We're all In the Gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars*

To be so young and carefree. I can't tell you the last time I sat in the sunlight buck-nekked and picked sock lint out of my toes.

I have been reluctant to come out and play because
1. WOW --the depression-slap upside the head this week.
2. After reading so many really cool blogs, I am beginning to wonder if I really have anything to say. (Doesn't mean I won't say something... have you seen me try a wordless "any" day?)

So now I am pondering the psychology of blogging.

I first began my blog because I was really fed up with where my life was (or wasn't) going. I googled (insert unhappy wife/mom/Air Force dependent etc... here), and happened upon a blog... that was telling my story. From there, I clicked on more links and found my spirits lifting. I began to feel like I was connected to these people somehow and feeling like what I was experiencing was o.k.

In the weeks that followed, I did find a few blogs that basically told me I was a selfish person for not reveling in the joys of wiping snotty noses and throwing unsalvageable underpants out for the third time in a week, but the great thing about blogs is how quick you can leave the offending post (wait, that wasn't your cue to leave).
The bad thing as a blogger is that I have entered this "need to perform" mode. You know, I need this post to be better and funnier than the one before.
Crap.
That's the whole problem with face-to-face friends, isn't it? It's the very rare friendship that we let down our guards showing who we are, quit entertaining and allow the friendship to really deepen. We take that risk of exposing all of our ugliness and still being liked.

THAT's what blogging is supposed to be doing for me, but somewhere in there I started worrying.
I worried about posting how I have every intention of changing my nationality if Hillary becomes president. I worried about sharing something that lifted me spiritually during the week--I wasn't ready for anti-God comments. I worried about becoming annoying with stories of my kids, and what sicko may be reading them.

I worried that someone might steal my photos. I worried that in my newby-ness, I may have committed the unpardonable blogging sin... Should I have asked you before I told everyone reading my blog how great your blog is? Putting your link in my side-bar, is that like posting your unlisted phone number (or worse, like sending you email 'forwards')?

I actually dropped my mask one day. The day I received the news that President Gordon B. Hinckley passed away, I wanted to acknowledge it, but did so thinking, "well, there go a few of my bloggy friends".
But you didn't go. Some of you left kind comments, some of you just ignored it and that was ok too. And maybe our bloggy relationship just grew a little bit, if only on my part.

This is me, this is who I am.

I have suffered some sort depression, probably linked to childbirth, on and off for a few years. I pull out of it and appear like I am doing fine, but then something major happens-- like the ketchup bottle falling out on a tile floor-- and I get slapped back down. I'd like to think it's a chemical imbalance and my body will sort itself out (yep, and then along comes MENOPAUSE).

In the meantime, I blog because writing interests me.
I read blogs, because I like knowing there's life outside my nappy-changing, nose-wiping, bed-makin', toilet-scrubbing, three-ring circus.
I am an artist that hasn't done ANY art in at least 5 years, and haven't painted seriously for 11 years. Yikes, seeing that actually typed... ouch.
I laugh a lot when my body isn't fighting me, and enjoy humorous blogs as well as the tear-jerkers and posts that have me rooting for the under dog (you know, aka: mom).

I go to church every sunday and some days in between. My family says prayers together, we eat our meals at the table together, and we drive each other mad... together.

I have no problem with any other religions and am actually fascinated in hearing our differences.

I don't like my food to touch, but I don't think it's bordering on nutty, I just take a lot of time getting flavors just right and don't want one taste to contaminate another.

I love taking pictures, and if someone wants to steal them, I will be flattered, but I will hunt them down (and force them to spend a week in my house with my kids).

So, now that we're opening up, I feel I can be a little more honest with you...
and tell you

I've NEVER sat nekked picking at my toes.
However, Miss Ky is obsessed with it (shoes and socks come off with every car ride), and she's a happy baby, so maybe ...?

*Oscar Wilde

I'm a Stranger Here Myself

It has got to be said, and today is as good as day as any.
There is a woman here who hates me, and she hates me (not "because I'm beautiful"--does that commercial still run?) solely because of my place of birth.

About a month after moving here to Norfolk, this woman came to my house, sat on my sofa and trashed my President (currently my husband's head honcho if you think about it), the school system from which my children came, my language etc. She did it all with a smile, so to be quite honest, it was two hours AFTER she left when I realized that I was agitated and couldn't put my finger on why. Then I realized I had been insulted. A lot.
Ok, so I am not the sharpest tool in the shed these days, and maybe that's good. I have this ability to accept just about every person from every walk of life and if you're nice to me, I will be your most loyal friend. If for some reason, I don't like you, I won't pretend I do and call you over for tea. You have to work really hard to offend me (mostly because I can be a little distracted and may miss subtle hints completely) and I kind of expect that in other people.

But never mind that. The damage she caused was that I believed what she said. She really was one of my very first visitors and had plainly told me that general British sentiment towards Americans is that we're greatly disliked.
So, I stood in the queues at play group and didn't speak to people for months (I didn't want to appear the pushy American). I walked on eggshells trying to make sure I never said something that would cause offense, and I did my best to just blend in.

So, with that stated.
After several months I figured out that this woman was really the exception. Most people are very warm towards us and on things we probably wouldn't agree about, they use that wonderful British humour.
My children attract kids who want to know more about the US and who like their accents. One friend loves to sit in my living room and listen to the Hubby and I talk because she loves the phrases we use.
In the meantime, I have heard about others' run-ins with the visiting meanie and pretty much decided her dislike for me is definitely not my problem. I have attended "crops" at her home (invited) and smiled through all of the little jabs-- I get a page or two done in my scrap books without Miss Ky pulling the table over, I don't care what the hostess feels about me.

The most recent said event was yesterday. Imagine my consternation when everyone I asked told me they weren't going. My heart sank when I pulled up and saw that I would be the only one there and it was an 8-hour crop!
Sometime around October-ish (during the wanderings of my husband) I went to something she hosted and came out determined never to attend another thing. I was beaten, I was tired and a little pissy to be perfectly honest. It was hard doing everything with my husband deployed and setting myself up for the constant verbal attacks was plain stupid. But, here I was. alone.

THAT my friends, is a die-hard scrap booker...

Yes, mingled in with the "I'm really pleased you came"s were, "We don't really get involved with football" (after her 12-year old commented on my husband and boys all attending a match while I cropped with, "Well, maybe your daughter won't like football so that you can have one intelligent person in your home" (did I mention the kid was playing video games almost the entire time I was there?).

But what I really wanted to share was today.

We really had a nice church service. We had lots of visitors and had a terrific feeling with us, ready to face the week with cheerfulness and optimism. As my husband was making his way towards the door, after several attempts to herd our bunch the same direction, I started walking behind him with my head down. I wasn't doing the submissive wife thing (wow, SO not me), I think I was watching my feet or looking at my bag, I don't know. But he stopped short, right after pushing the door open, and I almost slammed right into him.
That's when I looked up and realized it wasn't my husband (thank goodness I didn't pinch his rear). It was the husband of the visiting meanie--who also hates Americans.
I laughed and said, "Oh! I thought you were my husband!" To which he replied, "NOT a CHANCE!" and walked away.
Two points here.
These people consider themselves very educated.
They also consider themselves Christians.
ok, maybe there's actually three points.
Why did I let it agitate me the entire day? Any comments?