Monday, April 2, 2012

FaceBrag

Okay, this is just going to be a bitch session, so you can totally skip it if you want. And in the end, what I should do is block the people who irritate me so much. I know this so take the rest for what it’s worth, which, quite honestly, isn’t much.

See, I have these ‘friends’ who use one of the popular social medias to brag. And yes, don’t we all? It’s really what it’s there for.

Except…I sometimes feel like these people are not so much bragging as they’re writing this shit on the board in an effort to say, “Hey, look how fabulous my life is and yours must suck in comparison.”

Not mine in particular, I’m not that self-centered, but the ‘yours’ in general.

It makes me sad for those who post the braggy shit. They’re so busy making themselves look good that they come off looking like asses.

I’m not much of a face-book status updater. I’m too wordy for that, if you haven’t noticed.

No, I used the social media to play Castleville and read about family and friends.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have more friends/family than not who use it as an actual communication tool, to vent, to let everyone know how a surgery or trip went. I love those posts.

It’s one like, oh, this one from Thanksgiving past: “Three pies done! The turkey is thawing, the three kids, (four and under) are all napping and the house is spic and span because I cleaned from top to bottom just a couple of a days ago. We’re READY for company.”

Oh gag! Seriously?

Then there is the ‘friend’ who so often writes things like, “I have the best kiddos in the whole world. My hubby, the greatest man to ever be born and wed, and I are so blessed.” Gag.

I know. It shouldn’t even bother me and yet it reeks of self-congratulations. And I know that people who post crap like that need congratulations where ever they can get it.

I’d rather be real, admit that my house is currently awash in dust and unfolded laundry. That there is a bin of horses in the middle of the living room floor because I didn’t make Alyssa take it back upstairs last night before bed.

I’d also rather admit that sometimes, my kids aren’t perfect.

Hey, yesterday Olivia pooped twice. Once, the first time, was directly into the toilet. Whoo freaking hoo! She even went in the bathroom on her own, got her cushie tushie, her magazine (US Weekly for those who wondered, shut up) her step-stool on which to rest her feet and she pooped.

The second poop? Went directly into her underwear. That’s life. That’s real.

My girls are almost four years apart and so by the time I had Olivia on any sort of schedule, Alyssa had stopped napping. They never napped at that same time. When O was napping, I was giving A the attention she’d lost while I cared for an infant O.

I am not a perfect mother or wife. I’m not a perfect friend.

But I am real and if you want to bitch with me, have a seat. I’ll get you some Dr. Pepper and some cookies and you can put your feet on my dirty footstool and hang awhile.

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