So I did intended to post this on Tuesday. I even tried to write it on my phone while sitting through Tuesday night’s two hours–yes two– of piano lessons (not my own. My kids’. Because I’m forcing them to do all the things I quit. Why else does one have children except to make them better versions of who you could have been had your own parents been more on the ball?).
Anyway, I took a short writing break to play Words with Friends and Scramble. And to talk to Paula. Who usually doesn’t bring her daughter on Tuesdays, so it was kind of a special event that required some chatting and recapping of the baby shower she went to on Saturday where there were lots of pictures taken of the guests rubbing and kissing–yes kissing!–the mom to be’s belly. So, of course, I had to see these pictures. Because you know what grosses me out almost as much as band-aids?
People touching my pregnant belly. Not now, of course. Mainly because I don’t have one at the moment (thank goodness). But, let me tell you, when I did, no way did I let people rub me like a giant Buddha, let alone kiss the monstrosity that my stomach had become. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.
But, I digress. This is Conversations at Breakfast, not Conversations at Piano When You Should Be Writing Your Blog, Or, At The Very Least, Making Sure Your Kid Is Pianoing Correctly. So, without further ado, on to Breakfast…
After much talk of the importance of healthful foods while eating plates of hash browns, bacon and poached eggs covered in hollandaise, today’s breakfast conversation turned to the topic of Facebook. And this is the conclusion we came to:
Maybe that’s a little harsh. But at the very least it’s guilty of only partial disclosure. I mean, all it ever says is things like, “my kids are so cute, blah blah blah” or “my husband brought me flowers again” or “look at us, we’re in (insert place you’d rather be instead of cleaning your toilet).”
Facebook never says things like, “If I have to eat one more meal listening to these people I gave birth to chew and fight, I will jab knitting needles into my ears” or “my husband farted in bed again” or “look at us, we’re in a court enforced parenting class.”
And the pictures. Don’t even get me started on those. They’re all beaches and cruises, fantastic haircuts and skinny bodies. Or, even worse, pregnant bellies that look so cute you just want to reach out and touch them. Ewww.
And it’s not just your Facebook that does it. Mine does too. Judging by what Facebook says about me, all I do is blog and run (slowly) and criticize Beyonce for
writing singing songs with the lyrics “sucks to be you.” There’s no mention of how some days I don’t want to get out of bed (I call those days January). According to Facebook, the worst thing that’s happened to me in the last year is that my dog didn’t get eaten by wolves.
My Facebook’s pictures are even more misleading. By the looks of them, I’m a scuba diving pilot whose family is darling enough to pull off wearing purple and orange in pictures. And if my Facebook posts one more Disneyland picture, I may use those knitting needles to poke my eyes out. I mean, we get it, I live 25 miles from the happiest place on earth. Do I have to rub it in?
So, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m posting this embarrassing picture of myself:
|Can you believe I ever wore tie dye??! Yikes!|
And my status report for the day?
Probably won’t make it to the beach or Disneyland this weekend.
Cuz I’m keeping it real folks.