Archive for September 5th, 2009

Dear Diary…

Saturday, September 5th, 2009

Just kidding.

At least I think so.

I was recently chided by a friend because this blog (apparently. In their opinion. Which does not reflect my opinion, but I’ll allow it anyway because I’m magnanimous like that) reads a bit like a diary. However, the general nature of diaries is that they record the innermost thoughts of pre-pubescent girls, and are thus undeniably and unavoidably excruciating.

In contrast, I like to think this blog is not (usually) particularly excruciating.

However, with reference to diaries: God knows mine was.

Speaking of painful blogs, I found this image where the woman has this posted on every page, "Hey my name is Carrie I am married to a wonderful man going on 15 years and have two children B and N. I am also the mother to two crazy dogs D and S. I love my family, my friends, decorating, crafts, magazines, shopping, Hello Kitty, my VW Beetle, GA bulldogs, the color pink, the beach I could go on and on but I will stop now. Just to sum it up I love my life!" Barf!!!

Speaking of painful blogs, I found this image where the woman has this posted on every page, "Hey my name is Carrie I am married to a wonderful man going on 15 years and have two children B and N. I am also the mother to two crazy dogs D and S. I love my family, my friends, decorating, crafts, magazines, shopping, Hello Kitty, my VW Beetle, GA bulldogs, the color pink, the beach I could go on and on but I will stop now. Just to sum it up I love my life!" Barf!!!

I recently had the displeasure of becoming acquainted with a diary I kept from eight to ten years old, and it’s got Holly Hobbie on the cover, and a juvenile form of my current handwriting, and all in all is really rather painful to read. Which is probably why I’ve only leafed through it. When I cringe that much, I start to worry that my face is going to stay that way.

So back to the point, the content is pretty much just full of my pledges to remain best friends with someone I now haven’t spoken to in at least two decades, promises to God that I will become a nun (during the Catholic school years, and in my defense, written before I had the slightest clue what ‘being a nun’ meant. I honestly thought my second grade teacher [a nun] was married to the young priest who would come and sing to us at lunch time. Unlike most people, I had very “Sound of Music” nuns at my school, which is probably why I remember the experience fairly positively. But I digress…) and by fourth grade, a devolvement into listings of the men I would be most willing to go on a date with (Rob Lowe and John Taylor vied for top billing, as apparently I had a real thing for pretty boys back then), and – pulling up the rear – my varying crushes on my ‘acceptable’ classmates.

“Acceptable” classmates?

What’s that?

Well, that’s a 10-year old girl’s first toe into the sea of self-censorship, the earliest stages of learning to deny what you feel in order to fit in and gain the approval of assholes whose opinion doesn’t matter in the first place.

It’s a rite of passage, and I was no exception.

You see, even my diary wasn’t let in on the dark secret that was (should I change his name? I’m totally panicking that maybe it’s a bad thing to use the poor guys real name???) Robbie Smith (name changed slightly, as always, to protect the innocent. People always think they want to be in the blog…until they end up in the blog.)

This is not Robbie Smith. This was Rob Lowe during the crush years, when apparently I was searching for a strong female figure to look up to and give me makeup tips.

This is not Robbie Smith. This was Rob Lowe during the crush years, when apparently I was searching for a strong female figure to look up to and give me makeup tips.

Let’s talk about Robbie Smith: He was thin and gangly and vaguely monkey-ish. If I remember correctly, he was “hyper” (ADHD before they came up with ADHD) and not in any of my smart classes and NOT popular. But I didn’t care. I had a mad crush on the kid, and would rip off my glasses whenever I saw him approach. In hindsight, I should have taken out my ponytail too (in that librarian with a bun converts into sexpot kind of way), but I wasn’t that sophisticated back then.

All I knew was that the year before, someone had told me I looked better without my glasses, so I chose fashion over sight whenever the opportunity presented itself. ┬áMoreover, the temporary blindness probably worked in Robbie’s favor.

Since I couldn’t see him and gauge if there was any interest or even bring myself to start up a conversation, my crush on Robbie occurred without us ever so much as exchanging a word.

Which probably worked in my favor.

You see, he wasn’t just unpopular, he was wildly disliked, and I didn’t want to risk the ire of my friends and fellow classmates. I came close to confessing on the night of my tenth birthday, during the sleepover party being held in my house. I wanted to unburden myself of the torture of keeping the secret of my forbidden love…until I happened upon one of my friends using my tape recorder to capture an original composition she had just written. The beat was provided by banging on the wall of my room, and the lyrics were simple, yet powerful.

They went EXACTLY (because I listened to this tape no less than 50 times. The words are burned into my brain) like this:

“We hate Robbie Smith.

Ooh ooh ooh uh.

We hate Robbie Smith.

Ooh ooh ooh uh.”

It had kind of a jungle beat, and in hindsight, the oohs were somewhat monkey-ish, much like Robbie himself.

In all actuality, I have no idea why anyone hated Robbie Smith and if he’d eaten glue or peed his pants or done something to encourage this wrath or if he was merely one of the many causalities of the cool kids, chosen because you aren’t tall enough or too tall or smell funny or your dad is a garbage man, but regardless of the cause, his outcast status was enough that I never mentioned my crush…not even to my diary.

I’d been to enough slumber parties where the mean girls got your diary and started reading out loud, and I was not about to expose myself to that kind of abuse.

In light of that story, maybe this blog is more like my diary than I realized?

It’s factual, yet certain truths are omitted to prevent it from getting too boring or to keep the cool kids at bay. Like no one needs to know that sometimes when I’m on a run I pretend that I’m the star of a movie and everyone is watching me because I’m so fabulous and the fantasy film crew actually makes me run much faster and with much better form, because admitting that would just be sad and kind of creepy.

But I guess there’s some element of that to any blog: Self-absorbed creepiness, so I guess if you’re here reading, you’re not really bothered by that or you share my same affliction.

So welcome!

And thanks for reading my diary and liking me anyway!

And I promise to go out and get myself into some trouble or something so I have a more interesting story for you next time. If not, you can look forward to a lengthy discussion of my childhood fascination with Barbies and how that’s led to an adult obsession with clothing. Deep stuff…

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