It's Not Me, It's Me: Maybe It's Time I Break Up with Myself

Dear Myself and I,

I apologize. I didn't invite us here just for coffee, though we admittedly make a mean homemade mocha.

What good is pretending? Something has changed between me, myself and I, and to quote Matchbox 20, I don't know how to get it back to good.

Truth is, I'm simply not as enamored of myself as I used to be. Thanks to Facebook, I have grown tired of me.

Indeed, we were fabulous in 2008, when Facebook was a relatively new concept. Remember how we used to chuckle at those losers on Myspace with all those silly picture-quote posts, hearts and winky faces? We were so above that immaturity. "What?" we'd scoff, "Are we still in high school?!"

But Facebook was different, wasn't it? It was so clean, fresh and professional. We actually knew the people who sent us friend requests, and we celebrated the day we had 50 friends. Fifty! We. Were. Somebody!

We were not inundated with requests for virtual boards for stables or henchmen for mafia wars. We truly used Facebook to connect with those we had lost touch with through the years: our high school classmates, our college pals, our former neighbors. And it was good. We still felt the electricity when an old friend sent a request or when someone we admired commented on our updates.

Even then, with our small circle of friends, it took us a while to trust Facebook with our personal information. Initially, we refused to post our photos because we had been taught that putting photos of ourselves and our children on those intertubes was a bad thing.

We didn't post our family vacations or our kids' toothless grins or -- get this -- even our fabulous desserts. Cover photos were reserved for magazines. We never -- and I mean, never -- would have considered setting up and posing for our profile pictures. Or "enhancing" them. Or standing in front of our bathroom mirrors with our phones. We weren't that vain.

Soon, however, our friends began to post their fabulous vacation photos. With some hesitancy, we followed suit. Then our friends weren't even really our friends, but our friends of friends, and that was okay, too. And then that guy who knows that girl we sort of knew from that one dude who is friends with that person who went to college with our distant cousin sent us a request, so hey! The more the merrier, right? We were all about connecting. We rationalized it by that whole "sea of humanity" thing, I guess. And who doesn't want lots and lots of friends?

Before long, we completely shrugged off our inhibitions. We forgot we were members of a real family; of a real community. We wanted the wittiest updates, the funniest comments and the most "likes".

We became needy. We began to measure our self worth - not by our successes in the actual world - but by our popularity in a virtual one. No wonder we began to feel insecure in time: He didn't like my post on his wall? Why not? Why didn't she respond to my message? Why didn't I get invited to that Facebook event? Why didn't anyone like that new profile pic? Should I take it down? Do I look old in it?

 Oh, wait. I'm getting personal.

Speaking of personal, we also forgot we ever valued a thing called privacy. We build six-foot fences around our yards, yet we reveal our most sensitive, precious information online every single day. We share stories about our friends, "tagging" them in awkward photos. We expose our family members' most embarrassing moments (disclaimer: I still enjoy that). We even share bedroom stories. We maintain an online scrapbook of our  lives, now called a "timeline." We are open books, relinquishing our rights online because everyone else does. That makes it okay. Is it even real if it doesn't happen on Facebook?

We also tell everyone our problems, though we are annoyed by the loud talkers in the grocery who share their life stories on the phone as they shop.

How did this happen to us? When did we change? When did capturing moments for Facebook become more important than the moment itself?

No, no. Don't blame Mr. Zuckerberg for our narcissistic society. Hell, he's brilliant. It's not like he misled us. He named it FACEbook, after all. He's the wizard behind the green curtain, no doubt chuckling at our utter fascination with ourselves and our dependence on constant feedback. We are unable to leave the beauty of our reflections, even as we declare our outrage about format changes and lack of privacy.

But like all good things, relationships take work to survive. Even relationships with ourselves. Now that the novelty has worn off and fatigue has set in, where do we go from here?

I still go through the motions: a daily (hilarious! super witty!) status update or two; a post about the kids' latest activity or honor; an occasional profile pic switch, if I'm having a good hair day and a trick of the light creates the illusion of cleavage...

But I'm also admittedly growing weary of the ME-ness of it all. I'm finally tired of myself - at least my virtual self. So Myself and I, maybe it's time we get over ourselves, break away from the reflecting pool and rejoin the real world. What's it like out there without "likes" and "tags" and "timelines"?

I hope we find out someday, but first, I have to post this blog on Facebook. I hope people like it. Sigh.

Sincerely,

Me

This Old Porch

Man, it feels great to be writing again.

Whether I'm goofy, irreverent or outright stupid (and if you read the Porch, you know I strive for outright stupid), my words always come from a deeply personal place.

The past year held vast amounts of change and challenges for me. For the most part, I did not want to write and tap into that place --  for fear the proverbial pen would take me to destinations I was not emotionally ready to visit.

Now at long last, I'm ready to try again. Maybe not. We'll see. Or perhaps only I will see, since I'm not sure anyone actually remembers the Porch. If you do, thank you sincerely for reading.

By the way, I have moved from my literal porch, but I carry the spirit of the porch with me wherever I go. I even have a teeny-tiny porch at my new house.  As people with small porches say, it is not the size of the porch that counts, but the motion of the rocker that's on it (note to self: get rocker).

If you have followed the Porch, you know I'm barefoot-Julia-Roberts-crazy about Lyle Lovett. In his song, "This Old Porch", he sings words I take very much to heart:

This old porch is just a long time
Of waiting and forgetting
And remembering the coming back
And not crying about the leaving
And remembering the falling down
And the laughter of the curse of luck
From all of those passerby
Who said we'd never get back up.

It feels good to get back up.

I have big, round, bodacious...nostrils

A few years ago, I went to see a specialist for a chronic sinus infection (Are you turned on yet?). I'm not going to lie, the nose specialist was smokin' hot. After a month of potent antibiotics, steroids and prescription decongestants, I really thought he looked like this:

Off of my Sudafed cocktail, he likely looked more like this:

An-y-way...

As I was reclining in Dr. Love's chair, my tight red sweater stretched across my bosom, he leaned over me with his super sexy head mirror and whispered softly, "Wow. Oh, wow. Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but, you have amazingly big... sinuses. I really can't get over it. Your maxillary sinuses are HUGE. They are freakishly large! Tom! Carla! Get in here! Look at these sinuses! Have you ever seen anything like them?"

Greeeeaaaat. Just flippin' great. Of all the things God could have given me that were huge - and in pairs - He chose sinuses. And everyone knows that big sinuses are crazy hot, right? That's why magazines like Nasty Nostrils are Maxillary Mamas are wrapped in covers in the bookstores.

Okay. Okay. It's not like I didn't know before the doctor's visit that I'm not exactly blessed in the chest area. That fact has been illustrated to me plenty of times before.

For instance, at an eighth-grade slumber party, one of the girls found my bra and said, "Oh. My. God. Jennifer still wears a TRAINING BRA!"

And then there was that time last month, I accidentally dropped a bra at the gym and one of the women picked it up and said, "Oh. My. God. Jennifer still wears a TRAINING BRA!" (I totally made that up. I most definitely do not ... go to the gym.)

I realize I'm not exactly voluptuous. Or even uptuous. Or even uous. Or even s. I have known it since the seventh grade, when one of my best friends and I bonded over our 28-A bra sizes. As our friends blossomed into women, we bemoaned our membership in the Itty Bitty Committee. As the school year drew to a close, we vowed to support each other - since we likely would never need Maidenform to do that.

My friend went to various camps that summer, so I did not see her again until the first day of eighth grade. As she made her way into the school auditorium, boys elbowed each other and craned their necks. What? Had she changed her hair? Did she have a new Izod? (One of these blogs, remind me to write about how I could not afford Izods in junior high, so I  bought Izod socks, cut the alligator off of them and sewed that alligator to - wait for it - Kmart overalls. Because everyone knows Izod overalls were the shizzle.)

As it turns out, my friend did not have new hair. Or a new Izod. She had new boobs.

And some nerve.

How dare she grow boobs when we had made our 28-A Club Forever vows! I have never felt so betrayed - or so flat.

That is, until a decade later, when I was trying on a dress for a wedding. As I stood in the dressing room in my undies, a stern little Chinese woman held measuring tape and fussed at me.

"I told you, bring a good strapless bra for fitting!" she said.

"I did!" I said. "I'm wearing it!"

"No. No. All wrong! You strapless bra too big! You so small!"

As I stood in my underwear and apparently too-big bra, the seamstress opened the dressing room and yelled through the crowded store, "Bring a new strapless bra!"

A clerk asked her what size. I kid you not, the seamstress looked me up and down, shook her head and yelled back, "Smallest size we have!" Then she whispers to me, "You know, I can sew you some boobies into your dress? Yes?"

Sigh.

Sadly, even that was not my worst bra-shopping experience. When I had my first child, I needed nursing bras for breastfeeding. I was incredibly proud of my postpartum chest. For the first time in my life, I had actual cleavage. Cleavage, I tell you! Crumbs got stuck in there and everything! Some women breastfeed for their children's health. I breastfed for the boobs. And that's why I nursed both children until third grade. Just kidding! I totally stopped in second.

So I marched into the boutique, stuck my chest out and asked for nursing bras.

The cashier raised an eyebrow and said, "For whom?"

"Uh, me?"

"Really? You're serious? What size?"

"34-B," I said, glowing. "B as in 'Big Boobs'."

"Uhhhh. Ma'am? We don't carry any nursing bras that small. Most breastfeeding mothers are at least a 34-C."

I wanted to throw something at her, but the only thing I was holding was my baby, and well, people frown on that. Instead, I stormed out of the store

So perhaps by now, you're wondering why I'm telling you my most embarrassing boob stories? I have three reasons.

1. I poured a big glass of wine before I started writing this blog.
2. I drank said wine while writing the blog.
c. see (2).

Also, as I approach 42, I realize that the emphasis we place on boobs in society is ridiculous. As long as my boobs are healthy, I'm happy. Or maybe that also has something to do with the wine.

Plus I realize that I have some advantages as I age. Some of my better-endowed friends (most of them female) are contemplating breast lifts. A couple of friends heard that if you can hold a pencil underneath a breast, you likely need a breast lift. They soon discovered they could, in fact, hold pencils.. and staplers...and flashlights - which could come in handy, actually, if they ever have to replace a pipe under their kitchen sinks or do some work under the car.

I, on the other hand, will never have a breast lift. Or breasts.

But hey! Have you seen my sinuses?

A Mother's Prayer: 10 Years Later

A letter written to my children September 11, 2011

Dear Kelsey and Kyle, 

Ten years ago today, I stood in my small family room in a brick ranch in Paris, Ky., watching on a 25-inch RCA as Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings tried to decipher why our planes were flying into buildings. I witnessed not only buildings crumble that day, but a nation. Some will argue the red, white and blue never flinched, but believe me, children, we were on our knees -- in shock, disbelief, fear and prayer. It was a punch to our collective gut, a robbing of innocence, a shattering of security, a faltering of faith.

I was in denial. We all were. After all, I had been a child of the Cold War days -- of America trumps Russia in everything from cheesy Rocky Balboa movie plots to Olympic hockey (U-S-A! U-S-A!), but those nuclear holocaust fears were behind us. The Berlin Wall had crumbled 12 years earlier, and freedom, peace and prosperity reigned in 2001. The American way was the way. We were the super power of the world. Liberty and justice for all!

So how could this be happening to us? Who would want to hurt us? That's what the world asked that dark day. And that's what I attempted to answer when I sat at my computer that night and wrote A Mother's Prayer to four-year-old Kelsey. I did not yet know how history books would respond to Sept. 11, 2001. I wanted you, my children, to know how I felt that terrible, terrible day.

For even in my deepest, darkest fear that night, I still believed we, as a nation, would rise from the ashes.

And we began to do exactly that. We reached out to each other in those next days and weeks. Regardless of political and religious differences, we held out hands to our neighbors, clasping tightly to our fundamental faith in our great country. We helped each other up to wobbly knees. United we would stand.

Ten years later, I re-read A Mother's Prayer with a heavy heart.

Today, a few blocks from where we live now, a young, brave soldier will be laid to rest.

Army Private First Class Brandon Scott Mullins, 21, from Owensboro, Ky., died Aug. 25 in Kandahar province, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device. His funeral is today, on this somber national anniversary. I did not know Brandon, but I have heard that he was a great young man, who was proud to serve his country and planned to re-enlist. Regardless of how any of us feel about the war or what side of the aisle we stand on, we owe Brandon our deepest gratitude for his service and sacrifice.

While Osama Bin Laden, the mastermind of the attacks that fateful day, has finally been killed, the war rages on, at such a costly price. I would give anything if it weren't so. I wish we could turn on the news and not see that another brave solider has died in a desert or mountain pass far from home. I wish we could hop on airplanes without fears and invasive searches. I wish we did not have to fear the worst when a backpack is left unattended in a public place. I wish we did not look have to look over our shoulders.

I wish Sept. 11 was just another day.

I cannot make that so for you. But I wonder, dear children, if there are things we can do.

I often bemoan that we somehow lost that spirit of unity and determination that bonded us in our collective grief 10 years ago. We were not red states or blue states in the weeks that followed the attacks. We were the United States.

Please do not misunderstand. I do not want us to become a country of sheep or lemmings, who are herded into only one belief and lead off the proverbial cliff. Questioning our leaders is healthy, as is the system of checks and balances our forefathers were wise enough to institute.

But a decade after that horrible day, we are a divided nation. I am not questioning anyone's patriotism or love of country. I still feel a surge of pride when I hear the national anthem, and I am sure my neighbor -- though he votes differently -- does, too.  If we were attacked again, we would all do whatever it took to fight back. I believe that.

What I hope for you, Kelsey and Kyle, is that you do not have to grow up in a country that has to be attacked to stand strong.

Our country is hurting. Our politicians might not want to phrase it that way, lest someone doubt their faith in America, but I do not think we can deny our troubles. Yes, we are still a strong and mighty nation, but we also are a country wounded by war, serious economic woes and deep political division.

Perhaps it is time we stop pointing fingers at each other, and in remembrance of Sept. 11 and the many lives lost and forever altered that day, turn those fingers on ourselves. What can I do to build a better America? How can I help my neighbor? How can I help my country? We have overcome wars and depression. If we work together, what can we not accomplish, America?

Fifty years ago, in his inaugural speech, President John F. Kennedy Jr., said the following:

"So let us begin anew -- remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear, but let us never fear to negotiate.

Let us both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belaboring those problems which divide us."

Granted, he was speaking of our enemies across the world. But can we not apply these same wise words to each other today? Someone is not my enemy if he or she is registered with another political party. That person is my  fellow citizen, the brother or sister I reached out to 10 years ago, when our fears were powerful and palpable -- but ultimately -- our faith was stronger.

Dear children, you are the most precious resources our country has. I do not want to be selfish and think about what Band-aid America can put on its wounds today. I want to heal those wounds for your tomorrow. I hope and pray you will grow up -- and grow strong -- in a country that recovers from Sept. 11, 2001. In a spirit of unity and cooperation, we can outshine that dark day.

President Ronald Reagan once said, "The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave."

For your sake, my beautiful, hopeful children, may we bravely go forward.

----

[Reprint of A Mother's Prayer]

There have been a few moments in my life when the emotions have been so strong, so overwhelming, that I shrugged off my cloak of daily writing insecurities and immediately - without procrastinating, censoring or editing - attempted to capture my feelings on paper.

I wrote letters to my children the moment I learned of them; I wrote tributes to my grandparents when I lost them; and I wrote this, a letter to my then four-year-old daughter, when her world forever changed on a terrible day in September.

Some of you have read it before, but I have never posted it from the Porch. I hope we all remember how we felt that September day. How we grieved, hoped, prayed and vowed collectively. How we shrugged off the cloaks of labels, denominations and red and blue. How that dark night, we were simply mothers, holding our babies, praying the world they grew up in would be a peaceful one.

A Mother's Prayer: A letter written to my daughter Kelsey on the eve of September 11, 2001

As I tucked you into bed this eve

I wondered how the sheets--thin, flimsy, transparent--would protect you.

Would the blanket, soft from so many washings,

The teddy worn, dingy, tattered,

Be enough this night?

I arrived at your school early today.

You were laughing on the playground

Beneath a cloudless sky

Not a single vapor trail tarnishing the sheath of blue.

As I watched you swing, jump, slide through the morn

So unaware,

I realized the promise the day might have held.

A day of baseball games, recess tag and lawn mowers

Windows rolled down and sleeves rolled up,

Not quite summer, not yet fall.

Instead, it was a day of odd, quiet chaos

As the frightened lined up for gasoline

And bought ground beef, canned goods, milk, bread, and bottled water.

Searching for reassurance, people crowded into the cinder-block ice-cream stand

To hear the president

And mumbled "bomb the sonsofbitches" or

"God bless us all."

It was a day of cell phone calls,

Open churches,

And closed businesses.

I held your small hand and lead you through parking lots,

And I was ashamed that you completely trusted me

For I am not the person I was when I went to bed last.

 I witnessed too much this day

And my eyes are stamped with images of

Thick black smoke

Airplanes

Fire

And ash.

I run my fingers through my hair continuously,

As if the dust, miles away, somehow reached me.

And old woman nodded at me today, her eyes haunted by another time.

"You haven't seen this before," is all she said.

I called my mom, my mother-in-law,

My sister, my brother,

Again and again,

As if we could make ourselves believe

The unbelievable.

While carrying in groceries,

Your father and I had stopped

Dropped bags and held each other tight.

We ate frozen pizza for supper,

Not saying a word as the TV blared.

Later I caught you peeking at the screen,

And I drew you onto my lap, kissed your head

And tried to explain what I still can't comprehend.

I promised you the world is good,

You are loved.

You are safe.

I nestled beside you in bed,

Clasping your hand, warm and moist from the tub.

I breathed your smell of soap and toothpaste.

I sang your lullaby.

We prayed.

I told you America is strong and right, mighty and free.

As you drifted away, I pictured America's mothers.

We are blacktop roads, shotgun houses, and Spanish tile.

Marble, loose shingles, and Bradford pears.

Gated communities, brick ranches, and trailers.

Three bedrooms and two baths.

Geraniums, roses, and dandelions.

Linoleum and sidewalks.

Mortar and stone.

Sand, salt, and dirt.

Tonight as One,

We held our children closer.

We crept into your rooms many times

As if you were babies,

Fragile and new.

We touched your cheeks and felt your breath on our hands,

Warm reminder of life.

We looked through the window at the darkest night

Anxious for the sun to shine on us again,

Silently weeping for the innocent lost

And lost innocence.

The Toaster is in the Mail!

I glanced at my pitiful, neglected blog today and suddenly realized I have -- get this -- 50 porch sitters! And you want to know the best part? Some of them aren't even related to me (like maybe two aren't, but still...).

So I am celebrating this milestone by eating a(nother) big slice of chocolate cake. Yes, I would do that anyway, but everyone knows you absorb far fewer calories if you have an excuse. I also am throwing imaginary confetti around the room and dancing on my couch. Yes, I would do that anyway, but everyone knows you burn far more calories if you have an excuse.
 
Dang, that cake is delicious. I'll be right back....

[5 minutes later]

Look at what you made me do, 50th porch sitter:

For the record, that was a whole cake at 49 followers, but you are so worth it. I love you. Oh. Um. Sorry. I was talking to the cake.