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Like everyone else with an Internet connection, I've been poking around on Pinterest some lately, gorging on eye candy and crapping away the hours.
Before Pinterest, I only suspected there were so many perfect people in the world. Now I have proof.
Perfect people living in perfect houses.
Source: decorpad.com via Ashley on Pinterest
With imperfectly perfect hair:
Source: Uploaded by user via Megan on Pinterest
Eating perfect food:
Source: thecuttingedgeofordinary.blogspot.com via Kelly on Pinterest
Source: shopbop.com via Jessica on Pinterest
I look at all these pictures--thousands of perfect pictures--and instead of feeling inspired, I just feel like I'm doing it wrong.
Right?
I must be doing it wrong, because my house? And my hair? And my food? And my body? They don't look like that.
And my heart rate starts to increase, and I start clicking and scrolling faster, and faster, and I realize that I'm no longer looking, I'm SHOPPING.
Frantically.
For a life.
Unbeknownst to myself, I am looking at Pinterest to figure out WHICH ONE I WANT. Which hair. Which clothes. Which abs. Which accent pillows. Which existence.
Do I want a pristine white interior? Or something rich and warm, with BEAMS.
Source: naturalelementhomes.com via Sarah on Pinterest
As if I have to DECIDE.
RIGHT. NOW.
In case the fairies are listening.
You know how much I love the Internet and how inspiring it can be, but this constant stream of gorgeousness isn't working for me at all.
It was one thing when all the Awesome was contained in the pages of magazines like Domino and Vogue. But the Internet has amplified it and multiplied it to a point where I feel like the only woman in the world whose wires are showing.
(Have you noticed this? How the perfect people have lamps and computers and printers that work with no visible wires or cords?)
I want to start a photo sharing site for people with pores. For people with inexpensive cameras and mediocre fashion sense.
We could share poorly lit snapshots with captions like "I totally thought these tights were black when I got dressed this morning" and "Check out this f*cked up rash."
And we could feel less alone.
That is, if anyone would even go there.
What they don't tell you about parenthood, other than "the experience of natural childbirth is NOT AT ALL like an intense wave sensation", is the veritable cornucopia of opportunities you'll have to fail your child on a daily basis.
Last week, Gus and I decided it was time to see what this school lunch thing is all about. I'm sick of making lunches, and he's sick of eating them. But I could not for the life of me find one piece of paper that included all of the instructions for procuring a school lunch. Instead: A menu. A price list. And a letter with Gus's cafeteria PIN that said "PLEASE do not lose this number." But nothing that said, "send a check with your child, and make it out to such-and-such to cover meals for the day/week/year, and we will apply it to his/her account, debiting each day as he enters his pin." I just inferred that part.
Gus hates when I infer. So he's walking into this school lunch situation on a check and a prayer, hoping I am not going to make an ass out of him. The check/pin number piece goes off without a hitch (inference is my specialty), but then on the second day, he asks for two meats, and the lunch lady scolds him.
That night he lays into me.
How was lunch?
HORRIBLE. I took TWO MEATS. I can't go back there ever again, it was SO embarrassing. The lunch lady screamed at me. Why didn't you TELL me? Please don't make me buy lunch ever again. PROMISE me.
Oi. Vey.
(I did make him go back, though. We had a long talk about how it's okay to not know things, and to ask questions when you're not sure of a rule. And now he's all Yoda Lunch Master, feeling good.)
Then there's Patrick. I try extra hard not to screw this kid over, because unlike Gus, he won't come out and tell me I've embarrassed him. I have to wait until he breaks out in hives.
So yesterday, he hands me this note and runs out of the kitchen.
The shame.
The shame of having to receive a Lion Lunch.
I might as well have sent him to school with food stamps.
"Did you cry?" I asked.
He nodded.
KILL ME NOW.
I remember my dad telling me how as a boy, when he'd just moved to the United States, my grandmother would pack him these mortifying Italian sandwiches, dripping with HUMILIATING fresh meats and cheeses and vegetables. Extra virgin olive oil, I imagine, staining the brown paper sack.
And then there was my third grade class field trip to the Museum of Natural History. My mother had put my grape soda in the freezer the night before, so it would still be cold by lunchtime. We ended up eating early, and I set off a grape geyser in the middle of Central Park. People clapped. I cried.
I guess it's just what character and memories are made of. Or does my family just suck at this?
