I’m really shy

August 1, 2013

and quite honestly, it’s a pain.

I was invited to a party tonight. A party thrown by a woman and man I don’t know that well, but that I think are probably incredibly cool. I know a few of the other people that were going to be there, also pretty cool. I live in a small town, so I feel like it is not only a good idea for me to make friends with incredibly cool people, but that it would also be helpful to my kids. The more friends I have, the wider the circle of people in my kids lives. It all sounds pretty silly, but trust me, every kid wants a parent that hangs out with the “cool” parents.

I didn’t make it thru the front door. I got home from work, took Katy to the library. Walked the dog next door. Picked out the dress, and removed the chipped polish from my toe nails. Took a shower. Put on the dress. Put on another dress. Put the first dress back on, and put my hair up in a knot, designed to look like I had put no thought into it all. (For about six hours, I had been debating up do or quality time with the blowdryer. Decided didn’t want to take forty five minutes to blow dry my hair, was late enough already.) Scowled at shoes. Scowled at toenails. Put shoes on, and kissed kids goodbye. Actually, tried to kiss kids goodbye, in truth, got half a cheek and a nod.

I drove to the gas station a block away. Called my friend from high school in New Jersey. We spent a half an hour talking about teenagers, sex and personal, personal grooming.

I drove the car home.

My son wasn’t happy with me; he liked the idea of having a mom with a social life. Maybe he thinks if I go to more cocktail parties he will have more time on the internet without me looking over his shoulder.

Most of my friends, and I do have friends, just not a “circle” of friends, maybe a kind of large sliver, would not think of me as shy. I come across like a golden retriever, bliss and smiles, easy conversation and, I hope, an empathetic ear.

But the truth is, groups scare the hell out me. Even brief conversation occasionally terrifies me. I fill in those moments with what seems to be casual observations about someone’s jewelry, job or kids until the feeling passes.

Social grace does not come easily to me. But writing about my lack of social grace is not nearly as terrifying. That is a mystery that might make good cocktail party conversation, that is if and when I make it to a cocktail party. And choose to come across as a self involved bitch who wants to do nothing more than talk about herself.

Oh my. Maybe I should think about moving to a really, really small town where no one speaks any English.

It’s My Party

July 28, 2013

My family threw me a surprise party today. There were hamburgers and hotdogs, grilled chicken and pickles, vanilla cake with strawberry filling, ice cream. I got a candle holder in the shape of an owl and some candles scented like apple pie to nestle inside the owl, approximately where the owls digestive tract would be. My daughter gave me  a designer contact lens case, my neighbor gave me a bracelet, my brother in law cooked for hours.

I had plans for this evening; my friends at church were holding a pot luck to meet the candidate for the position of Director of Congregational Life. But when I got home from the surprise party, I was a little drunk. My sister in law’s gift was a really good bottle of Chardonnay. And I wanted to wait for my son to get home from an afternoon with his basketball coach. Mostly, I was a little drunk, and overfed on chips and cheese.

I gathered the dogs. Sophie, the Magnificent, Wondrous Creature and Coco, the Almost As Magnificent and Wondrous Creature, who lives next door. I found the last of the headphones that work. I poured a cup of this mornings coffee into a go cup. I sprayed on bug spray, I stuffed my bare feet into a pair of Colin’s sneakers.

I went to the woods. I was alone. I put Warren Zevon on my phone, placed my head phones over my ears, and followed the dogs. They raced thru the woods. Coco hops, he’s a mini ¬†Doberman Pinscher. Sophie bounds on three legs; she might have Lyme, she might have arthritis, we can’t afford another trip to the vet.

The dogs laughed, and ran, and wrestled. I sang along to songs about Carmelita and headless gunners. There was no one else there, it was almost dark and the clouds promised rain.

I was probably still a little drunk from earlier, I don’t drink much these days. So it felt like a party, walking in the woods with the dogs, some songs and my own self.

Second time round, and I guess at my age it’s ok; happy birthday to me. And thanks to all of those in my life that make me incredibly so happy.