Things I'm Afraid to Tell You

The blog world lends itself to putting our best feet forward. Our lives are curated and polished and styled, lit in flattering light.  All those flaws are hidden safely away.  But lately there has been a "revolt" of sorts, among some smart blogs, like Creature Comforts, and Make Under My Life.  "Concerned / frustrated / flummoxed about the vast cavern between true reality and the presentation of "reality" on blogs," a group of these bloggers have lately been writing posts about those rumblings that never make it to the page, thoughts that are too embarrassing or ugly to get air time, or things that are, well, real.

I, too, sometimes feel the pressure of always needing to inspire or to be creative here.  I feel a certain responsibility toward my followers and honestly, toward myself.  I want to keep this place pure and inspiring and a chronicle of all that is good and beautiful in my (and our) lives.  But I thought these writers had a good and valid point, and I wanted to join the chorus of those who are interested in transparency and honesty.  So here goes:

I hate Instagram. I feel as if it's cheating to get a good photo, so I refuse to use it, but since everyone I know uses it, I feel like I am being a big fat snob.  It just seems to me to be the photographic equivalent of that recording software Britney Spears uses to get her voice on key.

Sometimes I eat cookies for lunch.  JUST cookies.

I bought a fish to teach my 9 year old about responsibility.  It's not working.  I hold out as long as I can, but I always end up feeding our beta fish, Buddha, (who I believe, after he swallows those little fishy-smelling pellets, looks up at me with pitiful gratitude.)

Summertime makes me sad, and I feel as if I am missing something wonderful, because everyone seems so happy, but I don't get it.  It's hot.  It's humid.  My hair cannot be contained. Weeds multiply. The kids need to be occupied.  I work less because the aforementioned kids need to be occupied.  Bathing suits and I are not friends. My husband and GOLF.  And did I mention it's hot?

I haven't mopped the studio floor in almost 6 months. No excuse and Yuck.

I don't think I have ever, EVER, gone without yelling at least once a day at my kids.  That being said, I have never, EVER loved any two beings more than my children.  Sometimes it frightens me how much I love them.

I get along pretty great with one sister and pretty rotten with the other.  It's a constant source of aggita.

I still wear shoes and jeans from college, which was TWENTY years ago, and I have no business wearing either of them.  This brings me to the thought that I am not really that good at being a girl, which sometimes gets me sort of down.  I hate clothes shopping, spa days, bling, chatting on the phone. What else is girly?  See?  I don't even know. What redeems this thought is that I secretly love a good piece of gossip and interior design, baking, keeping my toes polished, and vintage handbags.  So maybe there is hope for me yet?

I am afraid that I will wake up tomorrow morning and I won't have one, single, solitary idea.

Now, step back.  This blog posting will self-destruct in 30 seconds.