I Run a Tight Ship. Until I Don’t.

I’m just going to say it: I have a major stick up my ass. It’s way up there, wedged somewhere in the deepest cavern of my innards. I like to call it “a raging case of OCD,” but sometimes I think it’s worse.

I think I’m Type A. Although I’m not entirely certain what that means, so what do I know? I do know I have all of the signs…

I run a tight ship. We have a schedule, a daily schedule. Particularly busy days have an hourly schedule. We have a homeschool schedule. I have a daily chores and cleaning schedule. I schedule our meals, rather I plan out what we’re going to eat. A month in advance.


Every Saturday I update my calendar for the following week, then I make check lists for every day – combining all of my various schedules into one list, that is usually several Post-It Notes long. I tape them together, then every day I tape my list to my bedroom door.

See what I said? Pretty sure you’re all sitting at your computers, mouthing the words “this bitch is neurotic.” You would be right.

Even though we homeschool, and for the most part it’s an un-schooled, project-based kind of plan, I also demand that everything on the schedule for the day be done. Chores have to be done before technology. Tennis has to be done before TV.

There are rules; they get followed. I run a tight ship.

That is, until I don’t.

You see, for every list I make, schedule I create, and meal I plan, I inch one step closer to total – but temporary – abandonment of this organized lifestyle of neurotic proportions.


When I abandon my plans and throw caution to the wind, it’s almost laughable what I mean when I consider myself to be doing so.

Instead of following my meal plan, I just cook whatever we fucking have. Sometimes there aren’t three servings of fruits or vegetables with dinner. And on more than one occasion I’ve just made a box of Macaroni and Cheese and literally felt like my next step was selling cocaine.

My daily checklists go missing; although, usually it starts with me checking things off my checklist that I haven’t actually done. All the while I rationalize to myself that it’s not necessary, when really I know that it is; then the next thing you know a Saturday comes and I’m tired of writing or making lists or whatever, and I don’t make the checklists for the following week. Then nothing gets done.

I let the homeschooling go more often than I should too. Though that’s the one thing that’s excusable, as we school all year – because no school work typically means unruly behavior. But when my tight ship goes down quicker than the Titanic, I – again, temporarily – don’t care about the unruly behavior.

Usually because my ass is parked on the couch, eating vanilla frosting straight out of the canister, on my twelfth episode of Criminal Minds. You can’t be upset about your kids’ unruly behavior when you’re comatose.

So this week my husband started a new job, and it’s a night job. It’s a big step for our family; and a huge step for his illustrious film career (I say illustrious only half-in-jest). But as with all major life changes, it’s a big period of adjustment.

And if there’s one thing I know about adjustments, it’s that they are usually the driving force behind my abandonment of my aforementioned tight ship.

Tonight I went through the rest of the week’s checklists and sort of mentally checked things off of them in advance. Also, today I was supposed to make quesadillas, rice, and salad for dinner.

I served rolled up pieces of ham and a jar of olives.

Ultimately, I think that everyone deserves a break. And, when you run as overbooked and understaffed of a household as this one, you’re bound to need a time-out every so often. The good news is that my reprieves are brief, maybe a day, sometimes two. My record longest was a week, and that was the last time I had a cold; my record shortest was an afternoon when I just threw everything out the window and watched nine episodes of Murder She Wrote.

Nonetheless, this is my life. Like an oscillating fan, I wave back and forth between neurotic overachiever and slovenly lard ass.

So I am sure that if I really do take a break from running around this place like my life depends on three, square meals a day and strict adherence to an unrealistic daily timeline of chores and responsibilities, that break will be brief. Then again, maybe it won’t…


People I Am Jealous Of

I really do have a list of people that I am legitimately jealous of. I never used to get jealous, but now I do. This isn’t like a psycho, jealous girlfriend, though, who gets all crazy and shit when her man even looks the opposite way. It’s much different than that; in fact, I wish it were that simple.

I’m super duper jealous of the arrogant, pompous assholes who thinks their shit smells like roses

Sorry, that was not the most eloquent way to put it, but I had to get my point across. Today on Facebook I saw some post of some arrogant prick I only know in passing. He was rambling on and on about how he realized that the reason he has such wonderful people in his life is because he is a wonderful person. After vomiting out the rage this welled up into my throat, I realized that I am super duper jealous of this guy. I wish I could be as arrogant and self-important as him. I wish I could say “oh, I have such wonderful people in my life because clearly I am a wonderful person!!” Maybe then I wouldn’t question myself so much when every other god-forsaken person in my life does.

… on that note, I wish I wasn’t hated by so many people. I’m jealous of people that are well-liked.

The other half of this guy’s pompous little rant was that people who are always miserable and think nothing but assholes and idiots surround them can be sure that what is around them is merely a reflection of who they are. Well, I may be a bitch, but I try really hard to not be an asshole and I know that a complete moron I am not. I believe that I am surrounded by a lot of them, though (as many of us are) because I know how to deal with them.

This begs the next jealousy I have though: I’m jealous of people that are well-liked.

Despite the fact that I have this bitchy, bitch-all-the-time, “tell it like it is”-attitude on my blog, I spend a considerable amount of time trying to be a really good person in my personal life. I go way out of my way for the people that I love. I hate cooking and I prepare great meals for my husband almost every night. Birthdays are always a huge ordeal in our house – because of no one but me. I have let myself get railroaded as well by a lot of people when being so nice; and I just let it happen because I just don’t want people to hate me (which they end up doing anyway). I used to go to writers groups and have given a lot of thought and detail to my critiques when none of the people even looked at my work. I gave up 10 years of graduate school and my career for my husband to have some more time in film. And I have done almost all of this with a smile.

I consider myself to work towards doing what is in the moral right all the time as well. I believe that lying under almost every circumstance is wrong. I believe that using people for my own advantage is horrible. In a cut-throat, dog-eat-dog world, I truly would get eaten alive.

This is why I am jealous of people that are well-liked, though. I don’t get it at all because I try really hard to be a good person and to be good to other people, and yet I am hated vehemently by a lot of people.

I’m jealous of Snookie because she is so goddamned stupid.

Stupid people don’t think. Not thinking means less anxiety about life in general. Not thinking also means never having to take responsibility for your actions. I’m super jealous of people that have no sense of responsibility.

Responsibility to some means being an adult. That is true to me, but more than anything responsibility is just a huge, dead weight hanging along my shoulders, making my neck and head pound, and weighing me down into the ground. Snookie doesn’t have any of that shit. The only thing weighing her down are her belly rolls and her big ass, leopard printed hair bows.

I’m jealous of people that have happy marriages…

…because my marriage is a shit hole most of the time. I’m sure that my marriage is the more realistic – mine will be the one that lasts forever, whereas the “pie in the sky right now” ones will fall apart as soon as something goes wrong.

But goddamn am I jealous of those people.

I just wish I felt like a wife sometimes, instead of what I feel like (which is a roommate, an acquaintance, someone less important, someone that is of no matter, someone that it is okay to lie to, to sneak around behind the back of, and to treat like a slave while giving not even an ‘I love you, thank you, you look nice today, have some more wine.’ in return). I would even settle for just being told I am pretty at this point, which I don’t even know has ever happened.

I am hella-jealous of Gold Diggers and Bridezillas

Those bitches get shit done. I know for sure now that had I been on Bridezillas I would have had more from my wedding than I did. I wouldn’t have had to make all the fucking food myself. I wouldn’t have come away with only one photograph of my husband and I actually standing together – ONE.

Gold Diggers get shit done too. Those bitches have got nice purses, nice hair, and look awesome in their skinny jeans. I have the Target special purse with a hole in it that change falls through, a shitty hairdo, tons of clothes that have fallen apart, and my husband has never actually taken me out on a real date.

Let me repeat that for you, faithful blog followers: never taken me out on a real date.

I am jealous of those gold-digging bitches and Bridezilla witches something fierce.

I am jealous of people that can lie and use people easily.

Just because I think it is horrible to lie and use people doesn’t mean shit. I wish I could lie to people and use them for what I want and not feel like total ass about it. I lie about something looking nice when it doesn’t – just to spare someone’s feelings – and I even feel bad. If I were a filthy liar and a fucktard user, I’m sure my life would be so much easier.

I really really wish I could be one of those writers that has a huge platform and follows a formula for some canned bullshit and makes lots of money for it.

I have a few friends that are writers and have done so well for themselves. I am super jealous of them. Not that I think they are better than me or I want what they have. Just that I am jealous that they have a platform and a support system of friends and family that I just don’t have. I have family and I have friends, but so few of them read or are interested in what I write, or so far away from me that they don’t know how to share my writing with others. (Of course I have you faithful blog followers, and every other writer in the world should be jealous of me for that …)

But I write for myself mostly anyway, so it shouldn’t matter; except that if I am just doing this for myself, why not just do it in my head and stop belaboring over it all the time? Because I am really doing it for myself ONLY because I have no real platform. Because I believe that I actually do have something to say; although, it seems like everyone wants you to cram it into some formula and I just have to ask – “is it literature if there is nothing literary about it?”

The one I am the most jealous of, though, is myself a few years ago.

A few years ago – just a few years – I had my shit together. I was in grad school. I had a plan. I was happy. I was confident in myself. I felt good about myself. I knew what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

Now I’m a pile of rubble and dust of what that person was. I am no longer in grad school, and I have no career. I have no plan for what will make me happy and feed the intellectual part of my soul that is so so so important to who I am. I have lost all interest in everything. I lack all confidence in myself as a result of my Trailer Trash Mom, my in-laws, and my husband telling me every chance they could why I am such a bad person. I no longer know what I want, except to get the hell away from California, get the hell back to my sweet, home Chicago, and to have a normal life again. And I have no idea how to do any of that.

Blah. I have had a real shit-house of a day and wish I hadn’t. It seems like every day is a shit-house, though; really nothing more than a consequence of how unhappy I am with my life right now, and how stuck I feel between a rock and a hard place. This is the B(itch)Log, though, so anyone that doesn’t like my rants can kindly show themselves to another blog. Perhaps the “My life is wonderful and unrealistic and I shit rainbows”Log would be more appropriate.

Or, maybe that guy was right on my Facebook. Maybe I’m surrounded by bull shit, assholes, and idiots because that is what I really am. Whatever the case may be, my day exposed all these jealousies – every single one of them, really.

I think I’m going to go find myself a big, leopard-printed hair bow to start emulating Snookie. Maybe that’ll ease a little of the green with which I feel.

If I Spoke in Real Life the Way I Do in My Blog

As pictured in The New Yorker Magazine

It occurred to me today that I would be a lot less tense all the time if I were able to let the snarkfest that is my blog out in my regular life as well.  Think of the possibilities:  for one, I could be more honest; for two, I could poke fun freely at all the things I love to poke fun at without the fear of consequences.  Have any of you ever seen that New Yorker cartoon (pictured above) where the dog says “On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog?”  On the Internet, you can craft whatever personality you want – be it nice and sweet when you’re really an asshole; or a complete socialite when you’re really shy and quiet.  This is all the more reason we should always be cognizant of this fact:  that who our online personalities are may or may not actually reflect who we are in real life.  Never believe what you read on the Internet is the old adage, which remains to be the case today.

In my case, it isn’t that nobody knows who I really am because I have crafted some deceptive identity on the Internet, though; it’s that (as many of us experience) the Internet is often the only place I really express myself to the fullest extent.  By and large, it’s my writing in general (not just online) that I allow myself to really come out.  And this morning it finally dawned on me that life would be so much better if I could be as snarky, witty, and silly as I am in my blog in real life, since a synthesis of the writer/blogger Heather and the in-person Heather best describes the real me.

Imagine what chaos would ensue, though, if I were to say some of the things I say on this blog in person…

Remember my blogs about Mr. Biglesworth and Cat Day?  I imagine actually saying face-to-face to a cat owner (or even just cat lover) would be disastrous.

Or in my recent blog about Why I Hate Wal-Mart… I can only begin to imagine what those crazy Wal-Mart shoppers would do if they heard me talking about their precious store of deals and roll-back prices in the way that I did.

I can’t even begin to fathom what my mother-in-law must think of some of my posts, and were I to actually say those things to her in person…

 And were I to tell any of the many people I encounter that actually inspire my B(itch)Log Lessons in Grammar and Punctuation, I imagine I would actually have fewer friends than I already do.

I think some of my more recent posts would have been the most inflammatory as well were they said in person.  As time has gone on, I have become more and more comfortable with just speaking what I really think and feel – as long as it’s from the safety and security of my private laptop.  That’s the thing about bloggers:  they often get accused of never putting their money where their mouths are.  In other words, they talk an awful lot of shit but only if they can hide behind their modems and computer screens.  Ultimately, though, I think if I were to actually say some of these things in person it would unambiguously cause people hurt feelings.  It would probably be rude.  It would almost certainly create enemies out of people I otherwise enjoy spending time with.

In the end, it’s about finding a balance – one where you can feel comfortable being honest but not cross the line.  To be funny and witty, but never move into bully territory.  Can I do such a thing?  Only time will tell…