Why Facebook Can Suck It, and Other Musings

I'm sure you've been wondering what happened to me. Or maybe you haven't, considering that I'm pretty sure the only person who reads this blog is my mother (hi Mom!). Either way, I have so many thoughts bouncing around in my brain, banging into each other, and I need to purge them. Prepare for randomness and run-on sentences.

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So, Facebook. Yeah, Facebook can pretty much suck it. When I first discovered the world of social networking, It was so fun! Rediscovering old friends and classmates, and keeping in touch with distant family members. I was hooked from the beginning. But over the years, I've discovered that there is a dark side to this whole deal, and it is fraught with drama.

A person can not make an innocuous comment or update a status that isn't 100% positive without potentially offending someone. If I post that my kid is being a brat today, I'll get 10 responses saying stuff like,"Cherish these times while you can... they go by so fast, and you can't get them back," "Remember that he is only five. You can't expect too much out of him," and "Try doing it with four kids instead of one!"

This is not helpful, people. In fact, it is insulting. I am a mom, yes, and I try my best to keep it together. But  everyone is entitled to the odd bad day now and again. I can only handle so many shenanigans. And the insinuation that I have it easy with just the one kid, and am therefore an over-entitled housewife bitching about nothing... wow, that pisses me off. Just because I have three less kids than you, doesn't mean I don't struggle just as much sometimes. Look, people... I'm not sitting around grinning like the Joker and farting glitter all the time. Parenthood is hard. Hell, HUMAN-hood is hard. I'm not going to pretend that I'm anything more or less than what I really am, okay? Let's just get the sand out of our vaginas for half a second and lighten up, shall we?

Once I posted about how I had disciplined my son by taking away his favorite toy- his LEGOs. Now, mind you, it was a constant battle to get him to pick them up. He would have them strewn from one end of the house to the other (and he has literally THOUSANDS of these things). Then he would balk, whine, yell, and ignore when he was asked to clean them up. We would have two hour battles of wills every day for months over this. We had tried every disciplinary tactic known to parentkind, with no results.

So, I took them. I had every intention of giving them to Goodwill because I was tired of fighting with him over this issue. I vented my frustration on Facebook, thinking that my fellow moms would rally around me. But the general consensus amongst my Facebook peeps was that I am a heartless monster. "There must be another way!" they cried. One friend even demanded, "Emily, you give those back to him right now! How could you do that??"

Well, friend... maybe you would like to come to my house and pick them up for me? I guarantee that after the hundredth time you have to do the job, the thousandth time you have to fight with my kid to get him to take care of his shit, and the millionth time you step on their sharp, unforgiving corners, you'll be ready to set those suckers on fire. And this is only after one day.

The "etiquette" that changes every day, and with every specific situation? It's impossible to keep up with. So, I don't even try. Am I going to stop using it? Oh, no. No, no, no. Let's not do anything hasty. I've just learned to sugarcoat my posts and to limit my comings and goings. Also, I try not to let on that I may have an opinion about something. Because God knows, having an opinion makes me an evil, evil woman. Unless of course, someone happens to agree with me, and then I am a Facebook HERO. Unfortunately, you never really know what will be embraced or rejected by the masses, so I post things like, "Rub your hands on your kitchen sink faucet to remove the smell of garlic!!" because it seems pretty safe. Unless I have some closet vampires on my friends list that will take offense to the reference to garlic. But at that point, I think I could go ahead and abandon all attempts at being PC with a clear conscience.

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We moved back to the Oregon coast at the end of summer. Living in Washington was wearing us down as a family. The family dynamic and our marriage was at risk. Aidan was having these horrible rage-fueled tantrums at least once a day, but up to three or four times a day. They were intense and scary. My husband never got used to the graveyard shift, even after seven months. He was always tired and grouchy. We all felt like different people up there. We were different people. I think back now, and it feels like it was all a dream... like we walked out of a fog. It doesn't really feel like we lived that half-year.

We've been home in Oregon for five months, and it's been like a breath of fresh air. We've been beyond busy now that we're able to be back with family and friends. Sometimes all that activity is hard on a body. But, I'll take it! Happiness is...

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We got a dog! He's old as dirt, but the sweetest guy you've ever met in your life. Case in point:

This is Doc. You want to squish his face, don't you?

                                                                              

He does this thing that cracks me up: If he wanders into the hallway to look for me and finds me peeing with the door open, he's ecstatic for about 10 seconds until he realizes what I'm doing. Then he puts his head down and gives me an embarrassed sideways glance, as if to say, "Oh, dear... I am SO sorry to intrude!" and he scuttles off until I'm finished. He eats out of the cat box, makes these horrible slurping sounds when he licks himself, and can clear a room with his noxious gas. I'm pretty sure if I can handle those things, I can handle him walking in on me while I pee, but he won't be reasoned with. He is a gentleman.

A couple more pictures and then I will stop forcing you to pretend that you care about my dog:

His "Oh Yeah" face, reserved solely for belly scratches.

My husband was opposed to getting a dog at first. Now he baby talks to him. He didn't even baby talk to our BABY.

Why yes! I do know that he is perfect in every way. Thank you for noticing!

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Christmas is upon us, kids. The in-laws will be joining us this year, and my father-in-law is making prime rib. Did I mention they're both professionally trained chefs? It's okay to be jealous.

My kid is getting an obscene amount of presents this year. Between James and I, Santa, and the grandparents, he's going to make an impressive haul. James and I like to err on the side of an amount of gifts that the child can count on one hand. Grandma, though, has different ideas, and showers her only grandchild with anything his little heart could desire. Last year it took the three of us FOUR WHOLE HOURS to open presents. I think it's pretty safe to say that my mother-in-law gets a teensy bit excited about the holidays.

I love my in-laws. We get along really great, and I truly enjoy their visits. The only problem is, every time they leave to go home, I'm left with this Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde kid. You see, Grandma is very energetic in general, and she goes long stretches without seeing Aidan due to the fact that they live in Wisconsin. So, when they visit, she tries to cram six months worth of activities into a few days. The boy loves it. But he is up past his bedtime every night, and his days are cram-packed full of sugar and fast food, and spectacular grandparently fun. By the time they leave, he is beyond exhausted, and being a holy terror. Tantrums ensue, Mommy and Daddy drink. It will take at least a good week for him to get back to his less schizophrenic self. It's a nerve-frazzler to say the least.

So, while I'm very much looking forward to Christmas with my husband's parents, I am simultaneously dreading the aftermath. They will be here for an entire week, so it will be double my mother-in-law's pleasure. Thankfully, the house will be chock-full of booze. Happy Birthday, Jesus!

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Conversation with my Mom:

Me: Oh, my God. This kid is driving me nuts. You have to tell him 10 times to do something, and then he acts all upset and surprised when you have to yell at him to get his attention. EVERY FREAKING DAY, Mom.

Mom: Do you give him "The Look"?

Me: Mom, that shit is permanently etched onto my face, I use it so much. I'm surprised I don't scare strangers with my default Mom Face.

Mom: (nodding sagely) Yes, I wondered when you first walked in. You seemed like you had "The Look" going on, and I wondered what Aidan did wrong.

Me: He didn't do anything. Not a damn thing. I'm telling you, I can't help it anymore. THIS IS MY NEW FACE.

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New Year's Resolutions:
1. Quit smoking. Again. For good this time.
2. Cut down on my alcohol consumption. Beer is so amazingly tasty and refreshing. And it is takes me to my happy place after a really crazy day. However, I'm pretty sure that most doctors would consider an average of 4 beers a night to be unhealthy. Plus, I'm tired of waking up all groggy every morning.
3. Live more frugally. We aren't hurting for grocery or gas money (knock on wood), but I think there's always room for improvement. I see it as a fun challenge. And possibly a useful skill to have in the future. One never knows.
4. I will try to be more patient. 
5. I will be less anal-retentive. I have OCD tendencies. When I clean house, it must be just right. It drives me nuts that I can't clean the place and have it stay clean for more than 5 minutes. I go around straightening and tidying, and grumbling under my breath all day long.

Also, I can be a bit of a control freak in the sense that, if someone makes plans with me, I plan the rest of my day around those plans and I count on it going just a certain way. A, B, and C will happen at x-time, y-time, and z-time. Then, my plans. And then I can do D, E, F, and G, and then maybe have some downtime before dinner. If you deviate in any way from the plans we have made, it will throw my entire day off kilter and then I will be an anxious, irritable mess all day. I need to chill the hell out, and realize that I don't have control over every single situation. If someone shows up 15 minutes early and I can't wash a load of towels that day? It's not going to end the world.
6. I will home school preschool my kid. Gotta get him ready for kindergarten next year. Don't want to do this, but am realizing that I would be putting him at a disadvantage to all the other kids if I didn't. Gotta know how to conjugate verbs and solve algebraic equations before first grade, after all! Can't be sitting around finger painting and learning your ABC's like your parents did when they were kindergarteners! Must be bigger, faster, smarter!! Poor kid still has trouble counting to 10 without missing any of the numbers along the way. *sigh*

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And now that I have emptied my cranium of all rogue thoughts, you can rest easy. Because I know you were concerned. To be honest, I'm on my 3rd beer right now, and I have no idea how to gracefully segue out of this. So, goodnight. Have a merry Christmas, and be safe!

Fa la la la la!

Whoa, there!! Let's be reasonable, people...

I came across this video on Momversation today, and I threw up in my mouth a little. Basically, the gist of the whole thing is, "Do you allow your kids to be complete assholes to people they don't even know, just because of your unfounded paranoia that the little old lady in the supermarket is trying to molest them?" And, to my complete and utter amazement, the general consensus of the gals in the clip was a resounding "YES!" In the comments area, one of the posters says she even encourages her son to yell "Stop!!" if someone tries to engage him in conversation of any sort.

Wow.

I mean, sure... most people teach their kids about stranger danger. Most people are cautious and keep their kids with them at all times while out in public. Most people wouldn't want their kids to talk to a stranger if they, the parents, were not present at the time. But is it necessary to teach them to be rude and disrespectful to someone who only wants to comment on how cute/well behaved/helpful they are? While Mommy is standing two inches away, and therefore able to supervise the entire exchange?

I'll admit that I'm not a huge fan of people I don't know touching my kid. It has happened in the past, and while I was cringing inwardly, on the outside I just took it in stride. Elderly ladies and gents who may not see their grand kids as often as they'd like sometimes want to tickle Aidan's ribs or ruffle his hair. Fellow moms who are trudging through the dreaded teen years, who miss their babies being "that age" want to pinch his cheeks. There was once an older lady who asked my mother-in-law if she could lift Aidan into the grocery cart at the market because, I assume, she wanted to feel the weight of a child in her arms again. Yeah, I wasn't crazy about any of it. But I let it go because it was harmless. It was a bunch of good people trying to make a human connection with a member of the most innocent among us.

So, when it comes to people merely wanting to strike up a conversation with my son, I'm all for it. As long as I'm with him, and you keep it appropriate, you may talk to your heart's content.

You have to take the good with the bad, of course. We once had an old man with a large, bushy beard, a long black trench coat, and a cane come up to our grocery cart where Aidan was seated. He kind of looked like Biker Santa. He said, "Boy I really like those sandals you got on there. Where'd you get those?"

"I don't know," Aidan responded with a smile. "My mom bought them."
"Well, I like 'em! Can I trade you for my big, clunky boots here?," and he tapped the sole with his cane.
"No (giggle, giggle)! Those are too big for me (giggle)!"
"Well, no matter. You know what they call me? The shoe snatcher! I know where all the kids in town live, and I go to their houses when they're sleeping at night and take the ones I like. Then I replace them with a pair of big, clunky boots! I'll get those sandals yet!" And then he winked.

And right there, I was thinking, Uh, sir? I don't think you realize that you are coming off as a bit unhinged to me, and slightly terrifying to my son right now. Goawaygoawaygoaway! Luckily, he went on his way shortly thereafter. A couple of minutes later, another old man came by and told Aidan what a good boy he was to be helping his mom with the shopping. So, we struck a nice balance of normal and crazy that day.

Crazy or not, Aidan is always polite and enthusiastic. He is always friendly. And I expect him to be. If he started spouting rudeness and nonsense for no good reason, he would be in a world of hurt. I try to teach him to be polite and mannerly to everyone. If there's a problem, I will deal with it. It's my job as his mom. What message are you sending your children if you actively encourage them to, in the words of one of the contributors of the Momversation video, tell people to"fuck off"?

Where is society going wrong? Are we so wrapped up in the news headlines and our own fears that we've forgotten how to be human? Compassion and empathy are fading into the background, and people are starting to come off more and more like snarling animals. It's a proven fact that children are more likely to be molested by someone they know, rather than a stranger. I don't know the statistics on child-snatching, but I'd hazard to guess that if you are a vigilant parent and do all you can do (within reason) to protect your child, that he or she will be okay. Yet, it seems like society is declining because we are feeling the ever- present need to defend ourselves... even before there's anything to defend. Fight or flight, all the time. Yes, keep your kids close! Yes, make sure they have the tools to make good and safe choices as they get older! Yes, teach them that not everybody has their best interest at heart! Abso-freaking-lutely. But don't disconnect them from their humanity. In the end, that's really all we have.

A humble apology (sorta, kinda)

When I was pregnant with Aidan, everyone told me, "You'd better get your sleep now, before the baby comes!" I would chuckle and say some variation of, "Oh, yeah... I'd better get on that. Heh, heh." But what I was really doing was giving them a mental middle finger. Sure, I'll go ahead and get that sleep now, because it's entirely possible to stockpile sleep and save it for a rainy day. My bulging, swollen belly with the alien baby inside that DOESN'T STOP MOVING ALL NIGHT LONG is not a problem at all. Nor is the fact that I have to get up every half hour to pee. It doesn't disturb my slumber at all to be so large in the tummy that I can no longer find a comfortable position to sleep... and you know they say not to sleep on your back or your left side (or is it your right side??) when you're pregnant, leaving you with really only one uncomfortable position to choose from. But that's no big deal. And the sciatica? Piece of cake. So yeah, I'll go ahead and compile all that "extra" sleep, you fucking asshat.

And then there's that little nugget of wisdom for after the baby is born: "Sleep when the baby sleeps."
I was so worried about having a newborn because all the books I read, Internet articles I trolled, and people I talked to kept telling me how hectic it would be. "Not only will you be sleep deprived and hormonal," they said, "you will also be surrounded by squalor and chaos because of your inability to focus on anything besides the baby. In order to salvage your sanity, you should sleep when the baby sleeps." Ye gods! How would I cope?

Very well, as it would turn out. Because of the fact that newborns sleep for about 20 hours a day, I could easily keep the house clean and tidy, get the laundry done, read some magazines and/or watch TV, and even TAKE A NAP in between feedings, diaper changes, and snuggles. Huh. Imagine that. Sure, I was up and down all night with feedings, but I knew that my daytimes would run pretty smoothly. I felt quite pleased with myself. Maybe even a bit cocky if you want to know the truth. Because clearly, it was my superior time management and parenting skills, and not the fact that I had an easy baby.

Fast forward to the present. My laid back, easygoing, smiley, relatively quiet baby has morphed into a cranky, headstrong, opinionated, ear-drum-rupturingly loud pre-K'er. He's a ton of great things too, but good Lord in heaven, he's a handful. NOW is the time that things are so hectic that I can't get stuff done. NOW is the time when I would gladly cut off a limb if he would just take a fricking nap already so that I could sneak one in too. NOW is the time for squalor and chaos in my household. TV? What's TV? Oh, you mean that big black box that only spews out dumbed down children's programming? Yeah, I remember when I got to watch it too...

And now, I am thinking, "Hmmm... okay, so I had an easy baby. Good for me. What about the moms that have the colicky babies, or the high maintenance babies that want to be held all the time, or babies that can only take a few swigs of milk before they fall asleep, and therefore want to be fed every 10 minutes? What about the moms who have other kids that constantly want their attention while they're caring for their baby? What about them? Maybe they don't have it as easy as I did."

So, I now have a better appreciation for these ladies, and I tip my hat to them. I was mistaken. Please don't hurt me.

If you don't enjoy potty humor, you should probably skip this one...

You know you've chosen the right person to spend the rest of your life with when you can let your dorkiness hang out and not be self conscious about it. And instead of finding your dorkiness irritating or juvenile, your significant other thinks it's funny and joins in with their own dorkiness. Before you know it, the two of you are chuckling like Bevis and Butthead, and drawing pictures of penises on your dry erase board.

Such is the state of affairs at Chez Perpetual Perplexity. Everyday, mundane happenings can turn into an innuendo in ten seconds flat. This morning, I was looking at the grocery store circular and said, "Oh, wow... they're having a great meat sale this week." James immediately jumped in with, "I'm having a 'meat' sale, too," and we laughed like a couple of preteen boys while our son looked on uncomprehendingly.

A few days ago, James and I were hammering nails into the walls upstairs for the purpose of hanging pictures. Aidan said, "I can't stand all this banging! Daddy, stop banging!" To which James replied, "But, Dad likes banging. And so does Mom." And we both cackled with glee, James from his Man Room, and me from the bedroom down the hall. Good times.


Yes, we are aware that we are on a slippery parenting slope, here. One day soon, our son will repeat something we've said in public and it will be mortifying. A trip to the tool aisle at Home Depot could result in, "Hey, Daddy, look at that! You and Mom like BANGING!" And we will be forced to hurry away, red faced, and resolving to shop at Lowe's, where no one will recognize us. I see many talks about the difference between appropriate language at home versus appropriate language in public, in our future. But our love for toilet humor and sexual innuendos is almost compulsive. When the opportunity arises, and it's there for the taking, how can you not seize it, I ask you??? You can't not, obviously.

And if you think that the above mention of penises on the dry erase board was used solely for illustrative purposes, think again. There was one there not 5 minutes ago, until Aidan asked, "What is that picture up there?"

"Uh... erm... what do you think it is?"
"A cat?"
"No... ahem. Ha, ha! It's a pee pee. It was a joke for Daddy. Ahem."
"A pee pee?!? Hee hee... "
"You sound uncomfortable. Does it embarrass you?"
"Um, yeah. It's kind of embarrassing, Mommy. Can you erase it?"

So, I did. But that didn't stop him from asking for a pencil and a piece of paper, and drawing a butt "for a joke" shortly thereafter.

Adaptation

This morning I sat on my front porch, enjoying a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee and a cigarette. The birds were chattering and flying away with materials for nest building clamped in their beaks. The squirrels were scuttling along the ground in their fluid way, fluffy tails trailing behind them. The sun was starting to peek through the cloud cover, shedding an interesting and beautiful light on my yard. It was quiet. It was peaceful. I was peaceful. It felt really good.

Then I read this post by former Olympic competitor Betsy Shaw. She and her family have been living in France for two years while her husband remodels an old country house. It was supposed to be an adventure. It was supposed to be an experience that her girls could tell their children and grandchildren about in the future. And, I suppose it has been. But, more than anything, Betsy feels displaced. I can relate.

We don't live in a foreign country. We don't struggle with an unfamiliar language and culture. But, the parallels between our two situations ring so true for me. Like Betsy, I am removed from my family and friends. Like Betsy, I feel isolated and uncomfortable in our unfamiliar surroundings. Like her, I long for the feeling of attachment to a place that I know and love.

Since our move, I have been plagued by an uncomfortable sense of limbo. I don't necessarily dislike this town, nor do I necessarily like it. Sometimes I can see us buying a house and living here indefinitely, and other times the urge to run back to Oregon is so strong that I weep with grief. It's a constant tightness in my chest, the constant feeling of a temporary situation, a constant underlying sadness that I can't seem to shake. It's exhausting.

When we first moved here, I knew it would be an adjustment. But, I thought, Hey, we grew up in Washington State! It shouldn't be that big of a deal. We will adapt. Things will be fine. And, I remembered that I had had the same doubts, the same uncomfortable feelings, when I first moved to Oregon. And I ended up falling in love with it. Yet, I still find myself fantasizing about moving back to Portland. The landscape here is very, very different. We came from a mountainous area with lots of hills and valleys, even at the beach. There are mountains surrounding us, but the area itself is very flat. I'm used to fir trees as far as the eye can see. There are lots of different types of flowering and leafy trees here. The sky seems higher and bigger. The lighting is different. The climate is different. We are still strangers in a strange town, not knowing where things are, still relying on our GPS or Internet maps to get around. Different, different, different. Ever uncertain, ever searching for an anchor. That's me right now.

There are things that I do love about this town. Fairhaven, the historical district, is lined with buildings original to the town. They are filled with funky and expensive shops, coffee houses, bookstores, restaurants, and other, more mundane things like banks or insurance agencies. The homes in this particular area are updated cottages and bungalows from bygone eras. Actually, most of Bellingham is filled with these types of houses. It is a wonderful place to kick around.

There are ferry rides available to the San Juan Islands, Victoria B.C., and Alaska. The bay provides fresh seafood to the restaurants and markets. The people are unfailingly friendly. If we wanted to have an adventure, we are 20 minutes away from the Canadian border and an hour from Seattle. They are big on local farming here, so oftentimes the grocery stores will stock produce, poultry, eggs, and meat from local farmers, and they are always very affordable. There is an enormous farmers market here that is reputed to be one of the best (haven't been yet, but hopefully soon!). There are random walking and hiking trails that run through the town, but feel as though you are in the wilderness. The downtown area is also historic and quirky and fun. There are lots of parks and recreation areas. It's very family friendly.

So, you see, there are things I could definitely get used to about this place. But, the invisible thread that is connected from my heart to my "home" has yet to be broken. So, I continue to revel in the times when I feel at peace, like this morning. When our little family is laughing and bantering. And I cross my fingers, and hope for the best.

How all my conversations with my girlfriends go...

Her: So, I told him, why are you getting so bent out of shape hey, put that down! We don't eat thumb tacks! No, no! Ouchie! over nothing? It's not like I was out getting wasted, or anything.

Me: Seriously! Why do men obsess about stuff like Aidan! Get out of the fridge! Mommy will make you lunch in a little bit. No, I said get out of there. Get out of there! Is it time for a spanking??? that? It's just a little harmless fun.

Her: I know! But what are you going to do? Don't sit on the dog's head, please! You'll hurt the doggie... you don't want to hurt the doggie, do you?

Me: So, how's the pregnancy going? You ready to aim into the potty, young man! I'm tired of cleaning your dried, stale pee off the bathroom floor! have that kid yet?

Her: Yes! This child is sucking the oh, my God, get off the bunkbed! You're too little, you're going to crack your head open! Don't do that anymore, okay? Okay??? I'm talking to you! Okay... thank you. lifeforce out of me!

Me: Ahhh, I remember well. Of course, they are a if you do that again, you're going to your room, do you understand me?!? I mean it! Can't I have a 30 minute conversation without the house getting destroyed??? bit more high maintenance after they're born.

Her: Yeah, but I'm tired of getting kicked stop kicking Mommy! We don't kick! in the ribs all the time.

Me: I don't blame you. So, how was your trip to Arizona? Aidan, so help me... Mommy is about to lose her shit! I'm about to lose it!!!

Her: Oh, it was so nice. But, when I got home my house was a disaster. I... honey, go get dressed, please. No, this is Mama's time. I'm on the phone. Go get dressed. Go get dressed please. Stop whining... do you have something to say? What is it? Okay, go get dressed now... got home, and the dishes that were in the sink when I left were still there! My husband didn't do anything!

Me: Oh, man... that's not cool. I would be pissed too yes, I'll put on a truck show for you. Will you sit and watch it? Yes? Okay. I mean, he didn't even do the dishes??

Her: Baby, why do you have your penis out?? Put it away! I'm on the phone. Well, don't come in here when I'm talking on the phone with your penis hanging out! Yes, I'll hurry. Damn, can't I just get 5 minutes without my entire family interrupting me?!

Me: Seriously.

Her: Oh, wait... the hubby's beeping through for like the 5th time since we've been on the phone. Can I call you back another time?

Me: Sure! Good to talk to you!!

In which I write about things that do not interest you...

...as opposed to all the other stuff I write about, which you find incredibly interesting. Yes, YOU DO.

So, as you may or may not know, I make jewelry. It's something that has been a hobby of mine for a couple of years. I find it therapeutic to be surrounded by unorganized piles of gemstone beads, bits of sterling silver wire, and other tiny, easily lost jewelry making paraphernalia, while simultaneously stabbing my fingers with sharp tools and the aforementioned wire. Oh, and let's not forget the constant reminders to my son about not touching Mommy's jewelry stuff, because it's expensive, and OH MY GOD, WHY DID YOU JUST THROW THOSE GARNETS DOWN THE HEATING VENT?!?? Yeah, it totally calms my nerves.

Anyhoo, I haven't really been making anything for the last four or six months, what with the Relocation From Hell and all. So the other day I got the itch to create and busted out my supplies. I realized I was woefully lacking in many necessary items, so I decided to sweet talk (read: FORCE) my husband into dropping me off at the nearest bead store to replenish.

Now, when one talks of going to a bead store, in conjures in the minds of less creative types certain stigmas associated with the people who frequent them. These include, but are not limited to:

• I am single, surrounded by my many cats, living in a tiny apartment that is decorated with a legion of stuffed animals, ruffled curtains, and a needlepoint wall hanging that proclaims, "Keep On Beadin' On."
• I am chaste.
• I am prone to wearing florals, button-down cardigans, and pearls.
• I like those sweatshirts with sewn in shirt collars and silk screened kitties/puppies/hearts on the front.
• I own a Bedazzler.
• I dot my "i"s with hearts.
• I wear those horrific thick, nude pantyhose under my skirts, even with open toed shoes. Except they're not nude, exactly... they're sort of an unnaturally tanned color, therefore making my legs five shades darker than the rest of my body. Like I had a mental breakdown with a bottle of self tanner.

None of these things are true about me, of course (Confession: I unwittingly encouraged example number three by experimenting with my spring wardrobe, and wore a demure floral top with a button-down cardigan that very day. But I wasn't, in fact, wearing pearls. Whew! Dodged that bullet!). If people who saw me shopping at a bead store only knew that I'm a married, classic rock listening, alcohol guzzling, chain smoking, nymphomaniac mother-of-one, they would be quite surprised, I'm sure. And, I only have the one cat, thank you.

I usually order my supplies online, because a) I like to avoid the above points, and b) it's much, much cheaper to order what I need, considering that the materials I like to use are pretty fine quality.

But, I thought, Hey... I like to support local businesses! I like to see exactly what I'm buying in person before I buy it! I like instant gratification! So, I gave it a shot. Not only was everything brain-seizingly expensive, but their wares were also exceedingly craptastic. There was a teeny tiny little rack with a few precious metal findings, and a very small selection of sterling silver chains under glass behind the counter, but for the most part it was like drowning in a sea of cheap Chinese "crystal" and crackle glass. They did have some gorgeous strands of gemstone beads, though. And you know, I expect the smaller businesses to be a little more expensive than the online stores, which have a higher volume of traffic. But I don't believe that I should have to sell a kidney to shop there.

So, in short, it was a bust. I will scuttle back to Etsy with my tail between my legs, where I belong.

I'm not exactly sure why I thought you needed to know this. I can only blame it on the fact that I want to be creative, goddammit, and have nothing with which to create. So, I am stringing these words together ever so eloquently like the expert wordsmith that I am, and lulling you into submission. Or, more likely, lulling you into a coma.

Stay tuned... next week I may write about my ever-growing pile of dirty laundry! Whee!