Tell Me Your Secrets

I have finally signed off of Facebook and am once again sputtering in disgust at the lack of original thought which exists in the place I spend so much time.  (It’s very much like real life, when I find myself taking over the conversation with my in-laws because no one speaks about anything other than recipes or weather.)

Now there are polls.  People don’t even have to write a single line of content, they can just vote yes or no, Coke or Pepsi.  Egads!  I’m not asking for every single fucking detail about the overwhelming love you feel for [insert name] (blech!) or (God forbid) another song lyric. 

Just give me a single original word.  Please.

Yet, as always, whenever I complain about someone else it comes around to bite me in the ass.  There are certain things even I cannot tell the internet and that saddens me incredibly.  Really, it’s amazing how much I enjoy spilling it all.  It’s just a thing, I like complete openness and honesty (except when I don’t).  Yet I know there are good reasons for keeping some things to yourself.

Like the time I told a tableful of co-workers at lunch in a Chinese restaurant about my mother shooting the dog.  I immediately realized, “Oh shit wrong audience.”  Boundaries, Pam, boundaries!  The looks on their faces clearly told me none of their mothers had ever discussed anything even close to their third husband’s crooked penis with these chicks.

Nothing makes me happier than when someone tells me their deepest, darkest secrets and allows me to love & accept them in return, as I almost always do (to anyone other than my mother).  Really, seriously, I love people so much when they openly admit to mistakes and flaws and weakness  (yet it’s so difficult to expect acceptance for myself). 

Shame is such a heavy freaking load and usually so unnecessary if only we knew everyone else’s stories. 

Oops, just remembered one that would have been better kept silent, as evidently I’m not 100% accepting (so typical of me, bitching about everyone else and then remembering my own foible to torment myself).  Yes, the 3-week husband, the one who hit me in the head so hard I actually shut the fuck up.  He wrapped his weiner in bologna and coquettishly flirted with his dog. 

I’m just not an animal lover.

I’m currently reading “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway,” and the author, Susan Jeffers, talks about hearing the same fears expressed over and over again in the classes she teaches.  Total strangers walk in, the room is ominously silent, and slowly people open up.  Suddenly students can identify with one another and everyone begins talking at once.

No one likes a cocky bastard who appears to have no flaws.  There are no flawless people, so clearly he’s lying.

Reconnecting with people from high school has kicked my ass with utter sadness, knowing there were so many other students as miserable as I, who thought they were just as weird and believed they came from the only dysfunctional family in town.  It’s devastating and such a waste.  We should have all been sitting around talking about our fucked up parents instead of some bullshit geometry or marching band formation. 

JESUS CHRISTOS, who created the curriculum anyway?

* * * * * *

Also reading “Roseannearchy” by Roseanne Barr.  Just a synopsis: She is Jewish, talked to God and he talked back throughout her entire life, she is honest to a fault, probably a genius, and

believes men don’t want women to get fat because their penises can’t.

Although I love the line because it made me laugh, I don’t think this is an argument she could win.

Roseanne is nearly 10 years older than I and has gone through full-blown menopause.  She no longer is interested in sex whatsoever, actually states that she hates it.  She refuses to take any kind of hormones and is pretty happy about her status as a sexless person, even though she has a boyfriend she lives with on her Hawaiian macadamia nut farm.  She didn’t mention what he does to take care of business.

How come we have sex ed classes in junior high, when we’re not supposed to be having sex, and we don’t know shit about what it’s going to be like as we grow older?  Of course, it’s different for everyone, but it certainly wasn’t what I expected.  Most of the women I know are closer to the disinterested side of things, I don’t currently speak regularly with any who actually enjoy it.  It’s a pretty sad state of affairs down yonder in a lot more relationships than not. 

The one chick I know who’s a fan is unwilling to do it when her children are home.  This is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard, yet completely true.  She sends them once a week to a damaging evangelical church activity just for time alone as a couple.  I love her dearly but she’s a moron.  Surprising that her husband has a massive internet p*rn collection and constantly plays on-line poker in the basement?  I think not.

If I’ve learned anything it’s that my mother-in-law was right when she told me it’s the only thing men care about and without it relationships fall apart.  Big time.

For me sex was always  just part of what I needed to do to make the other person love me.  I was in favor of the control it gave me and I liked that it made me feel attractive.  But a couple of years ago everything changed.  I wish I knew why, because it’s a fucking pain in my ass.  There is no clear explanation as to whether it’s about weight loss or hormones or just being a backwards dipshit.

I now have so much empathy for teen-aged boys because if this is what men go through their entire lives then I’m glad I was easy.  Of course I had O’s, but it always seemed like everyone made such a big deal out of a rather minimal outcome.  I mean, books can last for days, movies at least 2.5 hours.

Of course I know women who are the opposite, including my own mother (God, how I wish I didn’t know those details).  Friends who have regaled me in the past with their stories of multiple O’s left me with my head tilted to the side and my mouth hanging open.  Huh?!  Even worse, though, are the instances where these women somehow ended up with men who could not care less.  I laugh as I write that because it’s so sexist.  Clearly it’s not a happy place for a man to find himself, either.  Really, it’s misery both physically and mentally.

I’d say I was just with the wrong person, but I’ve seen some of the men these other excitable chicks do the deed with and I’m telling you there’s no way they’re that completely different naked.  We’re talking face transplant and complete body transformation before I’d consider them viable for any female.  Blech!  But it’s true, I am a picky bitch.  You will never, ever, ever find me with some stranger, any stranger.  My choice has been made, there will be no internet dating or random pounding.

This is an area where I’m uncomfortable being even as open as I’ve been in this entry and that’s not very. 

I never wanted to be like my mother (the nympho whore), my grandmother (anal retentive clean freak) was my ideal.  When Mom was on vacation Grandma stayed with us.  She was the one standing outside at the garbage can, burning my mother’s negligees.  In other words, my sexual identity is a fucked up mess and God is laughing at me.

So I’m wondering about you, dear reader, will even one of you share your sordid hormonal secrets?  Oh, how I would love to know there is just one other woman out there like me.