Local Travel, World Travel, Travel in the Southwest, National Parks, Utah, California, Washington DC. The United States
Last week Dave and I dropped the boys off at my mom’s and while there she showed me a bunch of old pictures. They were tiny tiny copies of the originals. I quickly pulled out my cellphone and snapped a few copies of my own.
Here she is with me dad and a priest. She is beautiful. I do not know my dad. His name is Will.
“AHHHHHHHHH!” I hear from the basement.
In my mind I see the boys fighting all American Gladiator Style and I am sure one of them must be near death.
“Hang in there young sons,” I think. If I say it out loud then they might find me.
See, I am hiding in the office, which happens to be several feet from the basement. I am guessing unless there is bloodshed they will not summon the desire to locate me. I will just hear their shrieking sounds, “MOM! MOM! He’s [insert super dramatic moans here] I [pause] cannot [pause] breathe.” Then one of them will stumble back into the t.v. room and the other will push play only to be lulled by the sweet sweet sounds of “Phineas and Ferb.”
I hear a door slam. Was I hoping for too much? Will they continue. I am silent and they still do not know where I am. Thank God!
“OWWWW!” Kyle exclaims and then it is silent.
Again I hear Kyle, “Ahh ahhh.”
Now I am curious. He has expressed interest in the dramatic arts and I am thinking he is on to something. Give me a second. Invisible and like a fly on the wall, I will see just what is going on. Not a Deer Fly, however, those things with their crazy scissor teeth slit you open and put their fly juice in the wound. No, not a Deer Fly, just a quiet and pleasant fly on the wall.
I am back and this is what I heard:
“No!” Eli shouts.
“Then stop being mean!” Kyle responds.
“I am not being mean.”
With my boys now ages nine and eleven, I think it is high time they work it out on their own. I leave them be with them not even knowing I was there. Success.
By the way, Eli just informed me that he cannot look at, touch or think about Kyle or Kyle will shoot him with a bow and arrow, a Nerf bow and arrow, that is.
Last night I was chatting it up with one of my very favorite friends. Even though we live close by, my friend and I spend a great part of our friendship communicating over the telephone. (Thank you Alexander Graham Bell or Antonio Meucci, depending on who you ask.) We have varying aged boys who always seem to need be somewhere (and not the same somewhere), so it is hard to make our paths cross. No problem, we have the phone. When Dave is on his Wednesday night bike ride, at work or out of town, I have my friend and our long, often hilarious and always supportive conversations. We are able to cover any topic you can imagine while simultaneously being able call bullshit on each other. That is a good friend.
Yes, and early on, of course, we have spoke about our crazy childhoods. That is a given, right (yawn)? Honestly, the very best part of these phone calls is the magical-mystery-tour styled conversational flow. We move through inane and extensive discussions on topics such as The May 21, 2011 Rapture which would obviously lead us to discussing the fact that my friend would most certainly be taken up in the Rapture along with Macho Man Randy Savage and, just as obviously, evil me would be stuck here on Doomsday-Ridden Earth. “You know I would come haunt you.” She quickly adds. And of course I remind her that I would hang a dream catcher for her. She of course requests, “If you do hang a dream catcher, please don’t make it all complicated. I don’t want to get all tangled up in it.” Then naturally for several minutes we would discuss whether one could actually get stuck in a dream catcher. Our conversation would drift and we end up somewhere trying to answer the question, “How often is too much when it comes to using the F Word in front of your kids?” Her stories are brilliant. She is Southern and just to amuse me I think she always finds a way to weave in a Waffle House reference. On one of our recent calls we spent like twenty minutes analyzing whether that really was Hillary Swank I saw in the locker room at the gym? And yes, it was and yes, Hillary almost saw me naked. It is a gift to have someone to banter, connect and talk too.
Last night, somewhere between me sharing that Eli was sure he saw her on a walk with “another women,” (come to find it wasn’t even her) and telling her that in a fit of PMS-ness I cut my hair with nail scissors, the conversation jumped over to her asking me in her extra twangy southern accent like she does when she is very serious and equally hilarious, “So do you think people can get past Mitt Romney being a Mormon? You know I can ask that, right?” Of course she knows that she can ask me that. “Who else would I ask?” Continuing with a, “You and I both know that you are the only one I know I can ask about those funny underwear who won’t get freaked out or defensive. You just answer me, pure and simple.” Yes, for all intents and purposes, I am her Expert Mormon friend.
And then somewhere between Mitt and funny underwear, there it was, sitting in the silence of a conversational pause. I saw it clear as clear can be. I saw it so clearly I had to say something. I blurted out, “You know. That is it. I can tell you every single dark, creepy, embarrassing, uncomfortable secret about my past no problem. We can talk about issues with kids, issues with annoying kids, issues with good teachers, bad teachers, good parents and messed up parents. When it comes to religion, I completely short circuit. If anyone asks me about being a Mormon my palms begin to sweat, I feel short of breath and often feel like I am going to puke. I listen closely to what they have to say and then I quickly try to practice an appropriate response in my head before uttering it out loud. I guess what I am saying is talking publicly about my relationship with the Mormon Church kind of freaks me out. Even though those close to me know where I stand or at least seem to like me for who I am. When it comes down to it, I am not comfortable taking a side, one way or the other. I like my place on the fence. I have not been to church in a long time, but I still feel very attached to the religion I was raised in. Isn’t that weird?”
Thank God for my friend because she quickly and wisely responded, “No Beth, you are not weird. I get it (thank you for validating me). And besides you live in Utah where all this Mormon Religion stuff is amplified. I can understand why you like your place on the fence. If you hop of, the hounds will get you on either side. And it is not pretty.”
“It is true. I am afraid if my Mormon friends really knew how liberal I was that they would do something like unfriend me on Facebook. Wait. Some have already done that. And when I say Liberal, I mean, slightly left off center, (even writing about this is making me feel like I am doing something wrong. I feel oozy and sick.) So crazy! I know! I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does. Does it really matter that I completely support my gay friends and think the Proposition 8 was nuts? I thought Politics and Religion were separate? And isn’t it ok that I totally love the Mormon focus on the family, at least the theory of it?”
“You are totally making sense, my friend.”
“Then there is the whole non-Mormon-side. I really do not like getting into it with my non-Mormon friends. I really have to trust you to expose myself, you know what I mean?”
“Oh, I do.”
“Just to get accepted into the group I fell like I have to assure everybody that I am cool and not a crazy cult member. And then there was the time that I am sure my sweet mother-in-law convinced herself that I had turned Dave all anti-Mormon because I knew people who wrote about being ex-Mormons. I wondered why she just didn’t ask me what I believe. It is all such a mine field. I say, good luck to you Mitt Romney. And is it ok to say I probably would not vote for Mitt Romney even if I was the best Mormon ever?”
“You are cracking me up. Ok, Beth, I know you and like I said, who else can I can ask and get a straight and honest answer about your church. I like that.”
“I know. I know, but it is weird that this has always been excruciatingly uncomfortable for me to talk about. There are so many things I worry about. I am afraid of letting my family down or embarrassing them by being more out with who I am. Isn’t that weird? I really do not want to be defined by a religion either and as hard as I try, as soon as the cat is out of the bag on either side, I feel judged and people treat always differently. Baby steps. I need some confidence with this whole issue. I mean, I am still trying to figure it out. I have to believe in my path or whatever. And for me to let my guard down, I totally have to develop a circle of trust with any person I share my true religious feelings and opinions with. I am sad that I think I will actually lose friends if people, Mormons and Non-Mormons alike really know who I am, as far as religion goes, that is.”
“I get it and I hope you and the Mormons and probably all the people living in Utah, for that matter, realize that The Mormon Church has not cornered the Market on religious craziness, self-righteousness (on both sides of the fence) and excessive judgement of others. My friend, have you been to the South?”
A few minutes ago I looked in the mirror and noticed to my extreme horror the dried spot of blood on my face. On the right side of my cheek, about an inch to the side and a little to the right of my lip, there it was, a giant, hideous glob of dried reddish blood. “Eww, and how did that happen?” My guesses are that either some super human soul stealthily shot me with a Fiberglass arrow, only grazing my skin or that I walked into something, acquired temporary amnesia and spontaneously began to bleed. The blood was dry which also led me to believe that it had been sitting on my face, in full view, for some time. “Gross and Damn it!”
Let’s see, in the time that the blood was most likely coagulating, I went out to lunch with Dave and did a bunch of other things. At at our local Good Karma restaurant, I sat across from my dear husband for nearly an hour eating my citrus glaze covered Chicken Kebob while Dave ate his yummy Lamb and Chicken Coconut Indian Curry. Not a word. Not one word. We talked, we smiled. I think we even held hands, and nothing. I ate a bunch of his spicy chicken curry. Nothing. Not even a slight notice of the giant splotch. When I assume my face was compromised and before we began to eat, we learned from our waitress that we actually needed the two for one coupon, instead of just telling the waitress about the ad in the paper. Dave’s office was close by so decided to we walk back and retrieve the coupon. At his office I met his new intern. In fairness to this young and fresh employee, I am guessing it would take a lot more than seeing blood on my face for him to speak up to his boss’s wife. What would he say, “Ah, um, Dave’s wife, um, your face is bleeding.” I’d think it would be a little weird too.
As Dave and I left the office, I said hello to his business partner’s mother and exchanged a smile with another woman I almost went into business with. Not a word, not a word from either one of these ladies. You would expect something from a fellow female, wouldn’t you? We made it back to the restaurant. We spoke with two waitresses. At this point the closest indication that anyone was trying to tell me that I a had a glob of dried blood on my face was the funny look I received from business partner’s mother, if it even was a funny look?
After finishing lunch and before I even arrived to pick the boys up from school I had encountered six people directly, including Dave. He and I also walked by another company’s barbecue on our way back to my car. In fairness to the barbecue folk, I am sure they would not blurt out to a complete stranger, “Hey, lady, you are bleeding,” would they?
For me the most shameful-blood-on-my-face moments would have to be all the other mothers I engaged when I picked up the boys. Today not only did I say hello to the moms in the pick-up line, I also went inside the school. How many women and children do I see daily that also saw my deranged face?
Once home, not knowing my predicament, I looked in the mirror while flossing a random piece of something or other out of my teeth. There it was, the BLOOD and that is where all my retroactive panic began. If I have blood on my face, food in my teeth or toilet paper dangling off of my feet, I would greatly appreciate the heads up. Now if you notice the gap between my teeth, I know it is there too. That, I am stuck with.
or shall I say, “I didn’t know a good thing when I had it.”
At this spot in time I think/hope I can be more objective when I look back at online communication’s early days. I think we all can. The facts are these: I really started blogging in 2002 when everything in Internet Land was crazy, the Dot Boom had gone bust. Venture Capitalists were no longer throwing millions at fleeting thoughts. There was no Facebook; Google was around, but only used by nerds at that point, and a Twitter was something your heart did when it was in love.
On occasion I have mentioned that my very first blog actually began in 1998. Oh wait, technically it was 1997 when I wrote my first web piece on OS News (Dave’s technology website that still exists today). See, I worked at an early-stage startup and internet is what I did. Some sort of personal website only seemed a natural fit. It was my wedding blog. Dave had this fantastic idea to put all of our wedding information and special love thoughts online. I honestly doubted if anyone besides the handful of internet junkies would actually use the site. If they did, we promised that all of the information was there and that this online information would make things easier by streamlining our wedding agenda.
Thirteen years later, I can now tell you that I was correct. A handful of people did look at our wedding blog and most of the feedback we received went something like this: [insert a Midwestern Pre-school teacher voice here] “Oh geez, that is really, um [confused pause] sweet? Aren’t you concerned that just anyone (probably a pervert) could look at your website and show up at your wedding?” Not really, and really what Dave and I thought was, “well, if some random person finds our website, then the more the merrier [even a pervert, wink, wink].”
Fast forward a few years to 2002. Once again my lovely husband had the brilliant blogging idea. We had recently purchased at VW Eurovan Camper. Dave, the boys and I were going to spend a year on the road and Dave figured a blog would be the perfect way to let our family know where we were and at least when we made our post we would also let them know that we were still alive. I like how he thinks. We hit the road and occasionally posted from exotic locals such as Calgary, Alberta, Canada and Western Nevada.
Then one day, one of the many times we were back in Utah staying in a friend’s condo, all of our stuff in storage and feeling a little displaced with two delightful small children, I started writing. I began to use my blog as more or less my daily therapist. Each new day I had somewhere to go to let it all out.
It was great. It was new. It was my everyday outlet. My only rule is that before I published anything online that my husband and technical writing editor extraodinaire was required (begged) to edit each and every post. I had pressed send on too many hastily-crafted, barely-literate emails in my time (and paid the price in embarrassment) to have my dangling modifiers hung out to dry to the world. No. I would do my best to make sure my pieces were edited in hopes of only the very few would even notice my comma splice or homonym conundrum.
With grateful links to my website and word of mouth, momentum starting building and more than just my sisters and my mother-in-law were reading my website. I really did not understand the gift I was given. I had found a sweet spot that everyone but me seemed to know was there. Self doubt in full swing, I denied the fact that I was hitting my stride at the just the right time! Instead, I let myself get spooked. I let other people’s perceptions fill my head. I am not a jealous person, for instance. However when other people told me I was jealous, I listened and worked extra hard to prove I was not jealous. No, I was just silly. Silly for letting my head get filled with such nonsense. Instead of minding my own business and focusing on the thing I love to do, which is write, I let my head get filled with gossip, harsh criticism and insecurity.
I lost my momentum, walked away and stopped believing in myself. I did not know how good I had it and have had to forgive the past me for not seeing the gift I had been given.
It has taken me a lifetime to discover that I need to believe in myself. Back when I was writing full time, as much as I LOVED telling my stories I do not think I ever thought or believed I deserved a space in this world, let alone the internet world.
Growing up I believed in my beautiful thin and tall sisters. When I was way to young to be listening to such music, I believed in my rock star sister, who taught me about David Bowie and Alice Cooper. I believed in my awesome brother who all the girls loved. I believed in my other brother who always had the lead in the school play. I believed in my sweet mom, who everyone loves. I believed in my dad and I do not even know him. What I do know is every time I saw him he had a fridge stocked with special drinks, like V-8, and always a brand new fantastic car. (The Firebird — yes, the one with the bird on the hood — and Porsche were my favorites. ) He did not pay much child support or have anything to do with me, but with those expensive drinks and fancy new cars he must have been doing something right. I believed in him. I really did. Everyone in my family, my very big family, was completely awesome, just not me. Seriously, that is what I believed. And somehow my beliefs followed me into adulthood. Each and every time I feel some success, I feel someone deserves it more than me. Jealous? No. I will freaking die on a sword for you so you can succeed. I will cheer you all the way to Victory! I will scream the loudest for you. It is easier. Believing in myself, well, that has been more difficult.
Stopping and catching my breath has been good. Somehow, deciding to be present for my two amazing boys and incredible husband helped me see. Go figure. Sure, I know I walked away from opportunity. My momentum was moving forward and going somewhere fast. I honestly do not know where blog of yesterday would have taken me. I do know it was going somewhere and I do not take that for granted.
What I have now is today. My guess is that no longer are my readers many. The few of you that have found me or remain I am grateful for. If more come my way, all the better. Life is moving and while it moves forward my hope is that I carve out a space once again. This time, however, I promise to notice that it is there.
Here I go!
CrazyUS, I can finally, I mean, finally really say after nearly five years away from you that I have actually and truly missed you! I have missed our day to day connection. I really have.
You and I both know that in the past five years I have tried to come back to you, only to get sidetracked. I guess I was not ready to rekindle. I am hoping now that the ugly emotion has faded, I can just start new with you, my long lost, beautiful blog personified, friend.
You got me through the lonely days of early motherhood. You were this amazing conduit into the online world at time where blogging was so new and so unchartered. Advertising on you would have seemed silly back then, and thinking that every single person I knew would somehow have their own blog too, seemed so completely far fetched (even if their blogging was only done on Facebook). I was so mistaken.
I am hoping, CrazyUS, that enough time has passed, that old wounds have healed or simply disappeared, and what remains is the reason I came to you in the first place. You gave me a space to put all those thoughts and opinions that were milling around in my brain and of course, I thank you!
