Facebook: An Indefinite Goodbye

Dear Facebook,

I know we've been together for 6 years or so and have shared a lot with each other aaaand just about everyone else we could think of. You helped me connect with tons of people. And even some I really didn't remember ever being connected with in the first place. Most of the time I convinced myself that you were making my life better. And I loved all the picture posting, the tagging, the poking, the groups, the likes, the witty commenting. You really helped me reach some sort of social nirvana. I gave you so much. So much quality time. All intimate details of my life in the form of status updates, pictures, links to my personal blog. You have had so much of me. You promised to help me stay in contact with people, rekindle old friendships, and keep up with some of my nearest and dearest family. And really you did do a lot of that. So thanks.

Did you ever really love me like I loved you? Did you Fbook? Is it ok if I call you that?  I kind of feel like you ate a little of my soul. And I mean that in the worst way possible. But I guess I let you.

 You help people create these reality-TV-esque existences that paint our lives in a way that may or may not be reality. You are a like a vaccuum cleaner of time. Any time I have had here or there, you sucked right up into your hole of nothingness. How many hours have I wasted looking at pictures of people I don't even know or want to know? Ridiculousness. I get online to look something up or order a present and then I get up hours later with my hair disheveled, and my eyes glued open and end up having messed up dreams that night about weird people I saw in someone's SpringBreak 2011 in Budapest. Thanks a lot, Jerk.

You act like you are a friend, but you haven't really been there for me. You don't listen. And worst of all, when I am down and out, and I come to you, to help me feel better. You don't. You make things 1000x worse by parading every freaking other person I have ever known or met in my life in their happiest moments. Way to rub it in my face. Come on. Couldn't you be a little more, oh I don't know, real? You are a liar and I don't want to hang out with you anymore.

I want to look back on my life and remember the things I actually did. I don't want to look back and see all the crappiness that I didn't do, because I was too busy looking at pictures of other people doing things.

So thanks for all the time we've spent, but if I could take it all back. I think I would.

Mostly though, I hope you know, that it's not you. It's me. I'm the one with the problem. And the problem is that I just don't love you anymore.

I don't know how else to say this, except that I am sick of you and it's so over.

In case you couldn't tell, you just got dumped. But I'm sure you don't care and won't notice, because as we all know you get around. For reallll. You have over 750,000,000 human backup friends. And 50% of your peeps visit you every freaking day. You get play, and you get a lot of it. 700 billion minutes of all your girlfriend/boyfriend's time per month to be exact. You player.

I will might come crawling back sometime and I know life is going to be hard without you. I would be lying if I said I'm not afraid. But right now, I want you out bucko.

xoxo, De-friending you soon loser and excited to fade into internet oblivion soon,

Maureen

A BIG P.S. I decided after much much deliberation to purge from Fbook and not sign on for a very long long time. It's all part of my 12 step FAA (Facebook Addicts Anonymous) program. No worries.

P.P.S. This is kind of a funny song...

Da-da-da-Davy

I have heard it said before and it rings so true at this present moment; Laptops are poorly named apparatuses or should I say apparati? anywho.Apparently your lap is not an ideal place for them.

My legs are on fire.

Possibly with third degree burns.

Davy has been on a rolllll lately with hilarium and unfortunately I have a hard time remembering the funny things she says. But today I made a few mental notes and am here to report.

This evening, I was making a little foccacia bread that was hoping to become a thick crust pizza when it grew up. And as I was stirring in the flour and salt and yeast, I heard a little voice and saw the big brown eyes that do me in.

"Mommy, can I help you make the bwead?"

I juuuust wanted to get it mostly stirred to prevent flour from launching wall to wall in my kitchen by the cute three year old helper.

But. I am a klutz and as I stirred, I spilled. Just a little. And the three year old inquired sweetly,

"Did you learn how to spill from me mommy?"

Quite the opposite babe. Sadly, I think my messiness rubbed off on your little self.

After I realized what a jerk-klutz I was for not just letting her go to town, I handed over the bowl and spoon and turned around to placate Gianna's howls from her high throne. As usual she was screeching for something edible...

And then I heard some spitting. From the floor. And then I saw the spit. In the bowl. "Davy. What. Are. You. Doing!" I gently screamed at her. She cried. And then I realized that I needed to chill and this was not that big of a deal and that I could easily remove the saliva from the dough and call it a day.

But I couldn't fix the alligator tears rolling down the beat down face of my sweetie pie. Davy....sweetie. Why did you spit in the dough? (She was hyperventilating. I think out of embarrassment.)

"The bwead doesn't taste like bwead."

And there you have it folks. A perfect lesson simple baking was learned by a toddler in my home today. And hopefully she will not spit in our food again.

But sometimes it takes her a while to really get it. She lost 3 Kroger balloons today. In like 10 minutes.

She goes into her first come and see day for preschool in 9 days though and I really just want to cry about it. mostly. sometimes I want her to go on a short vacay. Like this evening when she pinched Gianna so hard she drew blood. My poor sweet favorite Gianna bear.

My mom stopped by this evening though and saw her being a stinker and said that I was juuuuuust like her when I was little to my sisters.

It doesn't really surprise me. I'm sorry Katie and Liz for all the times I was a jerky big sister. what goes around comes around. karma. personal penance. However you see it, I'm pretty sure I'm getting what was coming to me after all those years.

Davyisms and a Music Video

Anddd look who it is. Ta-da.

"Gianna, I believe that you want my popcicle, but I can't give it to you."

to which Gianna responded, "Ohhh."

"Mo-om, we have to clean the house or it will die."

And then I died a little. I couldn't bear to tell her the truth. She actually swept up something with her Cinderella broom and put it in her tiny dustpan. This could be the start of something beautiful. 


"Please tell me the story when Venom (Spiderman's nemesis) wasn't sharin' his toys, so I can go to bed."

Every single night. It's the same lately. Thanks to Daddy unloading his childhood wonder years of super hero overkill on our 3 year old GIRL for bedtime stories. Now it's Venom, every night. Oh Venom, where ever you are, if you found out about the kind of girly and ridiculous things I make you do in Davy bedtime stories I think you would like bite me or something. I'm guessing that's why your name is Venom? Maybe?

Anyway. A little bedtime song for your enjoyment. "It's Getting Real in Whole Foods Parking Lot."

Go the %$&# to Sleep

You might have no idea what I'm talking about. Good for you. I'm happy for you and all those in your domain. It is true that a lot of children nestle in comfortably night after night with no problems whatsoever. But some lovely dears, just fight the night-night. Sometimes I feel like saying that to Davy. Like "Go the hello-dolly to sleep Davy Marin" for real this time. With Gianna we have no current difficulties. But sometimes Davy is just a tad, oh I don't know, of a crazy pants. Thankfully today wiped her out so incredibly, that after a quick "not the right pull-up with all of the princesses on it" malfunction, she stumbled into bed after way way way too much fun playing with some of her best buds.

But most days, we are not even in the running for a successful-toddler-down-for-the-night award. And since she was a wee little thing, it has been a major battle. Hours of screaming, crying, passing out of the floor type of amazingness.

Maybe you can relate to this. And if you don't mind serious serious profanity and you need a laugh- here is what you need my friend. Samuel L. Jackson reading a lullaby of sorts, aptly titled Go the *#%$ to Sleep. And it's the F word. eeek. Unless you want that fun word added to your toddlers vocab, maybe watch it after hours. Hmmmm just listened to it again. Might be a teensie harsh, just don't hurt the babies Sammy. Geesh. I'm afraid. 

I think sometimes parents need to heed the advice as well and just go the something to sleep. Especially if you are like this mama. I seriously still need a mama and daddy to tell me to "go the #$&% to sleep." I hate the work involved in the getting ready for bed routine. And I hate moving when I'm tired. And I'm addicted to the internet or something. And I'm going to try try to get moving now. Maybe. Or maybe I'll play on pinterest.com. New easiest place to lose yourself in the world wide web. Maybe I need to set a timer with internet privileges...Who the h is in charge around here?

And if you are still awake. Go the ____ to sleep sweetheart.