My Middle Name

"I hope that someday we will be able to put away our fears and prejudices and just laugh at people." - Jack Handy

Tact is not my middle name. Nor is Diplomacy. My name is not Diana "has a way with people" Sortor. I know this may come as a shock to those of you who know me, but I say really stupid, insensitive things on a regular basis. I say them to my friends. I say them to my family members. I say them to total strangers waiting in line at the grocery store. I raise my hand and say them at church. Basically, I keep trying to talk when I really shouldn't.

I used to be shy, you know. So shy that I was almost held back in the second grade because my teacher didn't think I could read. So shy that when my elementary-school crush of five years asked me if I wanted to be his reading partner I stood gaping at him until he felt uncomfortable and walked away. So shy that I missed out on friendship after friendship because I didn't know how to respond. So shy that I watched life pass me by for fear of exposing myself as the moron I am. So shy that I never expressed how I really felt to anyone. Of course, I grew up and grew out of that. At this point I think maybe I've become a little too comfortable. Maybe a little too expressive. There were definite advantages to keeping my mouth shut. True, I was unfulfilled and friendless, but on the upside I wasn't influencing others negatively. I wasn't embarrassing myself. People didn't dislike me. They nothinged me. I took comfort in that.

In a perfect world everyone would understand and like me for all my blundering. I could laugh at people when they fell down and they'd innately take that as a gesture of friendship. I could make random Nacho Libre references without having people think I'm off my rocker. I could be honest about my feelings concerning Twilight. But this isn't a perfect world.

And so to anyone out there I've offended or inadvertently ostracized I apologize. I really don't have anything against postal workers, Tom Selleck, people with mullets, or llamas. (But I do think they're funny.) For someone who enjoys words as much as I do, I seriously struggle forming thoughts into coherent sentences, especially in public. So, when I say "Heylop! Nothin'" I mean, "Why hello there my fine friend, what is up? Things are good with me as well." And when I say, "I'm easy. No. No. I never clean the toilets." I mean, "Sure, send your children over, because I understand your predicament, am not currently busy, and would like to assist you." When I try and give you a compliment that comes out, "I can't tell whether you're pregnant or not." I actually mean, "Even when you're pregnant you are as beautiful as you regularaly are." And lastly, when I announce, "I don't want Andy becoming a woman just to make me feel better." I mean to say, "I am grateful for the differences between men and woman even if they cause me some frustration. I like men. And I love Andy the way he is."

Yeah, my middle name isn't Eloquence. Its Lynne.

Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather: Part Two

A wise man once said, "A trip to the post office will likely result in an unsavory demise." An even wiser wise man added, "Plus its inconvenient and is lame and sucks." You can't argue with that logic. That's why I keep my distance even when I accidentally steal Christmas presents from my sister's house that I really should mail back to her before her children outgrow them. Morally, I am obligated; but in all other ways I am opposed. And so, without further ado I give you: Ten reasons why I'd rather become a pirate, than go to the post office.
10. Fact: the average pirate is 82% more diplomatic than the average postal worker.
9. Swabbing decks gives one a feeling of accomplishment while waiting an hour for postage stamps does not.
8. Pillaging and plundering seems pretty straight forward.
7. While pirates and postal-workers both tend to have missing body parts, pirates have a better sense of humor about it.
6. While pirates and postal-workers both tend to kill people, pirates have a better sense of humor about it.
5. Four dollars for a cardboard box? COME ON!
4. When you greet other post-office customers with "ARRR!" they judge you.
3. I much prefer the salty-sea air to the smell of broken dreams.
2. Searching for buried treasure beats the heck out of keeping my children away from the packing tape.
1. Landlubbers.

My Slothful Ways

My question to you: Are you ready for some hardcore whining? Because honestly, I feel like I was just beat, head to toe, with a sack of hot nickles. Though I am not yet thirty, yet I feel a solid eighty years old. Allow me to paint you a picture people.
No cute pregnant lady am I. I have already gained 35lbs and expect to gain a'plenty more by the time this kidos done a'cookin. What is that nerve that runs down your right side into your bum? Yeah, that one that shoots pain through my body when I move and makes me walk like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead? The psychotic nerve? What?
And what is up with this vile cold I've got going? This motha's unleashed several restless nights on me regardless of the Tylenol Cold I'm all doped up on. And for the few hours I did get a little shut-eye last night, I was busy escaping snarky, secretive, sparkling vampires, which was perhaps even more exhausting than all the tossing and turning I was doing trying to get comfortable with this watermelon I call a belly. Then I got really thirsty at about three in the morning and had to psychotic-nerve my way into the kitchen, running into walls, making noises like a creature from the dark swamp. I terrify small children. I'm a MONSTER!
This morning Avery and I had a ten minute argument about whether or not we have any bananas in the pantry. I don't even know who won that debate. I put her in front of "The Lion King" and let it go.
There are women out there who make this look easy. There are women out there who can pull off being pregnant AND fully functional. I am glad that I can make those women feel really good about themselves as I lounge on the sofa in my pj's like this sloth, only slightly less motivated and significantly less attractive, wishing we DID have friggin' bananas in the pantry.
That moron Fred Durst, had it right when he so knowingly stated, "Its just one of those days". Indeed it IS Fred. Indeed it is. Only 96 more days to go! Whoopidy-do!

My Resolutions

Six days into the new year, I have just completed my list of resolutions which have nothing to do with the above picture. Number One: stop procrastinating the making of this year's resolutions. Done and done. Wow, I already feel a satisfied sense of accomplishment. Number Two: Stop using sarcasm to mask my childlike vulnerabilities. Check. Question: Why would Disney make a children's movie about a beloved family dog who acquires rabies while protecting said family and then has to be shot and die? Uncool Disney, uncool. Number Three: Childlike vulnerabilities too painful, revert back to sarcasm. Number Four: Eat more fiber. Number Five: Be more proactive, less deactive. Number Six: Have a baby. Number Seven: Lose pregnancy weight so people will stop confusing me with Drew Carey. No I don't know who's line it is. Number eight: Try Sushi. Number nine: Find ways to keep from freaking out. SERENITY NOW! Number ten: Be in bed by eleven. Except on book club night. Or if we have friends over. Or if its Friday night. Or Saturday night. Or if we're having a 24 marathon. Otherwise its nighty-NIGHT! Numbers eleven through fifteen: Read scriptures daily, have more meaningful prayers, enjoy the every day of being a mom, avoid pessimism, and read at least one book a month.

And there you have it. One step at a time towards total domination.