Protected: Tell No Secrets

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Faultlines: Chapter 2

Faultlines: Chapter 2: The second installation of my sister’s memoir — for everyone who has ever wanted to shine a light into the dark, crazy closet that is ‘family.’  Enjoy.

Murder of a Memoir (Part 2)

My sister, Becky, is posting her memoir (and graduate school thesis) on her blog, Sm0ked. Pimping this out makes me a nepotist. But I’m cool with that.

You should read it, comment on it and follow her. Cause then someday you’ll be able to say you knew her when…

How I Murdered My Memoir Part 2: Frankenstein style reincarnation through electronic publication.

Dear Social Media: Sometimes you really wear me out.

I like to talk. Given the chance, those who know me best will tell you that, in fact, I love it. Maybe more than anything. Except bread. God knows I’ll gladly give you a kid for a warm loaf of bread with honey butter. Add a Diet Coke to that order and you can have both my beautiful offspring.

But since My Space (remember that?), Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, WordPress, Pinterest, Etsy, and countless other social media channels have entered my life and each taken a turn at being my primary diversionary obsession, I find that I am….tired.

For me, that’s a painful fact to reconcile…the idea of being tired of talking. In my world, that’s blasphemy.

However, the truth is that social media can be a little like a parasite eating away at my will to remain appropriate. There are so many venues to express myself and yet, I can’t escape the feeling that these channels are just countless new / additional places where I must be a pale version of myself.

The Internet, after all, is forever. And that means those of us who don’t get paid to get our freak on for the amusement of the World Wide Web must think before we speak (or write).  Bummer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love social media.  But too often, playing in the social sandbox feels a bit like being continually sized up by the cool kids – the ones always looking to see if you measure up. Are you funny but not crass? Smart but not nerdy? Opinionated but not alienating? 

Sigh. Perhaps I am the only one yearning for authenticity. Honesty. The full picture. But alas, there’s just too much pressure to appear a certain way online. 

Too tired to even fake it anymore. Sad, isn’t it? My husband, too, is dismayed.

In the beginning of the online social revolution, the feeling that we were together yet alone was exhilarating. After all, what was the chance someone we knew was really going to come across that blog post?

Not anymore. In a few short years social media has created unprecedented levels of global human connectedness.  And that’s fantastic. But it also means that everyone is going to see that picture of you playing tip cup. Last weekend. With your kids in the background doing virgin jello shots.

It’s kind of exhausting.

Then again, I’m sure this is just my problem. And in spite of everything, I always did like running with the popular crowd. So breaks I may take, but I will always be back.

Maybe soon, dear social media, we can drop the charade and really get to know each other.  In a totally appropriate way, of course.

A Mother’s Day

There is this woman.

She has a gift for making people feel welcome. Special. Loved.

She is the kind of woman who, within hours of meeting you for the first time, tells you that her son’s only other significant girlfriend was a total witch.  (Really, she never liked that girl.)

She is the kind of woman who tells you, a week before your wedding, that she chose you long before her son did.

She is strong enough to beat breast cancer. Kind enough to forgive the unforgivable. Self-deprecating enough to laugh at her own pronunciation of au jus (ah juice). And loving enough to accept all the people in her life just as they are, without making the slightest attempt to change them.

She is one of the best people I know. She is the mother-in-law jackpot and I won her.

So today, on her birthday, I want to take a moment to say, “Thank you, Geraldine.  You are rare. You are special. You are loved.”