog entry about, but got to about 11 a.m. on a story that ended at 2:30 a.m. and just lost interest in telling the tale, but maybe I'll finish it eventually.). Even though there's a dog and cat that are always funny. Even though work is always fucked up. Even though, even though, even though...

But I still read blogs. O YES I DO! As often as I can, and when I've caught up on all the ones I watch, i go looking for new ones.

I love Mormon Mommy Blogs. I love any blogs written by Mormons. I'm fascinated with Mormons.

I discovered A Little Pink in a World of Camo after NPR did a spot on it last week. I spent the last 2 nights reading every post. My heart breaks for her.

This guy is an ex-rocker who is madly in love with his baby girl. I discovered him after I fell in love with his wife's prose and frankness and their sweet love story through her blog. They recently learned they're going to have another baby, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I teared up with happiness for them, as if they were my good friends rather than complete strangers with whom I'll probably never share an actual conversation.

Seriously, So Blessed... is a spoof on Mormon Mommy Blogs. If you read the part where I love Mormons, and i love blogs, no further explanation should be necessary.

I didn't know who Dooce was when i came across her blog, but apparently she's kind of a big deal. I dig it.

This chick had four babies in 5 years. And she's like 27. And she's Mormon. I just can't stop reading.

And then there's Cake Wrecks, which I don't technically consider a blog, but more of a place to go to see pictures of awesome and ridiculous cakes, but it's still totally a blog.

So I've been spending all this time reading all these blogs (and LOTS more), and I've not been blogging myself. I want a record of things. I want to go back in five, ten, fifteen years and read about the stupid shit that was going on in my day to day life. (I realized the other day I don't remember anything about Book 7 of the Harry Potter series. If I can't remember that, how will I remember that super awesome canoe trip or the yummy lemon pasta dish we had for dinner that one night or the time the dog got sprayed by the skunk...wait, I think I blogged about that.)

As I was saying, I want a record of my life. If I have kids one day, I want them to read about what their momma and daddy were like before they came along. I want to have a written testimony to the good things in my life, the things I have to be thankful for, the blessings that come my way. And when it's not all kittens and rainbows, I want to be able to look back and remember the lows; to chart my progress as I grow as a person and overcome obstacles.

I wish my parents had kept diaries or journals. I wish they'd written more letters to each other. I wish I knew what sorts of things Granny and Papaw talked about when they were young - what their dreams and fears were.

Whether it's for a future generation of freckled redheads or just for a 70 year old version of me, I'll try to do better.

When I'm not reading about the lives of complete strangers, that is.