Get Out Of My Facebook ... The Peculiar Parallels Between Social Media and Motherhood

Not a day goes by that I am not in some way reminded of two things ... my children and as weird as it sounds, facebook. My kids are a constant and facebook is everywhere. I enjoy facebook for the most part, and lately have been thinking how much the experience is very similar to being a mom.

I've established a love/hate relationship with both. There are days when both worlds make me laugh and entertain.  Some fb friends have the gift of making their personality shine through updates, comments and links. Even being an obnoxious and total asswipe of a facebooker is hilarious when it's kept in the right perspective. My kids force me to LOL daily with schtick that flows naturally from the pure minds of those so fresh and unencumbered.

And then, there are the many social media moments when the level of annoyance is equal to if not greater than my 6 year old's incessant whining for Wii Lego Star Wars Clone Wars II. Biggest culprit, the "Repost this if ..." status. The facebook version of a chain letter with the implied message that if you don't repost, you aren't one of "us" and something bad should happen to you if it hasn't already. The repost topic is usually some sappy ideology that is aimed to lift your spirits or elevate awareness of some elected higher cause.

Here's an annoying example:

If You Support Our Troops, Hate Animal Cruelty, Love Your Daughter, Pray For World Peace and A Cure For Cancer, Recycle Paperclips and Believe In The Importance Of Regular Bowel Movements, Then Please Post This on Your Status and Leave It There for One Hour and If You Don't You Suck

I never repost. I'm clearly an apathetic communist who hates children.

Other irritating pet peeves are

animated posts,

http://img365.imageshack.us/img365/5563/dancingcow.gif

posts that use symbols to draw a freaky looking picture,

.............(0 0)
.---oOO-- (_)-----.
╔═════════════════╗
║ INVITE ALL YOUR FRIENDS ║ (No, thank you)
╚═════════════════╝
'---------------oOO
........|__|__|
.......... || ||
....... ooO Ooo

Farmville shit,

and anything that's regurgitating hearts.

Put ♥ this ♥ on ♥ anyone's ♥ wall ♥ who ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile ♥ somewhere ♥ sometime ♥ in ♥ your ♥ life. ♥ It ♥ may ♥ surprise ♥ you, ♥ but ♥ check ♥ out ♥ how ♥ many♥ comes ♥ back.♥ Thanks ♥ a ♥ lot ♥ for ♥ making ♥ me ♥ smile ! ♥ Put ♥ this ♥ back ♥ on ♥ my ♥ wall ♥ if ♥ I ♥ ever ♥ made ♥ you ♥ smile

The worst is the application where people send each other hearts and ask for one in return. They mostly resemble this:

It's called Puzzled Hearts, and it puzzles the fuck out of me why someone would want to  "send and receive beautiful hearts, unlock love quotes, and solve virtual jigsaw puzzles." I'd love to shock these misfits who partake in such nonsense with sending them a heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Boxed and via the USPS.

"HDBW just sent you the heart-shaped testicle of an AIDS-infected sewer rat. Won't you send her one back for her collection? If that's too much trouble, one made of dryer lint would be equally delightful!"

Another similarity is the the egomania and self-centeredness running rampant through the veins of many facebookers and all children entering kindergarten. With social media, this is most evident in how many pics one has of themselves throughout their various "albums". I'll be generous. More than, say, 15 pics of yourself and I consider you a high ranking member of Club Narcissus. I'd rather see one or two awful, or mediocre, or plain old honest pics of someone who doesn't give a rat's ass rather than 37 of an insatiable photogenic poser. Ok, you look good. We get it.

In my mom role, I'm blasted with perceived attention deficit syndrome constantly. What about me, look at me, what's in it for me, don't forget me, me first. And it is definitely audible, not so much visual.  Concentration frazzled by what seems like endless questions and calls for help. Mommy, mommy, mommy where is she? She's right here chasing after a train of thought.

It's funny. So often, the things that make you smile are the same things that make you crazy. Nothing is more truer for me than this. And that sentiment could be considered motherly wisdom, or tomorrow's status update. 

Boob Envy

Let me begin by saying this is not about low self-esteem, or not being appreciative of the beauty of the human body in all its forms. And I'm not whining. It's about a common condition called boob envy, relating mostly to the admiration of and pining for a beautifully full, womanly set of knockers. A full rack. Great tits. For these I desire, if not for anything else, to compliment my sparkling personality.

BE syndrome doesn't age discriminate. In fact, my case began as most with the onset of puberty. As my daughter nears this milestone, we talk more often about how girls bodies change. She says she doesn't want "big boobs" and I respond neutrally. Using the "play it down as to not cause undue anxiety" approach. "Yes, well remember that you are beautiful with whatever nature gives you. As long as you're healthy ... love yourself on the inside and the outside." Great words with significant meaning. But the reality is, once girls begin developing, the natural boob fixation begins.

Don't remember much about 8th grade, but what is etched in my mind is how preoccupied we all were with breasts. While most girls were proudly wearing tube tops that effortlessly stayed in place, I was still sporting training bras lined with tissues. I'll never forget Dave Summers* who use to run around the hallways grabbing the chests of the developed girls. He'd then spread his thumb and index finger to the width of what he felt and announce brazenly to all "she was THIS big!" God I hated him. Yet, wished it was me he was fondling. Where were my boobs? When will I bloom?

That too did pass. I bloomed in other ways. And I loved my body all along and still do. Yet, I can't reduce the frequent occurances of BE and wonder, why do I focus on this particular physical deliquency?

Let's face it. Beautiful breasts have and always will be one of the most attractive features of the female body. Being flat chested makes me feel like a girl, not a woman. A prepubescent child/woman who has resigned to a life of padding to achieve a more curvaceous look. Yes, my boobs are perky and firm. (Think Kate Moss posing topless during her modeling hey-day.) Fantastic. Still, sufferers of BE can't resist the craving for more chest flesh to flash. More glorious glands to grab.

MAYBE what is bothering me the most is that this is something men don't have to deal with.
Is there such a thing as dick envy? And I'm not talking about the jealous admiration of the many talents of Mr. Van Dyke. (Have you watched Mary Poppins lately?) But how would dick envy evolve unless the men in question are gathered in a locker room shower? Standing around the water cooler on a casual Friday afternoon, those khakis and jeans reveal nothing to compare.

Small penises are a well kept secret. And oftentimes, from what I hear, easily enlarge to an acceptable size. Pop culture never mentions teeny weanies. And even in the rare instances when it does, it's a non-issue. Remember the 70's glam group The Sweet? I myself rocked out to Little Willy who wouldn't go home. The life of the party, that guy was, with a persona so big it didn't matter what was going on inside those trousers of his. For those of you who were still in diapers or not even born yet ...


Relive a memory from my youth ... click here

Oh, the decades-long obsession with BE. It needs to end. I wish I could convince myself that I am not missing out on anything. Except cleavage!! Maybe what I miss most is cleavage. Or maybe this IS about low self-esteem after all. Maybe I am a whiner. If I may be so bold, maybe I should just shut the fuck up, count my blessings, and just let me be.

* name changed ... he now goes by the moniker Delta Bravo.




(Check out this link ... the power of the boob. Very funny, and very true.)

http://www.cracked.com/funny-212-boobs/

chAnGEs

With age comes wisdom ... maybe. What I'm sure of is that with age comes change. And lately, I've been noticing shifts in my personality, my perspective, my behavior and my appearance ...  tell tale signs on life's highway that scream "Mid Life Crisis, Bear Right".

Like I want to have sex all the time. Every night. No matter if I am dead tired, falling asleep on the couch, a sense of urgency arouses me to find the energy to get the game on. As if to take advantage of my capability, my physical attraction to my husband and his to me, my age-defying body, and my libido before it all goes away in a puff of Jean Nate' scented powder, my grandmom's favorite.

When I sneeze, a little bit of pee comes out. How's that for depressing?

Then there is that lovely slap in the face disguised as a compliment, "You look great, for your age." Yes, I've heard that one many times in the recent past. Its sting is sharp coming from men, even with my understanding of their inherent cluelessness. The little vixen in my head wants to reply "You look your age, and it ain't great."

Some of my most simple pleasures are under attack. Like catalog shopping. What's better than returning from your mailbox with an armful of slick, thick, vividly enticing mini-mags chock full of fashion must-haves? Wait, what's this? Lands End Swimwear Collection? The Walking Company? An invitation to a Shady Acres luncheon and tour of the facility? Hey Victoria, the fact that I still look damn good in your swimsuits and lingerie is no freakin' secret!

We normally do not exchange for any occasion, but this past Valentine's Day, my adoring husband decided to surprise me with a gift. I was tickled a lovers day pink when I saw the cute little Neiman Marcus bag, imaging what fantastic trinket lay waiting for me inside. Perfume? A blingy bauble? Gorgeous lacy barely-theres? Well, it seems with age also comes practicality, and what's more useful to a nearing mid-life crisis mom than a complete set of Kiehl's skin care products. And with such exotic names ... Midnight Recovery Cream, Ultra Intensive Deep Wrinkle Serum, and la creme de la creme, Powerful Strength Line Reducing Concentrate. (Big sigh) We still had sex that night.

The hormonal roller coaster, the sudden interest in Juvederm, the fantasies featuring the 22 year old lifeguard with the hairless pecs, the obsession with self-tanner and white strips, all get to be a bit overwhelming for me. I need more rest stops along this autobahn of life. But even with all the angst that comes with accepting age and the changes I face, some things never change. Love is a constant. As this woman marches forward to face the battles of time, I know she will forever be one lucky girl.

Wanted

More time. Or a personal assistant. Or a clone.

While we're at it ... a window in my home office. The complete elimination of the words "awesome" and "amazing" from the English language. Followed immediately by removing the repeated tendency to use the word "issue". Since when did a problem become an issue? Okay, Websters does list "emotional problem" as one of its definitions, but it is one of about six others. Just stop using "issues" so much. My head is going to explode. It's obvious I've got a problem with it.

Someone to scratch my back for more than 7 seconds. A professional back-scratcher/masseuse/hair washer/scalp kneader/hair stylist at my beck and call 24/7. The ability to afford one of those would also be nice.

A way to stop that crazy robin from flying into the great room window. The looney bird's repetitive attempts create a tap-tap-tapping sound that rivals the beat-beat-beating of Poe's clever little demonic organ. I have tried hanging dark towels in the glass, tried screaming at him through the open window below, even hitched a scarecrow-like voodoo doll on the stucco wall beside his target. Nothing works. He is determined to beat his little breast into that window until ... don't really know why. Maybe his fellow bird community have tweeted the equivalent of "amazing" and "awesome" one too many times, poor guy.

More laughing. Less scandal. Less attention to scandal. More made-up words. Like nipplitis, and quinsensines. Don't ask.

You to excuse me, this post has become tiresome.

The Man I Love

I love a man whose strength is limitless. Enduring, shouldering, reassuring, adoring, all for one unifying purpose. Selfish and selfless are his yin and yang. His dreams are lucid. They have paved my blissful path. Always together we walk.

The man I love gets me there each and every time. He makes me scream with passion but wishes I would shut the hell up! He shushes me to no avail. I find it very comical. And ironic in the sense that he doesn't want me to arouse the children, and yet habitually breaks the beautiful silence of 6 am with the noisiest preparation of coffee and breakfast cereal known to mankind.

My love knows no boundaries for the man behind the curtain. He plays the part of  the brooding boss, the diehard disciplinarian, the nutty professor, the soapbox politician, and the clever comedian all with equal ease. He is my soul. He is creatively resourceful, and can fix anything, but he’s never changed a diaper.

We discuss songwriters, dreams, holistic alternatives and karaoke. He is shy with me, gentle to a fault, and we giggle over corny jokes and bad puns. We turn ourselves on with new music swaps and book recommendations. He seeks me out when he is feeling down. I look to him for guidance.

My man is a confusing whirlwind of delicious drama. He is pulp fiction and I wait with bated breath for my latest edition. He is my Calgon, who takes me away to another world where I am frightened, enlightened, mystified, curious, wary and forever enthralled. He is a puppy, sticky sweet. He morphs into a maneater, insatiable. I want to run to him and never break our embrace and simultaneously lock him in a drawer and throw the key out to sea. If I believed in such rubbage, I'd consider his mind and mine eternal soulmates. Tete-a'-tete, we'd battle our demons, chipping away at the mess and inching closer to serenity. Instead, we are simply humans doing the best we can with what we have inside our ever-expanding noggins. When he's not making me crazy, he makes me very happy.

The man I love is hockey-player huge and hairy. He is obsessive-compulsive and speaks in tongues. He would die for those he loved, or at least take a bullet. My fantasy is to sit on his shoulders and have him walk me around. It would be hysterically funny to watch since we would both inevitably fall to the ground due to his physical awkwardness under pressure. He'd fall on me, crush me to death then have to be committed. I think I need a new fantasy. I do love him and all.

The man I adore has yet to be.

"That Will Be 5 Cents, Please."

My thoughts have been a coaster ride. The cresting is the worst. Muscles tighten preparing for the drop, for the stomach to lurch, then seconds of gripping fear, loss of control, and finally elation sweeps through and calms each nerve ending, and I laugh at the lingering sense of foolishness.

I try to determine what brings on these feelings of desperation, depression. It does not make sense.

I blame too much information. Too many internet news items that snag me like the glistening end of a shiny sharp hook. Just yesterday, there was news of the virus that links oral sex to throat cancer. The report on remote Afghan villages where snakes, mice, children, adults are addicted to opium. The interview with the journalist who warns that dependence on coal will eradicate our sustainable environment much sooner than anyone cares to know.

I blame my own stifling perception. Last night, as I watched an episode of the IFC's Freaks and Geeks, I fixated on the Lindsay character. She was me in high school. Exactly. It spooked me. It upset me to the point of crying. I am not sure what of Lindsay's persona struck my most sensitive nerve. The awkwardness of 16 year old virginity? Or not realizing until many years later that the one you thought was so the one was so not worth it. But what young woman has not been there, and so why do I carry that around like a scarlet letter?

Maybe the only thing to blame is hormones. Or the cold rain and snow. No matter, I want to disembark and not get back on line for a long while. I want to drive my car and crank up the volume of The Beastie Boys, not wallow in the repetition of my Jackson Browne cds.  I don't like going to the market and thinking that those frown-faced 50 somethings with the reading glasses and the coupons will be me pretty soon. I want to have sex at night against a car in a deserted parking lot, blindfolded, while listening to Zeppelin's Trampled Under Foot. I want to bury my tendency to offer a soft "sorry" to the honker behind me when I did not accelerate immediately as the light switched from red to green. I want to stop staring at other people's houses and wondering what the hell is going on inside. And although I wish not even my worst enemy cancer, when you give me a dirty look because in your opinion I held up the ATM line putting my bills away, I want to look you in the eyes and say Eat Me.

My Top Ten ... (yes, I'm stealing the bit from Dave)

Potential responses to my newly-made bar stool buddy's conversational comment ...


 "I give my husband a BJ every day."



Number 10 - "Sweet. Nothing says I Love You quite like a daily blow job."


Number 9 - "As they say, a blow job a day makes the husband not stray."


Number 8 - "Imagine all the jealous body builders out there who spend lots of money on protein supplements!"

Number 7 - "That's one way to avoid carpel tunnel syndrome."

Number 6 - "I hope he doesn't expect birthday presents."

Number 5 -"Wow, you really suck. And I mean that in a good way."

Number 4 - "This gives a whole new meaning to the word "bobble-head".

Number 3 - "So that's why your lips are so well-toned!"

Number 2 - "You mention this to my husband, and I'll kill you."


And the number one response ...


"OK, so now I'm definitely NOT letting you taste my melon martini."