It's Friday! Which in Hawaii means everyone is putting on their shaka shirts and hula skirts right now.
Except for me because I'm in Utah baking pies in my jeans and CTR t-shirt.
Do you think I'm depressed? Because I can't stop baking pies.
Or do you think I'm just weird?
When you move to a new place everyone seems weird, except you. But then you wake up one day and everyone seems normal, except you.
I don't know which is worse?
I guess I'll know I'm normal when I start chunking and ratting and wedging my hair.
Anyways, I am struggling with my identity right now. I hope I don't start doing scrapbooks next.
(Oh, dear. I'm going to scrapbook myself silly all winter long, huh? huh? huh?)
I can see why people do it. I really can. It's so much more productive than prozac or porn. And you need something to fill that vacant void of disconnect you see on everyone's faces at your daughter's soccer games.
At least my daughter's soccer games are good material for my next book, The Invisible Mom, and it's sequel, The Secret Life of Itchy B's.
I'm not complaining because being the new girl is super fun and exciting, as is being a stay-at-home mom slash glamorous writer. Surprisingly it doesn't really bother me at all that I can't figure out which side of the field to park my growing apple-pie bootie. Not recognizing anyway has it's perks because anyone doesn't recognize you either, which means you don't have to be bothered with anyone pestering you and introducing themselves to you and saying "welcome to the team, you must be the new girl's mom. blah blah blah."
The only thing better than being the new girl's mom is unpacking the new girl's untouched soccer snacks after every game. It's takes me back to this post when I first realized I had a big L on my forehead?
The only good thing about the big L post was that it allowed my kids to open up and come out of the closet about their shame over always having the junkest sack lunches in the state of Hawaii.
"Everyone always had to share with me because my lunch was so junk," said my daughter.
"I know, so embarrassing!" my said my thirteen-year-old son. "Everyone else had two sodas and a huge bag of Doritos."
"Yeah, and like three musubi's with SPAM AND egg!" chimed in my twins. "And store bought cookies."
Then they wrapped their arms around each other and cried and sang Kumbaya.
Allow me to share some photographic evidence that I am not the only one with a big L on my forehead.
No, I didn't not pack this lunch. Some other loser did.
Maybe I'm normal after all.