Anne Nahm

Editorial Preface: Thank you all for what you said on the last post – I am knee deep in spun out emo crap here, and so I am just puking this post up and getting it out of the way so I can start fresh when I get over this case of the crazies. But I didn’t want to blow by and not tell you how much I appreciated your wisdom. Thank you.

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For a summer when I was in college, I worked for a guy who was a handwriting analysis expert. One of my jobs was to familiarize myself with all the reasons that handwriting analysis was absolutely a researched-based, credible soft-science. One of the many bullet points made to this effect was that a) everyone’s penmanship is unique to them (like a fingerprint) and b) an individual will try to replicate their own penmanship.

Whatever do you mean, Big Book of Penmanship Legitimacy?

Well, eager student, try writing the word ‘today’. Now write it with your non-dominant hand. Now put that pen down between your big toe and your other toes and try to write that word again.

See there? You tried to make your “Y” in both attempts just like you write it with your dominant hand. It is so important that you make your “Y” like that, you will go to extra effort to write with your foot the same way you express yourself with your hand. Ergo, your psyche must be trying to send the same message each time. And that message is about who you are. And based on the reference chart in the back of me, I can tell you about yourself based on what your ‘Y’ looks like. Lets see here…. Ooops. Well isn’t that interesting. According to this, you are sexually deviant. Have a nice day. PS: Wash your hands before you pick me up next time, perv.

Anyway, I was thinking about that notion this evening. You know, after I shelved The Crazy regarding my Mommy & Me freak out. I mean, I have more than one Crazy on the back burner. And so here is another one: I am having much more difficulty losing weight than I anticipated.

On the surface, it seems very easy – eat less, exercise more. But I think that changing the way one looks is actually more like the Big Book of Penmanship Legitimacy explains it.

What I see in the mirror and feel like in my clothes? I crafted that image of myself. It is starting to feel like a huge part of me is pretty desperate to play out whatever point it is trying to make with the way that I look and the weight that I am. This most obviously demonstrated when I notice I lose a little weight and the next time I go to the grocery store I decide it is a good idea to make ribs. Followed by something with home made mashed potatoes. Oooh, and ice cream.

Double You Tee Eff, Anne? You are not even hungry. Why are you eating that? And even worse, I don’t think you knew you were doing that until it was half way done.

When I was looking to quit smoking, I read that a person goes back to the emotional age they were when they started smoking. You go back, and you have to deal with all the emotional stuff you had on your plate then. You know, whatever was happening that might turn you onto addictive escapist drugs.

And that was pretty accurate. I spent about six months being 17 again when I quit smoking at 28. Mostly I remember that involved a lot of crying. And learning to drive again.

I don’t know what age I feel like when I lose weight but I feel pretty neurotic writing this all out right now. And I think about this post, and I’m guessing there is some ugly psychological boil there related to the weight loss issue that I just don’t want to examine further but is lurking around, making me feel like a prude with sex and run-on sentence issues.

The pants that went with the FRED belt are too big and FRED has no more notches. I went to get new jeans. I tried on the wrong size for two hours before it occurred to me to try a smaller size. Even for me, that was pretty dumb.

I got these jeans. When I look at them, I don’t even know if they fit and I feel completely off my rocker. Seriously. It makes me feel kind of crazy to look at these pictures. I mean, I know they are just jeans, but the disconnect from reality and my inability to judge if something looks nice or not is kind of mind boggling and out of control. Especially because half of my mind says, “get over yourself they look fine” while the other half screams for attention with”girl, all you need is a big black rectangle over your eyes to complete the ensemble for the back page of Glamour’s “do NOT” category.” And I’m honestly not sure which voice is right. They are both right. They are both stupid and wrong. Where’s my ice cream, damnit?

Wow. You are really glad you are reading this, aren’t you? From a safe distance. Look for my next post, “And then she got her period and returned to sanity for another 28 days.” Because I am dying with the stupid emo overexposure and so I’m putting this up but I’m not working any further on it because it is just making me feel crazy. The End.

Movie Night Failure

I am still laughing about Sweeney Todd, which I saw yesterday with my husband for date night. He was a little reluctant, but I said, ‘it’s got serial killers and singing! How can it go wrong?’

Annnnnnd the next two hours were spent explaining, in great detail, the answer to that question. PS: I get it Tim Burton. British* people have bad teeth.

*pre-orthodontia anyway. Just like the rest of us. Yay braces!

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Mom Failure

It occurred to me last week that I have been in this Mommy & Me group three years. Same moms, same teachers, same class every week.

Three years of practice, and I still feel uncomfortable to talk to anyone. The kind of uncomfortable that means extra deodorant in the morning and preference for a shower or a nap later that day. I remember what people like to talk about, and I engage in (and even sometimes start!) conversations. I smile, and am socially appropriate. I generally get positive feedback. And my anxiety doesn’t diminish.

When I hear other moms talk, I realize they are meeting up outside class. Their kids are becoming friends with each other, and there is a whole network of social interaction of which I am rarely a part. This week, one mom was talking to me about how important it was for her kid to be in the same kindergarten class as the friends she had made. I am not a part of that, and when I try to be, I am exhausted by it. But it is lonely to not be a part of it.

I was watching my daughter while I was talking with the other mom about kindergarten. The other mother’s daughter was playing dress-up in a small group of girls. They were hugging each other and holding hands and trading baby dolls.

My kid stood there next to them, watching them play. After a few minutes, she scooted a little closer to their group. She smiled. And then, the dressed up girls broke their hug, and the other mother’s daughter hugged my kid in the sweet way that some kids do: Full on bear hug with some smooches and giggles.

I saw my kid pull away. It was just a little thing. But the other girl let go quickly and looked unsure.

And I was overwhelmed by how much of myself I saw in my kid’s behavior. That standing and waiting and then feeling too close and overwhelmed and pulling away? That is the dance I do. And I would never want to pass it on to anyone.

Did my daughter see me do that and learn it? Thinking maybe that is how all people interact? Probably. I mean, she definitely learned how to say ‘crapity crap crap!’ and ‘what a turd-hopper!’ from me. Just two more things on the ever expanding list of The World is Her Classroom, Dummy things I have learned.

Or maybe she born that way, with that mental narrator whispering in her head, “holy crap, bear hug! A little personal body space, please!”? .

In that moment, I felt like a complete failure as a parent. I’m afraid I can’t teach her to be any better as I don’t know how to do it for myself.

I am trying to be a better model – it is the main motivator for things like that dinner party and Mommy & Me. And I have spent a significant portion of my life learning to be as socially competent as I am. So part of me feels hopeful that if I could just do it enough for her to see it, she would at least have a chance to be more social on her own. But then I think: Maybe I am just giving her a lesson of what is like to be anxious and awkward around others.

I bought this Lift & Look book from a big box store just yesterday, and it had a mainstream brand name right there on the cover. Not that I am promoting the pasteurization-homogenization-lameification of children’s media, because ew – I am totally not.

(But I am totally lazy and so I just buy things that look vaguely interesting whilst peddling around Target.)

Just making the point that I didn’t go to some freaky head shop to buy this book. Anyway, in case you didn’t know what emotion went with being tied up in a closet:

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See, my ‘feeling’ guesses would been more along the lines of ‘panic’ or ‘depends soiling’, but grandmas can be ball busters, so ‘anger’ seems fair. I love her face – like she’s thinking, ‘oh you better hope I don’t get out of these ropes, buddy, or I’ll chew your ass and puke in your skull.’

Proving once again that the real world is better, we are celebrating Springification here in California with the growing of (moss? Lichen?) cool green stuff all over the trees. Enjoy!

Mathematical percentages of brainpower used as my toddler screams wildly in fear over the return of the vacuum cleaner:

90% 80%

Hitching up parental mental pants to again explain that the vacuum cleaner is noisy but not dangerous. Let us turn it off and get a close look. And then let me hold you while we turn it on. And now help Mommy push it. See? It can barely suck up that scrap of paper there. Is weak. And noisy. But not bad. Is good. See? So please let Mommy vacuum. You can go in the other room and close the door if you want. But no need to scream and clutch my leg when I turn on. Because vacuum? Loud. But good.

18%

Thinking: I give up. I would rather feel my feet sticking to this carpet from lack of cleaning than do this crying thing Every. Single. Time. Hear me, kid? You win. I will celebrate the victory of my new toddler overlord by crying as well.

2%

Crushing impulse to turn on the vacuum and chase her around with it, cackling with glee.

Here is something that probably needs confessing since I am sitting here with writer’s block. Because it is that constipated kind of block in which you squeeze some feeble half-sentence out only to have the delete button suck it back into non-existence the moment you stop straining to get it out there.

Some people would say, “hey, just go easy and wait for a post to come out on it’s own time.” But buddy, if I did that? Not only would nothing ever get posted sober, but I also wouldn’t have this sexy bloodshot eye.

Fucking January and the lack of anything good to write, and the quiet desperation that leads to two weeks of listless drivel, followed by me heckling my husband with the copious amounts of bitching re: How much blogging sucks and what a sucky job it is! Until my husband finally has to point out: It. Is. Not. A. Job. Omigodjuststop if it sucks. Just stop. Because once again? Not really a job. And also, Anne? Stop jabbing me in the ribs for emphasis. Am bruisey.

Usually I fill the downtime by either:

a) Poking my liver with the drinky stick

2) Starting a new hobby (like sewing! Cooking! Olympic Curling!) to make blogging jealous. Take that, blog. I don’t need you and your cheap, shiny trinkets.

X) Trolling the internet for some means of shameless self promotion. Which becomes a delirious little circle of crazy in itself, usually involving me screaming at the computer. Look at me, look at me! I need attention!…. Oh God, don’t look at me there – that sucks! Suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks! Ew… So overexposed…. I feel dirty…. Wait, where are you going? Didn’t you fall in love with me when you saw me? Love me! Come back! …. Shit.

All that insecurity and screaming is exhausting.

I wake up the next day feeling terrible. I have lost the blog zen. Sold out. Must prostrate myself in front of Mimi Smartypants‘ no ad, fuck-you-I-don’t-care-if-you-read-me site and repent.

Which would be awesome if I could do this in some hip coffee shop, while wearing a black turtleneck, and smoking a clove. And then I could have cool thoughts like , “I write because I am a writer. Not because someone reads what I wrote.” And I would know who I was or something. Or hey? Maybe even write something, which is the problem that got me here in the first place.

But the closest I get to being Anxty Deep Writer is going through Starbucks drive-though on the way to Mommy & Me. It’s like channeling bad-ass and getting Avril Lavigne.

Plus, that’s a lie. I’m wicked cheap. So really? Not Starbucks’ but coffee brewed at home. …But maybe with some special anxty addition, like real cream. Yeah, you heard me. Real cream. Best be backin’ away from my baditude before you get hurt. Real cream is so fucking ambitious it is practically suckling the teat of a dairy cow myself.

Anyway. All this grunting and laboring and all I have is this smelly little chunk of blog post and the general feeling of wanting to crawl back into bed rather than face the shame of pushing the publish button.

So may this sacrificial confession be the act of contrition that gets me out of this Fifth Circle of Blogging Hell. Forever and ever, amen.

Or at least let this blocky thing be like a yearly flu and not some kind of blogging related PMS to show up every 28 days.

And if it is blogging PMS, let me call it BMS, even though PBS (pre-blogging-syndrome) is a more accurate acronym. Because if I have to have it every 28 days, and I have to call it PBS, I will feel like a fucking Sesame Street muppet. And God, isn’t it clear I’ve suffered enough?