Twice this week I’ve been asked for my autograph. Ok, to be fair once was to sign a credit card slip and the other was because of my You Tube appearance. But now I’m racking up the appearance cresits faster than someone yearning after a SAG card. Before much longer, my head will be too big to get into Snarkville; I’ll declare I’m too big for this little town; and run off to make my way in Snarkwood. Only not.
or go hmmm — as the case may be.
Before I begin, in the way of a sidenote, I must explain that I think of myself as a fairly normal person. I don’t think I see something in different ways than the average person out there, so this is why I think the following things that I saw TODAY struck me so odd. (more…)
…why do you ask?
Ok, we’ve reviewed to the point of nearing “beating the horse dead” about the joys that are this house. However, today, it isn’t the house itself as much as a by-product of the Snark State that we must deal with. You see there are rules here. Lots and lots of rules.
UPDATED: Because I often think of the best things to say AFTER the fact.
My great-grandmother once said that “there are just some stinkers in this world.” And my whole family has quoted her my whole life. In fact, between that and the other most popular quote I heard growing up, “Let it roll off like water off a duck’s back.” I think most sane people would guess that I had issues with bullies. And really I did.
My basic problem is two-fold. One, I’m exceedingly trusting. I want to see the good in everyone I met and I have no hidden agenda. (Mama and Daddy, stop screaming at the computer — I freely admit, I have been manipulative to get what I want, but I don’t have hidden agendas about people.) What I mean is, I don’t look to find out dirt on someone else only to hurt them later with it. The problem here is, though I may be in my 30’s, I still don’t get that there are people out there that do this. I don’t understand how tearing another person down makes you feel better. I don’t get it. Thus, I trust people far too much. I overshare and I get hurt.
My second problem is that once I’ve been bitten, I can not seem to let it go. I hurt, I cry, I ache, I beat myself up. I’m worse on myself, I think, than the orginal offense. Hence the “water off a duck’s back” comment.
Come to find out, I’m perfect bully prey. In fact, I think my photo is up on their clubhouse wall as the exact type of “chump” that bullies should come after. It doesn’t help that my favorite types of humor are often self-effacing, which adds to some people getting the mis-conception that my skin is thicker than it is. (Note: these people aren’t the stinkers/bullies, these are normal, well meaning people who don’t mean to hurt, but do because I give off this thicker skin aura.)
So, for the record people, let’s pull back the curtain and announce. The Queen has feelings. When scratched, she will bleed. She doesn’t like mean people — and has never said, “if you have nothing nice to say, sit by me.” She does not believe the world revolves around her and dislikes anyone who thinks it revolves around them. She believes everyone is due their special days and deserves a hug when they are down. She does not think she is exempt from this. She EXPECTS common curtesy from anyone who expects her to speak to them again. And here is the shocker, she does not feel that anyone is exempt from this view, no matter how long she’s known them, how related to her they may be.
It is simple, if you wish to be a part of my life, you must be nice. Play in the sandbox well with those around you. How, truly hard is this? Seems to be harder than I ever expected.
I’m not going into details (mostly because it would be too kind of me to give this bully any more fodder), though I will continue to deny the IP of stinkers (and while I realize the internet is a public place — I know that some stinkers will never stop to try to harass others). But let’s leave it as, I have stinkers in my life. I’ve matured since I was in grade school, when I’d cry in my mother’s arms over the mean girls. One thing I finally learned is that I can not allow stinkers to be a part of my life and can not let them make me run away.
A year ago, I let one bully/stinker run me out of a group of my friends. I felt so violated; it is as close to robbed as I ever want to feel. I felt that I could not live a public life ever again — in a way I became an online recluse. I hid for nearly a year. I licked my wounds and tried to regroup, but I was shaken all the way to my core. Only recently did I realize how much I was letting this bully win by running away. This stinker seems to be on a yearly cycle and has resurfaced — probably more because as I have grown stronger, finding me on Google isn’t nearly as difficult — but still. I’ve been cyber stalked by this one and it seems the bully/stinker has no desire to make nice; only to continue to hurt and hate. In this we differ most. While I have no desire or will to have anything to do with them in my lifetime, I have not now, nor will I ever seek to actively attempt to hurt them — in the stalking, show up uninvited, being disruptive to another kind of way. I will, however, not run away this time. I may fight a little writer’s block (which I will get over and someday find my funny again), but this time — I am stronger. I may not be a duck yet with no water in my downy feathers. But I’m not afraid, in fact, I’m tired of hiding.
So, if you are my friends, if I think you are pretty, if I have licked you at a party, know that I hold you very dear. I am big on the value of friendship and will do all that is within my power to never hurt you; and forgive me if the last week has seemed like odd posts from me — I had to grow up a little more. If you are a stinker, even a stinker dressed as a “friend”, be put on notice, you will hurt me only once — and I hope I won’t be satisfing prey. I may still face bullies everyday, but I don’t have to run away. If you are the bully/stinker who knows I’m refering to them, realize that your 15 minutes are up. I frankly don’t care anymore and mostly just laugh at your current pathetic attempts to hurt or interude on us. If reading this gives you the joy you need, then know I think your life is horribly empty. However, I feel no pity for your current situation — enjoy the bed you made — this is ENTIRELY of your own doing.
(Now, why am I typing with my hand up in a fist singing, “We will overcome”?)
Thank you all, I feel better now.
Again with all the forgetting. I forgot to tell you all about our trip to the famous theme park. Can I just say it was AMAZING? Can I say that I love this part of the world a little bit more for having this thrilling place so close? Can I mention that at the admission prices I may never be going back without a deal?
Last night it took me 2 hours to get home from Knit Night. I was stuck in what probably is the worst traffic jam I’ve ever seen. 11 miles neer topping 5 miles an hour. There were no fewer than a dozen cars pulled off to the side of the road overheated. And this was not rush hour. This was at 10pm. And to top it all off, there was NO accident that caused it.
When I get past wanting to complain about the traffic, I’ll write more.
I’ve tried nine — yes, nine times to write today’s post. I’d love to say I have no idea what I’m going to say, but truly I have too much to say. How does one just stop and think about a single thought and write on that. My mind is racing with all the news and fun that has been happening in Snarkville. To that end, I can only think in terms of bullets.
Dear Walking Tour Guy:
Doing food and walking tours is an art and gift. Perhaps this is more of something you are born with and less of something you learn. However, here’s a few tips for your career as you go forward.
Have a delightful day and I hope this helps you in future tours.
The Queen
Today, Duke turned three. It was a glorious day filled with the joy that three should hold. One of the neatest parts was Duke being surrounded by the people who love him the most in this world. Oh, the joy. We did have some plans change, and I’m still not 100% sure I agreed to him turning three — but he is a big boy now, telling me as he curled up in my arms that today was the “bestest day.”
I sniffed his hair and thought, “Sweetie, you are right, today was great. But there is another day that I think of as being the bestest.” I’ve thought about it all day, “Where were we three years ago.” I thought about leaving to head to the hospital. I thought about my chat with my mother at 4am — one of those rights of passage with one’s mother, the bonding that only mothers and daughters can do when both change roles. I thought about watching my son’s birth in the reflection of my mother’s glasses — thinking how neat it was to see my son through the eyes of another so young. I thought about holding him in my arms seconds after he was born. I thought about Prince’s face when he became a father. I thought about my father walking in the room and falling in love with his new best friend (a bond that has just grown over three years).
But mostly I thought about the promises I made into his hair that first night. While I hope all mothers make the promises to be the best mother I can be, I promised to give my son the gift of great love. I promised to protect him from all the evil I can control. I promise to raise him to the best of my ability and with his father we will give him all he needs.
It has been three years and the Prince and I are tired. We have kept our promises and will continue to keep them. Those of my friends with older kids tell me to wait that the best is yet to come. But today my little boy is not a baby, not even a toddler, he is firmly into being a child, my child, and that look of pride and joy on my face — is well earned.
(Thanks for the endurance of the sappy post. Back to your normal snark tomorrow.)
I really, probably should be blonde. I forget everything. I was so rattled by the Great Quake of ‘06, that I totally forgot the little story of how I’m warping an innocent child.
Last night, before the Great Quake of ‘06, Prince, Duke, and I headed to our local Lowe’s for the much needed toliet seat. (Our delightful landlords left us with a wooden seat that is BROKEN and proceeded to pinch my ass the last time I sat on it.)Â On our way, Duke was chatting up a storm about all sorts of delightful topics which may or may not include the cows outside, the rock, something purple — then I jumped out of the moving car and Prince left my body to rot on the side of the road.
Then out of no where, Prince burps. Yup, so polite and genteel is my man, he burps. Giggles from the boy in the back seat.
Duke: “Daddy burp.”
Me: “Yes, Duke, Daddy burped.”
Duke: “Mama burp?”
Me: “You want Mama to burp?”
Duke: “YES”
Me to Prince: “Guess I’ll have to show the boy how it is done.” “BBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Giggles.
Duke: “Duke burp.”
Duke TRIES. Good attempt for a 3 year old, but not really a burp.
Prince: “I can’t believe this, I thought you’d wait until at least 1st grade before you teach him public burping.”
Me: “Why? You already taught him to fart.”
Yep, this is SO why I’m a parent. I’m here to teach all the needed skills in life.