Romancing my Social Issues

I'm a bad friend. I'm pretty sure I am. This is why- no close lady friends.

Isn't that the logical conclusion? I've decided so. It's either because I'm a bad friend, or because I'm chubby, or because I drink too much at dinner parties. Okay, now I'm not sure what the problem is anymore.

But seriously, I think I'm doing something wrong. I have this problem that I have decided to call "social retardation." It happens when I think I'm friends with someone and, in the worst instances, sometimes I think we are best friends. Only later I discover that we're not really very good friends. But it doesn't involve any dramatic fights or angry exchanges. It's just a quiet realization that I stumble upon. Like, oh maybe we're not best friends since I didn't get invited to your wedding when all of our other mutual friends did, even the dumb ones. And, I just socially and psychologically stumble away, horrified and embarrassed. I avoid the other person forever, but not because I'm angry. I'm secretly humiliated.

Once when my husband tried to give me a one-on-one intervention on my social retardation issue, he asked me "Who are your friends that you can call on the phone when you have problems?" And when I started down the list, he interrupted me to say, "No. Your family members who live in a different state don't count."  What the crap? What about bitching to co-workers about a puking kid last night or whatever? Holy smokes, I'm not completely reclusive and alone. I'm married, damn it.

But this is the point, I am a social romantic and I am not a self-pitying gal. It is better to love and not be invited to the wedding, than to never love at all. This is not a "poor me" blog. This is a manifesto. And I declare- I will find you lady friend and I will never be the only lady drinking too much at the dinner party again. Uh, or something.

Falling down for a win

Tonight, I stepped on "The Places You'll Go" and I went somewhere.

I slipped, feet over head. I saw potential broken ankles and wrist bones flashing past my eyes. So, midair and split-second, I twisted like a cat -well, like a chubby cat in her mid-thirties (in cat years) with a sharp wit and winning personality. But, I fell hard, mostly on my hip, one of my biggest, strongest body parts, which is lucky for me in this instance only.

Cohen was terrified. He asked very dramatically "what happened?" And I gasped, swallowing back tears that came automatically from the unexpected adrenaline rush, "I slipped." Then he said, "You flipped! Hooray!" And he clapped. So, I very slowly crawled to my feet and I bowed.

I'll take a victory anytime I can get it.

New Year Grit

1. Cook better. This is easy. I love cooking. Right now, I am reading and following the Amateur Gourmet. I like him because he used to be a lawyer and he is funny. As we speak, I am cooking this.

2. Make new friends. I am the worst at this. First of all, I don't even like very many people. But when I do like someone, I can't imagine how to begin. But I guess I will try. I might have to read a few books to study up and research friendship making. I am that bad.

3. Make this blog. Self explanatory and better than drinking alone all night.

4. Stick to my budget- save some money. Ugh. I hate this which is why I drive a shitty car, live in a rental and have $XXX,XXX in student loan debt.

5. Read at least one book per month. I'm excited about this one and have been doing pretty good so far.

6. Create a book club. This ties in with number 2 and 5.

7. Be a better mom. I'm already pretty awesome, but it doesn't hurt to improve.

8. Get more cool. This ties together all of the other resolutions, with the only added element that I need to look cooler. So, I guess this is a fashion resolution- lame. But, I dress like an idiot. And it's bringing me down. Since I'm in my early 30s with a limited number of friends, it is hard to know what clothes are cool. I tried and failed in 2011 to research the issue. But, I feel confident that I have stumbled upon some fashion blogs that will help me. I'm not ready to reveal my sources because they're mine! But, once I get cooler, which I inevitably will, I'll probably set them free and give them the credit they deserve.

9. Stop being chubby. This is probably an resolution to exercise, but I didn't want to tie my hands in case they finally come up with one of the pills that makes you skinny. So- to the extent this is requires physical activity, which I hate- I will try to do 30 minutes 3 times a week. I've tried to convince myself that I'm hot this way- a big, beautiful mama. I didn't buy it.

10. Keep my house clean and organized. This might require a subscription to one of those home magazines and a prescription to whatever legal drug(s) I am going to need to make this shit happen.

* Voila! The eggs and potatoes rocked.

*You may note the absence of any career-related goals. That is because I have a whole slew of those kept separately and locked up in my desk. They are there and they are mighty.

Painted claws

I can’t remember the last time I painted my fingernails. It might have been my first wedding.  It was definitely during my first marriage. I know I didn’t do my nails for the second marriage.  I was pregnant and I didn’t give a shit about that kind of detail.

But, I painted my nails this weekend. Why? Well I will tell you why I did it. After all of these long, weird years, I did it to hide the dirt.

I swear, my nails constantly look gross. It’s playdough, baby powder, dried up fingerpaint, the kiddo’s boogers, and who knows what else.  I do my danged best to clean these girls up.  But, I have to flash them around a lot: handing clients exhibits on the stand, pointing an index finger in an opposing counsel’s face, and even just waiving them around like I know what I’m talking about. My nails ordinarily look like they belong on a homeless gardener. 

But, no more my friends. Fingernail polish has prevailed all week long.  I even did a mid-week touch-up. I get it now. I know why all the ladies do it.  It hides the grime and makes it shine. All week I have been flashing around my nails with pride. My husband- if he noticed- never said a word.  But, I’m not the type to care about the lack of concern about my nails. I’m just perplexed about his failure to attend to the details around him.  Pay attention dude. These nails are metallic and sparky.  If you don’t notice I painted my nails for the first time since we met, it’s your loss. You’re sleeping through the details- and even the cool kids know, details are the best part of life.

And I like these nails. So far, I think. I think I’m sticking with it. But we’ll see. These dreams of mine- they just keep tumbling by.

This is the Banana Jacket. Your welcome.