Production

Geez, what a production just to get a blog started. I've had a blog before, but then when my marriage fell apart I deleted it because it wasn't really me, which I think knew then subconciously, but didn't really know-know... And because I had bad-mouthed some work situations and I didn't want to give The Ex any more ammunition to use against me, or what he would have inevitably perceived to be ammunition. I will say that I didn't blog much, so I had no followers (other than The Ex), so I don't think it will be missed out in bloggerdom. Plus I kept changing the name. So I took a break... worked on getting my head back together... and decided to start again.

But then, I couldn't decide on a name. I mean, I can't keep changing the name like I did before because the url always changes with it, and if you have followers the link then turns dead for the old url, or something like that. I've been debating a name for a few weeks. I wanted something that would accurately describe me, and who I am now, who I might be, who I won't be anymore, and coming up with a name is some hard shit to do. I wanted something that sounded classy and educated (but not too much), but didn't sound stuffy. So obviously FTW was out. Something that sounded intelligent but not jackass-y. Well, jackass-y is okay, but not asshole-y. There is a difference, I've learned. I didn't want anything to sound bitter or mad, because I really don't feel bitter or mad, at least, not right now. I'm working on that being a temporary set of emotions.

I absolutely love to use big and fancy jackass-y words in my everyday life. My kids knew what the meaning of appropriate was and could use it properly by the time they were four. Although, they both said, "That's not propriate." Words like discourse, profundity, treatise, esoteric, whilst, epiphany, loquacious. Whilst is my favorite because it really is a great jackass-y kind of word. I'm trying to work that into all of my written reports at work because it's proper English, Queen's English actually, but it's such a good jackass kind of word. I can't get in trouble for using it since it's proper English, but I know the people reading my reports, all lawyers and therefore infinitely stupid motherfuckers, will have no idea what that word means, but it will sound familiar enough to make them wonder where they heard it before.

I thought and thought and thought and couldn't come up with anything. Thought about using all of the words above in some sort of combination or a mixture of the words above but couldn't come up with anything. Stretch marks was working it's way into the title somewhere, because I have so many on my stomach from my kids and I obsess about my stretch marks constantly. I mean, it's really bad. My longest stretch mark during my first pregnancy was 18 inches long. I'm not kidding - 18 inches. That was one enormous stretch mark. I used to get a tape measure out every few weeks towards the end of both pregnancies and measure them. So the 18 inch stretch mark, yeah, it grew to about 20 inches during the second pregnancy. The bigger I got, the more beached-whalish I looked, the redder those things got, too. The Ex called them tiger stripes, which I fucking hated. When he said that (and it was a frequent remark), I would silently wish I could grow big tiger claws and scratch his eyes out. Hellooooo, I didn't get these things alone.  So the redness has faded, almost back to my normal skin color, but there is absolutely nothing you can do about some stretched out skin. Nothing, nothing, nothing other than getting it cut off in the form of a tummy tuck. I'm really torn about that - but not really, because I don't have expendable cash for stupid plastic surgery, and because I'm working really hard in my head to just be good with who I am right now. That's hard on some days, because I remember when I was in high school and I would lay on my bed and my stomach was so flat and tight I could flip quarters over three seperate times with my stomach muscles. Not like flip them up in the air, but turn them over and kind of walk them down my stomach. Maybe doing that for hours on end, for years on end, when my mother kept grounding me because... Well, that's another story. But I think about those hours and days spent flip-walking quarters up and down my stomach and I think, fuck, man, I might have done this to myself. Maybe if I hadn't done that, maybe if I hadn't obsessed about being a size 5 or 7, if I hadn't done this or done that, maybe my skin would have some fucking collagen or elasticity, or whatever, in it and I wouldn't have these goddamn stretch marks. Or whatever some women have in their bodies that can cause them to have eight kids in quick succession with no physical, scarring reminders of it.

But I couldn't go with that name. Yeah, I obsess and think about my stretch marks pretty much every day. I just can't help it. They're always there. But even though they are right there, in my head, in my mirror, under my clothes, I don't want to stare it down on a blog however often. Just don't want to do it, just can't do it. So I went with what I've got up there now. It's all good, though. I recently decided to stop straightening my hair after 14 years maybe, gosh, I don't even know long. Not a life changing moment, but more like, I decided to just become one with the humidity and what do you know? Who the hell knew my hair was this curly? Maybe something else from all those pregnancy hormones. I mean, who the hell knew my feet would grow when I got pregnant? Yeah, they grew. I went from a sometimes 7 and a half and usually solid size 8 to a good steady 8 and a half to sometimes 9. And it's not that my feet got fat, they GREW. Who has feet that grow when they're 28 years old? So maybe the curls are consolation prize for the stretch marks. I haven't decided yet. Maybe these are happy curls. Curls of figuring out that I can be happy and I don't need to feel mysteriously angry and miserable for the rest of my life, which I really believe will be a long one. I don't worry anymore about living a long time, because I'm feeling good about lots o' stuff. So Curls & Stuff it is. Name for the blog is done.

And then, I sign in to the website and use an anonymous email address I created a few weeks ago to respond to ads on craigslist to criticize the content and grammar of said ads, but I use the wrong fucking email address and don't realize it when I sign in for the blog site. Instead of using @gmail, I use @yahoo, because I don't use the anonymous gmail address that much. That's my anonymous asshole email, and I don't really feel like being an anonymous asshole that much. So I set the blog up, to include my fabulous title, which I hope no one thinks is a blog for a hair salon, and then sign back out because I'm going to come back to it later when I get the kids to bed. I get the kids to bed, and sign back in. But uh-oh, yeah, dumbass, you signed up for a blog AND USED YOUR FABULOUS BLOG NAME with an email address that either doesn't even exist or belongs to someone else! Holy fuck! Oh my god, what have I fucking done now? And I can't recreate the blog with my anonymous email address because I ALREADY GAVE THE NAME AWAY! There is no way I can start over on a name search in my head for the next month, because in the 30 minutes or so since I came up with this one, I've really gotten attached to it. Albeit in my own head, but I'm attached. It's mine. No one else can have it, and maybe I can't either if I can't unfuck this. So back to yahoo to create an email in the name that I think I used to create this site. Thank god it wasn't in use, because otherwise some stupid person who created this anonymous email at yahoo before me would get an email thanking them for signing up for a blog. So I create yet another anonymous email, this time on yahoo and go back to the blog site and sign in. Except I still can't sign in because they haven't been able to send me the verification email because I just created the email address, like, 30 seconds ago. So send me the damn verification and back to yahoo to verify. Okay, verification done. Now I can log in. And thus... I now have a Comcast email with my name that is my primary account, but only until Comcast figures out I don't have an account with them or The Ex snitches me out to them (which is much more likely than the former to happen) and they just delete me, I have a Yahoo account with my name that I set up years ago to get junk mail sent to, because no one signs up for anything online that's not bill related with their primary (aka real) email address, I have the anonymous asshole Gmail account, I have a Verizon address that I got when I got their service but never bothered to set up after the tech left so I don't even know how to access that, and now I have another anonymous email address on Yahoo that's for this blog. Too much. What a fucking production. All over a name to a blog.