I'm so glad I have this place to post my innermost thoughts.My blog is my Lay-z-boy recliner and my words are my blanket, keeping me cozy and warm. I draw great strength in writing, as it empowers me to be a better person, and obsess about context and useless grammatical errors instead of things like Global Warming and World Peace.
I wanted to add a little blurb to the part in my last entry about blog hunters. I love the fact that someone took the time to drop everything and read me for a couple of minutes. I hope they came to find that under all this grandiosity (i.e. the hell no-ishness of my soapbox sermon) is a very subtle ThankYou. The problem I face, however, is that my pride instantly puts me in a different category than a typical person. I'm certainly not a typical suburban mom that I'm surrounded by. I'm not an apron clad, PTA, 5 food group fanatic, given identity by what my children do and force them to be involved in so I can feel purposeful. Hmm...so how do I really feel?! For every block party and perfectly cohesive wardrobe that the stereotypical Super Mom in this communityI live in, has on their resume, I have equal parts of Shock Value and nonconformity to add to mine. Wait...look down. Do your socks match right now?!
I adore my girls with a capital L-for-Love, but my many -isms have created this safe haven in which I willfully hide from everything screaming. Is my opinionated mindset keeping me from life? No, it just keeps me living true to myself instead of putting on a sweater set of All Things Fake. I know there are better places for me to live - I go into the city every chance I can. The urban grit, the culture, the real people all welcome me with an ever Open Door policy to let me know I'm not an angry person. I'm actually quite nice (remember, I'm Snow White of the 21st century!) I'm just angry I'm stuck in Suburbia. And although I'm touched and flattered that someone saw my blog and thought my angle may be great to add to their group, I'm just not a joiner. I'm not a joiner for the obvious reasons (see above!) but also, my cancer has come back to not subtly tug at my shirt sleeve, but to slap me in the face and yell from the rafters, "I'm Heere!" I can easily keep on rationalizing my suburban inmates have helped me hate living here, but to be honest, cancer just makes me hate Living sometimes. No, don't call 911. I'm stuck for now, not STupid! Who would water my plants?! I've slowly sequestered myself in my safe haven, not because my clothes don't match, but because people don't/can't deal with cancer. My having this reminds them that it can happen to them. I'm not imagining this - I've had friends-turned-uncomfortable-acquaintances actually say this to me. Can you believe it? I'm oil to their vinegar, parting the waters with every step I take in The Sea of All Things Fake. Shame On Them.
So...when these nice traveling women asked me to get on board their Happy Bus of Blogging, I was touched, yes, but my trips involve a lot of imagination and no frequent flyer miles. I can't comment on the best places to go, the best rates with children in tow, the best crab cakes down the Shore. My journey takes place in the sterile comfort of a place that smells like everything but the sandy seashore. Once those lovely nurses start me on that Magic Potion, my traveling mind helps me escape to places tropical, warm and sunny. I plan my destination to be far enough away and last long enough to escape all pain and discomfort; long enough to enjoy this incredibly reddish-orange sunset in my mind.
