saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Imagine if Orwell could have known about the clothing styles in 1984...
In case some of you weren�t paying attention for the past four years, I thought I should remind you that it really, really sucks that school starts again in a week. This means I get to return to my completely balls-out insane �work- school- school- work- home- oh- wow!- I- do- have- a- child- workschool- get- repellently- sick- workworkworkschool- collapse- into- week- long- unconsciousness� lifestyle. I�d like to always keep in mind that what I�m doing is, in the long run, a smart thing. And that I should be proud of myself. But I�ve taken to succumbing to a creeping feeling of shame every time a new school year rolls around, as though I�m actually planning to take two semesters of Depriving Your Child of Everything Safe and Comforting in Her Life 101, or Advanced Making Up for Emotional Neglect Through Material Bribery.
Not to mention the amount of stress I put on the rest of my family, and on OH. I�m sure I�ll find myself the recipient of his all-too-common look of helpless frustration again this year, in response to either one of my mid-term emotional breakdowns (which reach their apex in a combination of tears and the frantic cleansing of any horizontal surface), or to when I banish myself to sullen silence in the vain attempt to avoid the aforementioned breakdown (the logic of which I almost never explain to anyone prior to turning into a tragic recluse).
I�m not sure what to do about it. I know I�m not looking for anyone to pat my shoulder and say I�m being too hard on myself. I�m also not hoping for someone to make it all better somehow. I�m reasonably certain that I�m just feeling downright shitty and, as it has been for most of my life, the only way I can cope with it is to write it down.
So. Here it is. Bad mom. Evil sister. Vague, unapproachable friend. Ungrateful daughter. Squalling, shrill girlfriend.
Blahblah. Moan. Weep. Woe.
Shutting up about that, starting�now.
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Briefly, to try to make myself feel a little better, I must mention this little tidbit. I�ve only recently discovered the pleasure of reading dooce.com. When OH sent me the link to the site, I read it for a while, enjoying the writer�s humor and the fact that she was recounting many of the same experiences that I had gone through: the same religious upbringing, the coming into consciousness as a young adult, the subsequent repercussions and eventual closure, the pregnancy, the infant, the difficulties and rewards. I was surprised and delighted to find that she actually lives near me, only about 45 minutes away. So I sent her an email.
Naturally. And idiotically.
You see, it turns out that dooce is a rather popular site. And when I say �rather,� I really mean �phenomenally.� And, seeing as I have a grasp on Internet celebrity that is clumsy at best, it took me a couple of days to realize that sending an email to this very talented and widely admired person was something akin to moving to New York and showing up on David Cross� doorstep, asking if he wants to run out and grab a bucket of fried chicken and rent a movie. You know, hang out. Because we live in the same geographical area, duh.
Right.
So. Here that is, too: Hey, Louise. Been on the web long, jackass? Right.
I�d tell you to go read dooce, but I�m too busy being the last person to notice that computers are pretty neato.
Sigh�
Anyway, yesterday, OH and I took the offspring school shopping. It went something like this:
Me: Hey, how about these jeans?
Offspring (half glancing): No. I don�t like them.
Me: What? Why not?
Offspring: They�re too dark. I don�t like dark jeans.
Me (slowly): Okay�
Offspring: Can we go back and look at the shoes again?
Me: Why?
Offspring: Because I liked the hot-pink, leopardy shoes.
Me: �
Offspring: I do, Mom. I want them.
Me: I believe you. Okay, maybe I don�t believe you. Listen, they�re very�1983.
Offspring: So?
Me: I was alive in 1983. You weren�t. Fashion back then wasn�t a pretty sight, and I don�t know why everyone but me seems to have forgotten that.
Offspring: But I want them!
Me: I�am coming to grips with that. Slowly. Give me a minute.
(Offspring promptly shifts her attention to a bin of rubber balls in the store and � with careful, mature encouragement by OH � proceeds to ricochet them off of the walls, clothing racks, and small children with slow reflexes.)
Me (grabbing a ball out of Offspring�s hands as she�s aiming for an unsuspecting salesperson): Okay, not that I wouldn�t normally encourage this sort of thing, but I need your attention again, please.
Offspring: Okay. (Wide eyes, the exaggerated indication of giving me her full attention without actually doing so.)
Me: We can�t get those shoes. They don�t go with any of the other clothes that you own.
Offspring: That�s okay. I saw something here we can get, and it will match those shoes perfectly.
Me: Um. Alright. Show me.
(And Offspring points, triumphantly, to a hot-pink, leopard-print backpack.)
(Repeat this scene, ad infinitum, with various other items in the store, until I flee into the parking lot with the offspring in pursuit. She is holding up a package of scrunchy socks and whining, �But Moooooom! They�re cool!�)
What evil is this? Whose vengeance is pressed firmly on the brows of our gentle youth? What company had a surplus of black and pink striped, off-the-shoulder sweatshirts that has festered for two decades, waiting for the right moment (when most of the population has gone blind or senile) to make their reappearance in stores worldwide?
If you aren�t worried about this, think of what is yet to come.
Or has everyone forgotten the early 90s, as well?
12:53 p.m. - 2004-08-16
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