Dear Internet Boys,
Sit down.
We need to have a chat.
We welcome your opinions. You are sweet to us, have great insight, and help us to understand you and your views on how the world operates. Most of you are that way and we love the way you love your family, and most especially, your wives. We love being friends with guys who are good husbands. We love being friends with guys who are Good People. We love being friends with guys who respect us.
Some of us (you included) have had growing pains over the years, some of them made public by blogging and Twitter, and you know what? We ALL make mistakes, and that is OKAY. We’re human.
I’m really really big on forgiveness. I think I’ve managed to patch up nearly every situation where I didn’t feel the option of walking away was favourable. In some cases, I did walk away, and that is only because some people are so malicious, toxic and vile, that there is no choice but to walk away out of pure self-preservation.
In one case, however, I have walked away quietly, but I have a shadow. This shadow never publicly acknowledges my existence, but privately sends me messages of flirtation and has tried to become my friend despite my chronic ignorance of him.
Anyone who knows me in any capacity, knows that I am 3000% deeply, madly wholeheartedly in love with my husband. There is no other man in the entire world that could ever top him in any way possible. I was lucky enough to find the man of my dreams, marry him quick before he got away, only to later find out that he is the most special person in the world and a perfect fit for me. He is my my rock, my soul mate and my best friend. He is the one who I turn to in times of joy or sorrow. He is the one who has held my hand through Hell and back. He is The One.
That’s pretty clear, right?
So when The One hears from his lovely wife that someone is privately messaging her in such a way that He Who Checks His Email Once a Month is considering a “Fuckin’ Twitter Account,” be wary about messaging The One’s wife again. EVER.
He trusts me. He trusts that I do not engage in activity that would make him question me. He is right to trust me. He trusts me to be good friends with men who also love their wives the way he loves me. He knows that guys and girls can be friends. He is not the jealous type, nor does he lose his shit when another guy looks my way or even flirts with me or vice versa. But there is a line, and since that line was crossed at some point by one or more of the Internet Boys, be warned that he knows who you are, he has access to anything he wants to read in my accounts and while he honestly doesn’t care about who is doing what with anyone else, if you are harrassing me in such a way that makes ME feel uncomfortable, there will be a problem.
So, dear Internet Boy who has preyed upon at least 25+of my friends under the guise of knowing OH SO MUCH about mental illness and depression, I hope you understand that a) us girls talk and we ALL know you’re a total douchebag creeper; b) no, we do not want pictures of your penis and c) CUT IT THE FUCK OUT.
Sincerely,
The Women of The Internet
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
3:05 pm |
Day 3: Something You Have To Forgive Yourself For
Oh I’m sure I have a long list of things I’ve done wrong, but there’s one that sticks out a lot more than the rest.
When I was 19 years old, I left my grandparents home, and didn’t speak to them again for years. Nearly 10 years, I think. You see, their daughter, my mother, had caused them a lot of pain over the years and I grew up thinking I had to prove to my family over and over that I wasn’t like her; that I wouldn’t hurt them like she had. That I was different.
Little did I know that they never felt that way. Looking back at what I would call the years of figuring out who I was supposed to be, I was remiss in thinking that my family compared me to my mother. I was so busy comparing myself to her and trying so hard to push away any trace of who she was, I didn’t leave enough room in my heart for figuring out who I was.
I was a sweet, over-achieving, people pleasing, sensitive young woman who was intent on proving I wasn’t the abusive, self-centered, substance-abusing, always playing the victim, child-adult that my mother was. I got good grades. I didn’t talk back (much). I dated the right kind of guys. I helped around the house. Then I fell from grace, hard.
I made mistakes. I dropped out of nursing college at 17, which greatly disappointed my grandparents. I moved in with my boyfriend, running from the accountability I was due to own at home, and left the very people who had taken me in at 16 and finished straightening me out where my foster family had left off. I didn’t speak to them for years afterward because my mother had caused such enormous hurt, I didn’t want them to think I would do the same. So I let them be. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.
Years passed. That boyfriend wasn’t right for me and somehow I ended up on Daren’s doorstep at 2 a.m., and began a new life as myself, not as The Girl Who Wasn’t Her Mother.
After I met DH, I began to really see that I was a completely different person from my mother. After I had dated DH for some time, I discovered that running away would never solve any problem, ever; and accountability was a formidable trait to have. After I had D and we went through the scare of our lives, I began to see I was already a better mother than my mother could ever try to be. After I had T and battled PPD, I began to see that I was the type of person whose pride didn’t get in the way of seeking help for myself in order to be any good to my family. After I looked around and realized that I had best friends for 20+ years who had always been there, by my side, I was not, in fact, the woman my mother was: I was able to make, and keep, girlfriends.
I was not my mother. I never had been my mother. I never would be my mother.
One day, about six years ago, right after T was born, the phone rang. It was my eldest cousin. She explained that the family had been looking for me and would like to reunite with me. I was afraid. I felt ashamed that I had left all those years ago, leaving a trail of pain and questions behind. I was scared to have to prove, all over again, I wasn’t my mother.
Turned out, my fears were not warranted. They knew who I was. They had watched me grow up, for crying out loud. They might have even known me better than I knew myself.
We pretty much picked up where we left off and things have been wonderful. My grandparents and I are as close as ever and they admit they made mistakes, as I had. They are now paying my tuition for my second attempt at nursing school and I am SO appreciative of this do-over. It’s as if I never left. It’s the second chance I wish I didn’t need.
Up until about 2 years ago, I carried an awful lot of guilt over walking out of Granny and Papa’s house at 19. For years I knew I had hurt them and I felt cheated because I always thought the whole family thought of me as a carbon copy of my mother. For 4 solid years I said sorry over and over, and every time, DH or Granny or Papa or an uncle or a cousin would say,
“Sweetheart, you’re nothing like her.”
“Honey, you were young.”
“We weren’t perfect either.”
“Stop thinking about it because you can’t change it.”
“You’re back now, it doesn’t matter.”
Even today, as I write this, even though I’ve stopped saying sorry, I don’t think I’ve fully forgiven myself for walking out 17 years ago. All I keep thinking is that I wish they had been there for my wedding, the births of each of our boys, to see our first apartment, our first house, our birthdays and anniversaries; and how I missed my cousins growing up, many family celebrations, and so many Christmases.
I know it’s time to let it go, to forgive myself for thinking I was somehow preserving their hearts by walking away all those years ago; for perhaps being stubborn in believing I had something to (dis)prove; and for staying away for so very long.
It’s a lot more difficult for me to forgive myself than it is for me to forgive someone else. That’s likely true for most people.
I would love that time back, more than anything in the world, if only to give to them; especially in the form of holding their great-grandchildren as infants. You should see Granny’s face when I show her pictures of the boys as babies, or Papa’s face when I talk about our wedding. That longing tugs at me so hard it aches deep inside my heart. I want so badly to fix that for them.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
11:48 am |
A Math Problem For You
I just sent this to my math teacher:
If a student has dealt with two sick little boys since Monday, and sends them back to school on Wednesday, what is the likelihood that said student will spend Tuesday night discovering her home full of 2600 square feet of the titillating scent of gasoline at 6 p.m., as a result of her death trap, er, Taurus wagon leaking gasoline onto the garage floor at a rate of 65 cubic feet per minute when the children opening the garage door increases that rate 514% every 5 minutes? In addition to that, at what rate would the children get on the students nerves and what is the likelihood they will find themselves in bed early? Hint: this will be a HIGH rate.
Once she brings said Taurus wagon to her trusty auto repair shop, what costs would be associated with repairing said leak if the gas tank needs to be replaced (gas tank $230, labour $200, environmental fees $15, and don’t forget 13% HST!)?
Just for fun, let’s throw in the fact that she she lives in a small town and of course the gas tank needs to be procured from a source outside of her area.
Once she walks the 4km home from the auto repair shop, what would be the possibility that her math teacher would tell her what homework needs to be done for Friday, since she will likely miss today’s and Thursday’s classes?
Lastly, if bad things happen in threes, would you wager that Thing Three is going to happen today or tomorrow?
Have a great day D***. Sorry I’m missing your classes!
Karen
p.s. Please note consumption of a whiskey and Dr. Pepper after the kids are in bed tonight does not factor into this wacky equation, yet may be doubled depending on the answer about Thing Three.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
10:28 am |
