Tag Archives: life

The Buttbook

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buttFacebook sucks! Hey, don’t get me wrong. I am an avid Facebook user. I proudly post photos of my kids, myself, my family. I share achievements, funny stuff and milestones. I keep caught up on friends and families lives as one can only do in the cyber stalking way through Facebook.

However, Facebook also has the uncanny ability of making you feel like dog poop about your own life. Why? Because on Facebook, everybody else’s life seems perfect, everybody else’s kids are outstanding, everybody else’s vacations are amazing, everybody else’s significant other remembers their birthday/anniversary, everybody else’s kids make them breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, everybody else’s jobs are fulfilling (and pay more money) and nobody but nobody ever uses the bathroom.

Logically, this just can’t be true (especially that bathroom thing). If so, then seriously, my life really does suck (fortunately, my Facebook life rocks!!).

The truth is, nobody’s life is perfect…that is why it is called life. We all know this! But nonetheless, it is hard to not feel like slashing your Facebook Friends’ collective tires when they post yet again about some bit of awesomeness in their life or share that perfect “candid” photo of self or kids – especially when it is at a time when you might be contemplating a jump off the proverbial bridge rather than deal with the current stones life is throwing at you!

So, I propose there should be an antithesis to Facebook. A place one can go to detox from all the FB awesomeness. Call it, say, The Buttbook. On The Buttbook, members can only post about stuff that pisses them off, gets in their way, is boring – about real crap life pukes out. Then, when a reality check is needed to counter all the perfectness flowing on Facebook News Feed, a reminder that everybody has armadillos in the closet, or that everything in life isn’t always exciting and wonderful, members can check in with The Buttbook and feel whole again:

My husband is ok, but man, he farts too much.

My teenager is really pissing me off, if she does not look up from her phone when I talk to her I am going to slap her silly.

My house smells like wet dog hair.

When did the Freshman 20 turn into the Middle-aged 50?

My kid did absolutely nothing cool or interesting this month.

I did absolutely nothing cool or interesting this month.

I am in debt up to my du-dun-du-duns.

My job is boring.

And all photos shared must be unfiltered, and completely candid in that “I can’t believe I look like that” way. In fact, any member posting anything cool or awesome is banned – shunned back to Facebook.

Oh, and there needs to be a “you got that right!” button  – so no one will feel alone in their “un-awesomeness”.

I think Facebook would become a lot more palatable with The Buttbook to fall back on every once in a while.

Seriously, I think I am on to something, who’s with me?

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There’s No Place Like Home?

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Wizard of Oz

Unless you grew up in a cave (or are my kids), the statement “There’s no place like home” immediately brings to mind a young girl, three strange and oddly familiar companions on a seemingly impossible quest to be granted their own heart’s one desire – in Dorothy’s case, to go home.

This summer, I performed in my fourth stage production of The Wizard of Oz.  The first time – at 6 years of age – I was cast as a munchkin (‘cause, well, I was short).  The second time – at 9 – I played Dorothy (with some bizarre glow-in-the-dark, dancing skeletons).  The third time – now 12 – I was the Scarecrow (because I could do the splits, of course).  And the fourth time, this summer – at the age-which-shall-not-be-named, I filled a variety of roles including dance captain, flying witch double, jitterbugger and Ozian.

All this really means is I have spent the summer, and possibly, a lifetime contemplating the whole idea of “there’s no place like home”. I guess you could say, since the age of 6, I have been trying to make sense of the concept – if you ever go searching for your heart’s desire, you shouldn’t look any further than your own backyard, because if it isn’t there, you never lost it in the first place.

This whole backyard idea is a problem for me. You see, I have always had the sense that searching in someone else’s backyard would garner better and more exciting results.  Clearly, the writer of this classic just could not have had my backyard in mind.  Nobody could possibly find anything in my backyard.  My backyard is always in some state of needing to be mowed.  It is filled with biting and blood sucking bugs, and the occasional snake.  It looks back on a house that is in bad need of a paint job and a back room addition that is 8 years in the making.   My backyard is perpetually messy, chaotic, and often flat out wild- weeds discernible from actual plants, big mole hole pit falls, branches falling on you when you least expect it, and dead squirrels hanging from trees (ok, this just happened once, but still…).

In someone else’s yard the pickings seem greener, lusher, much better groomed.   In someone else’s yard, I might not get bit, scratched, hit by unexpected objects or fall into holes.  In someone else’s backyard, maybe my heart’s desire wouldn’t be masked by an exploding termite nest and I might just stumble upon it instead of a fallen tree limb.

But just at the moment when I have had enough of my backyard and am ready to madly run into someone else’s and begin frantically rummage through their shrubs – hang the strange looks and possible police escort – something always happens…

I make the most perfect cup of coffee ever.

My cat, who usually denies my existence, comes to sit with me.

A random guy, holds the door open for an eternity waiting for me to enter.

Or best of all, my husband finally figures out a way we can get away for a few days before the dog days of summer are completely gone.

When this last one happens, I know then what is sure to come.  I will at last be allowed (welcomed even) to hang out in someone else’s backyard for a while. I will be able to look under a few of their rocks, contemplate their view, and dig around in their shrubs.   I will swat at their bugs, peer into their mole holes and dodge their flying greenery.

And when I return home my backyard will magically look a little bit greener, seem a little lusher,

and at the very least…feel freshly mowed.

Then, I will be ready to start searching in my own backyard again.

There’s no place like home.

When Life Gives You Lemons, Chuck Them Back

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lemon-cartoon

I have always hated the saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”  I know this may be surprising coming from the girl who writes a blog called “Looking for the Sweet Spot.”  But the truth is, when life hands me lemons, my initial instinct and burning desire is to chuck them right back…hard…in a “you can put an eye out like that” kind of way.

Logic aside (or even in the near vicinity), I want life to be like ordering in a restaurant:

Life Waitress:  “Excuse me, Miss,” (‘cause in my perfect world, no one ever dares address me as ‘Maam’), “Would you like a lemon with life today?”

Me:  “No, I think I will pass on the lemon for today! But, thank you for asking.”

I mean really, wouldn’t it at least be polite of Life to first ask if I am ready, willing, and able to embrace the whole idea of a lemon?

But no, Life always seems to prefer the shock and awe approach – handing out the biggest, juiciest lemon when least expected or wanted.  And as an added bonus, Life’s timing seems to generally suck.

So now, here sits the big huge lemon Life has handed me right in the middle of everything, impossible to ignore and demanding acceptance…just like my cat.

And I am left to figure out how to squeeze some lemonade out of it, beat it to a pulp (the lemon, not the cat), or better yet, find a way to laugh about it.

But until that time, I am asking, in the most respectful way possible regarding all future lemon gifts…

“In the future, Life, when handing me a lemon, could you at least, please, pass the sugar, too?”

Or, at least, give me a good punch line.

Thank you.  Your cooperation is much appreciated.

Life, the Ego-Sucking Siege

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having a bad day?

Have you ever noticed how life can sometimes be a constant barrage, sucking away your ego and self-esteem bit by bit?  Yeah?  Well, I have been having one of those days weeks months (as proof I submit to you The Day I Killed the Vacuum and Why I Can Never Be a Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama).  But today, well today was like the cream of humiliation rising to the proverbial top.

Today, I had to go to my sons’ school – Teen and Pre-Teen.  Not what you might think, I was just dropping something off to Teen.  I stopped in the office to talk to the secretary, school nurse and principal.  I walked through the school, waving and saying hello to students and teachers I know.  I went into the middle school cafeteria, located Teen at his table, having lunch with all his middle-school teen friends and gave him the item I had brought for him.  I stopped to say “Hi” to Pre-Teen as he entered the lunch room with his classmates.  Lastly, I had a quick impromptu meeting with a teacher and then left the school, waving to more teachers and students as I exited the building.

Once back in the car, I headed straight to the grocery store.  Upon arrival at the store, I leaned over to pick my grocery bags and for the first time noticed that the zipper, on my ever-so-snug skinny jeans, was wide open, X- Y- Z.

Yep, that’s right, I had just cruised all over Teen-dom with my barn door flapping in the breeze. (I just know tonight I am going to have one of those naked-walking-around-school dreams.)

(sigh)

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I marched straight into the grocery store and for some bizarre reason, bought a plant.  You know, a plant – innocent, helpless and with no idea of the horror that await it under my care. Knowing my track record with all things green (The Accidental Farmer), this venture will surely end badly for all involved – especially the plant.

And so,

The siege rages on…

You Know You Live in a Small Town When…

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You know you live in a small town when…

You are sitting in your car at the bank drive-through window waiting on the lone teller  (we’ll call him Ted) to finish your transaction.  Around the corner of the bank comes the other teller heading out on her way to lunch.  She waves to you as she walks by heading to her car.  Suddenly, she doubles back and approaches your drivers side open window.

Teller:  “Paula (yes, first name basis, of course) could you give this key to Ted when he returns with your transaction receipt?”

Me:  “Ok.”

Teller:  “It is the key to open the safe to get money out.  I forgot to leave it when I left for lunch and he won’t be able to get any money for customers without it.”

Me:  “Um, yeah, sure.”

Teller:  “Thanks.” 

Me: “No problem, have a good lunch.”

And no, I did not run to the nearest Walmart to make a copy, because well, the Walmart is like everything else when you live in the boonies, far away.  Oh, and that would be a federal offense…and wrong…and very un-small-town-like.