How Do You Plead?

     I had fun.  I took the egg without the busted yolk.  I took the un-mangled fork.  I took the non-charred, golden buttery toast.  I said no because I hate screaming kids.  I threw away the annoying fast food toy with the flashing lights and whining buzzer.  I left a dirty pan in the sink.  I cut the tags off my pillow.  I didn’t answer the phone when that number popped up on the Caller ID.  I ate the frosting flower, I spent part of my Christmas bonus on a new bra, I ordered pepperoni on my pizza even though he hates it, and now I feel bad. 

      I feel guilty.    

      If guilt trips required luggage, I could be my own travel agent.  Why do I do this to myself?  Am I less worthy of the un-mangled fork than Buttercup or The Yankee?  And for that matter, why do I still have the mangled fork?  Everyone is at risk for feeling guilty, but I think women are more likely to go through with it.  Have you ever seen a man eating the last piece of pie with the un-mangled fork and he’s got the chagrined look of a knotted stomach on his face?  Me neither.  From my experience, men look guilty when they’ve been caught doing something to actually feel guilty about.  Can you imagine a pro-athlete sulking about the practice field because he used the last of the “good” hand crème?  Absolutely not!  He might manage a slightly guilty expression when he’s caught paying off prostitutes not to tell how many crack rocks he hid in his duffel bag.  He may conjure a guilty sigh when he presents his jilted wife with a diamond ring and a yacht named after her.  But you will never see him looking ashamed that he parked in the good lot at church. 

      Do women have a guilt gene?  Is it a part of our DNA that we must take every action, every slight, every perceived misstep as a personal responsibility?  I can’t answer that.  All I know is that I have felt guilty for the last time.  I am tired of this feeling.  I am tired of worrying what other people think, how other people feel about me, what other people will believe if I eat another slice, buy the name brand perfume, chug the last of the milk, find something better to do that attend a birthday party for a dozen shrieking 2-year-olds.  I am sick of the gnawing feeling in my gut when I am torn between the decision to take a bubble bath for my aching shoulders or vacuum the carpet one more time. 

      I am striking a vote for freedom!  “No More” is the ensuing battle cry!

No more will I feel sick when I skip the generic peanut butter and go straight for the good stuff.

No More!

No more will I order greasy, loathsome sausage on my pizza just because he likes it.

No More!

No more will I say, “Oh, that chair wobbles? Here, I’ll sit in it.”

No More!

No more will I say, “I’ll be OK with no haircut for 6 months. You really need another tool in your tool box.

No More!

No more will I sit through military shows and tool exhibitions just because he likes them.

No More!

      I have struck a chord on the resounding harp of my inner woman’s soul and I loudly, proudly proclaim that from this day forward, I am no longer giving in to feelings of guilt!  Guilty or Not Guilty … how do you plead?  Not Guilty, thank you!  I am not heeding the muffled sighs of people who must write their own papers, wrap their own gifts, and cook their own snacks!  It is a fabulous feeling.  I’m free!  I am unfettered, unchained, unencumbered by these shackles and … what?  Buttercup can’t sleep because her blankets are crooked?  The Yankee needs me to help him cook popcorn?  Where did that cobweb come from?  Great.

     Now I feel guilty.

© Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.

Virtual Fish Stories

     I’ll come right out and say it: I love Facebook.  It has given me the opportunity to reclaim old friendships, the pleasure of sharing pictures with friends living a thousand miles away, and the ability to catch up with relatives who would otherwise not care if I lived or died.  I enjoy hearing what my friends are doing and seeing their children grow up.  That is, until I start running across what I call “virtual fish stories”. 

      Every person knows someone who isn’t satisfied with saying something like, “Busy day, but accomplished a lot.  Time to relax with a beer!”  No, that wouldn’t do it for Ol’ Fish Tale.  Nope.  This person has to put a dramatic spin on everything: “Got up early. Went to the track and ran 2 miles. Came home, mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters, planted flowers, repotted Christmas cactus, painted the kitchen, replaced the wax ring under the guest toilet, cooked a week’s worth of dinners so we can eat reheated leftovers for the next 5 days, patched the driveway, brought homemade bread to the old lady next door, helped her sand her feet and worm her cat, cut and stacked 3 cords of firewood, and now I’m going to enjoy a nice glass of wine … but only a tiny one!  No overindulging in this house!” 

      Puh-leez.

      Am I the only one who finds these posts more annoying than creeping underwear?  It’s not enough that the job list they have decided to share with you involves enough work to kill the average high-school jock, it just reeks of exaggeration.  Did you really paint the kitchen?  Or did you just run a dab of paint over an old nail hole?  Did you really plant flowers?  Or did you just fling an envelope of poppy seeds over a section of dirt and hope a few come up?  And if you want to relax with wine, I don’t care if you drink the whole box, so stop trying to justify what you're doing.

      I’ve sat and pondered this phenomenon on many occasion, mainly because I’m smart about how I use my time.  What drives someone to put on such a display?  Are they afraid of their lives being so boring that they have to make a big deal out of chores?  Are they so desperate for approval of a job well done that they have to chronicle their entire lives on the Internet for a few precious, “Wow, you’re amazing!” comments?  The possibilities are endless, but the comments are endlessly irritating. 

      And the same goes for the overly-sappy posts as well.  I’ve had some on my newsfeed that read more like a love letter, and are enough to embarrass a hard wit like me: “Oh, Baby.  You were so wonderful.  I can’t believe you would fall for someone like me.  I swear I must be the luckiest person on earth to have your love.  It makes my heart pound to think of how you look at me …” HOLD IT RIGHT THERE.  If you want to get all mushy-gushy, send a private message.  Still others sound like an entry in a prayer journal from 1644: “O Lord, I thank Thee for the sun that riseth outsideth my windoweth, for its light shineth on my sin and showeth me how truly despicableth I am-eth.”  Really?  A simple, “The sunrise is particularly pretty this morning.  Thanks, God, for sharing it with me” will suffice.  

      I know what some of you are thinking: don’t read it.  Block Ol’ Fish Tale.  Skip over Romantic Rendezvous and Pilgrim Prudence.  Stop being a glutton for punishment.  I get what you are saying and you have a valid point, my friend.  But like the curdled milk we can’t stop ourselves from sniffing before it slithers down the drain, these particular posts are a powerful magnet.  I can’t stop myself.  I can’t help skimming over it, and at the rate I read, I’ve already absorbed the boring details of your bombastic fish story before I can finish scrolling down the page.

      I understand people have different ways of expressing themselves.  Some need reassurance, some are overcome by the depth of their love, some are still trying to talk like King James.  I happen to be a grouch, and I’m sure there are plenty of people who skim over my posts.  “Oh, goody.  Bertha saw another moron at the grocery store.  There goes my Saturday.”    

      At least I warned you first.

 © Bertha Grizzly 2011.  All Rights Reserved.  No duplication or distribution.