If You Belonged Here

Polly Gets Testy

Of course, I realize that I have posted this post at least a dozen times, in maybe as many ways. Some might be getting bored with it. I understand that.

I just don't care.

I was recently asked, "how perfect can you be?" in a tone that implied a rhetorical bent to the question. The person, in asking the question, was really trying to tell me that I was demanding the too much of myself. And that my expectations of myself verged on masochistic. But rather than take the question for what it was, I answered. Because, let's face it, that one was too easy.

How perfect can I be? I think what she really meant is how perfect am I aiming to be? Well, I aim high. I want to be 100% perfect and get the extra credit, too.

Anyone who's ever met me knows that.

I wasn't always that way. Really, I wasn't. But somehow, being jettisoned out into the real world put the fear of failure into me. The stakes just seemed higher and somehow, once I got in the habit of the habitual, obsessive, compulsive pursuit of perfection, I lost all perspective and discernment. I don't weigh and balance anymore. No failure is too small to count as a catastrophe. After all, any little snag might just be the beginning of the unraveling of the fabric of the universe, people.

So of course, I have to get all the answers right. I have to fill in the little circles completely, without going outside of the lines. I have to double check every answer. Three times. Just in case. Because isn't every missed answer just an increment of failure? And who knows which mistake will be the fatal one?

I don't want to fail the test! Especially when, all the answers are right there in front of me and all I have to do is choose them, right?

Wrong.

Because life is not--and this is shocking to me--a multiple choice test. There is no scantron machine at the ready to score my any-given Tuesday. What's worse--and it seems like a huge oversight, if you ask me--but  there aren't clearly defined answers, and no corresponding circles to fill in completely with my #2 pencil.

But the absolute worst part of all is that the test is never over. No bell will ring. No proctor will call time. I will still be trying, desperately, to double-check my answers up until the moment of death. And yet, even if I'm wrong, it will be too late to do anything but regret.

I have no intention on spending my last moments on this earth wallowing in regret. There may not be a scantron test, but I think it is universally held that regret in the face of death is the absolute wrongest answer possible.

Dying with regret is a mistake.

So I won't do that. If I can help it. Although, I will wonder if regret-or-not-regret is part of the actual test or if it is the bonus question. And if it is the bonus question, is it the only bonus question?

Except.

Except that in a way this is a test. Because the person who was talking to me, was really asking me "how perfect can you be as a parent?" 

I don't know. But as far as I can tell, if I don't get this right, I fail. With for-really bad consequences.

Truly.

Ramblin' Jack is always reminding me that parenting is a six-lane highway, not a tightrope. His point being that there's a wide amount of discretionary leeway as you go. But what if he's wrong? Or what if I think I'm in a lane and it turns out I inadvertently took an off ramp into oncoming traffic?

There may not be a graded test but there's certainly room to fail. So, yeah, I want to be all the way perfect. And what scares me is that, even so, I might get sideswiped by some tank with a huge blindspot and no side mirrors. Or a helicopter might fall out of the sky.

It's not like it's never happened. We might not have cable now, but I've seen movies, people.

So given that there are so many variables and that I can't control all of them, hadn't I best control the ones I can? I just don't feel like there's a margin for error on my part. I don't want to fail.

Suffice to say, I still have no idea how to ace the test, let alone score the extra credit, but I'm determined to keep trying.

Polly Goes to the Dark Side

Irony is so amusing when it happens to other people, right?

I think there's almost nothing in the world I couldn't find some inappropriate humor in if, and only if, it were happening to someone else. Like you, for instance.

Or your mama.

But when irony is happening to me, well, that's something else altogether. Then I am not amused. Possibly, some time later, I will be amused. But never in the moment.

I try to be careful, almost to a level of superstition, to not set myself up for the cosmic pratfall. I am particularly careful in the area of Secret Lulu. For instance, if there is some horrible thing your kid has done or is doing, I do not, ever, mention how Secret Lulu doesn't do that same thing. Not even if you ask my outright. I will, at most, admit that she hasn't gotten around to doing it yet. I will use a tone of voice that clearly indicates that if your child does that thing, then I am absolutely certain my time will come, likely soon.

I do not judge. If only because I am afraid.

I did not just wake up in this universe yesterday. I know that any smug feeling experienced while parenting is a clear and present precursor to bitter, bitter irony. If I so much as catch a glimmer of smugness flashing through me, I promptly smother it with visions of Secret Lulu behaving in exactly the same inappropriate way and then spitting red kool-aid on a baby draped in heirloom white christening gowns at the moment of baptism. The church is packed. The mother died in childbirth.

Voila: no more smug.

Because it could happen. I'm sure somewhere that very situation--and worse--has happened to mothers who got all uppity about how well their children are behaving. And it serves them right. I know that I've wished that and more on those unwise enough to exude smug in my direction when Secret Lulu attempts what I  refer to as a corner-to-corner. Corner-to-corner being the far reaches of the hallowed walls of our place of worship: Target. And Secret Lulu likes to see if her--well, I wouldn't call it joyful--noise can be heard to the very edges.

That's what I euphemistically refer to as "makin' mama proud."

So, I avoid smug. I really do. Because in doing so, I hope to avoid the ironic consequences. But the thing about irony is that it has this way of biting you in the bits when you least expect it. That's what makes it so ironical.

This is my story (and it has nothing to do with Secret Lulu):

I am very proud of my Darth Dateable post. Very. I think it's fabulous. I stand behind each and every word. I have always felt that I knew exactly what I was talking about when I wrote that post. I was, swear to gawd, channeling the beige truth of the universe.

So imagine my surprise when it occured to me that I would indeed be going to geek mecca this year. Indeed. You know the place: Comic-Con. Now perhaps you remember how witty I was when I said that you could get your geek there, spouting on about how it would be fine if they knew a few words of Klingon or Elvish so long as they weren't fluent; cracking up over how your geek-prey could have friends in costume but should not, himself, be in costume.

That was so funny. And true. It was absolutely true. No exceptions.

Except.

Did I mention that Ramblin' Jack is going to be at Comic-Con with me this year? Yeah. If you're go, too, you might even see him and I there together, maybe strolling hand-in-hand, enveloped in a cloud of geek bliss. But you won't recognize him. Not if all goes according to plan. Because he'll be in costume.

Stormtrooper.

You know, people, the guys in white armor who shot at Luke and Han in Star Wars.

And this is the part where I would normally amend what I said, put a clause or something in, about how if the person is not in tights, if their face is completely obscured, or if they are volunteering at the time, then it is different. You have to be reasonable, right? I mean, there are always exceptions. A cursory study of biology proves that, what with all the XXY or XXX and wonky genomes with all the definiteness of a hanging chad.

Rules is rules--no exceptions: except.

Except.

Except I'm likely to be in costume, too. Not wearing tights exactly. But not face-obscured and not volunteering, either.

I'll pause while you absorb the bitter, bitter hilarious irony.

My eyes are so rolled back in my head right now that I can barely see to type. I'm struggling here, people. A paradox has occurred.There has been a rip in the space-time continuum, and it is a little bit very likely that I will be going to Comic-Con in costume. With my face showing.

Yeh.

Because, these days, we're all about Star Wars around here. Secret Lulu wants to be Darth Vader when she grows up. Ramblin' Jack is building a Storm Trooper costume in the garage. And since I'm not nearly thin enough to pull off C3P0--and Princess Leia Organa has been done to death--I'm going to be an Imperial Officer, which puts me clearly on the Dark Side. But not because I'm bad. Only because I am exactly the type to "stand by your man." And child.

Okay. Maybe I'm just evil.

Now I admit, I'd rock a slave girl Leia costume. I would be perfection in a tiny metal bikini. In my dreams. But while I love that there are no underwear in space, in real life, I think I'm a better candidate for the uniform that features jodhpurs and a whip.

The costume comes with a whip, right?

In any case, you can see my situation. There's no denying it. So I'm going to do what I do best: ignore what I said before and embrace the reversal:

Everyone should go to Comic-Con. And I highly recommend wearing a costume.

Alice Measures Polly

 Alice: Why did you start If You Belonged Here?

Polly: I’m a very private person—aloof, secretive, and sarcastic—and the blog is an experiment in being more approachable without actually having to, Hank forbid, make actual human contact.

Alice: Where-o-where did you come up with the name?
 
Polly: I’m from New England and once upon a time at a wedding, Ramblin’ Jack was mentioning how half the street signs in my neighborhood are missing. My friend got this really sly, I’ll-let-you-in-on-a-secret look on his face and said, “that’s because if you belonged here, you’d know where you were going.” All of life is like that for me. I’m just trying to find my way around but someone has stolen all the signs.
 
Alice: Admit it, you made Ramblin’ Jack fall in love with you before he knew what hit him.
 
Polly: I’ve never denied it. I dazzled him with my smile, lured him with my wiles, and then sealed the deal with flannel pajamas. 
 
Alice: Do you think we will all win some sort of blogging award for being the hottest group of bloggers out there?
 
Polly: We definitely have the best profile pictures.
 
Alice: Am I your favorite?
 
Polly: Are you kidding? I’m my favorite.
 
Chance: Is this blog your one true love?
 
Polly: Ramblin’ Jack is my one true love. After that, I’ve got a soft spot for gerbils.
 
Alice: You’re the leader of this nonsense so does that mean you get final editing power over the entire team?
 
Polly: I only use my powers for good and I try to stay humble. But I admit that sometimes the power goes to my head.

Diosa: How are you keeping your sanity trying to organize all of us fabulous women?

Polly: I don't. I can't. So I stopped trying and decided to focus on the fabulous. And Chance. He's very helpful in a pinch.

Alice: If you had to keep only one of your posts, which would it be?
 
Polly: Darth Dateable. I think it’s solid advice. Once you go geek, you don’t go back.
 
Alice: Do you think Chance is a Save-the-Whales Zsa Zsa?
 
Polly: He might be a little more of a Save-the-Whales Michael Stipe. He seems less self-indulgent and more virtuous than the rest of us, somehow, while at the same time being just as self-indulgent and, well, quite prone to the naughty. I don't know how he pulls it off but he does.
 
Alice: Why don’t you have any pets?

Polly: I consider Secret Lulu a pet. But even if you don’t count her, we totally have a betta. And I’ve sponsored the adoption of no less than six webkinz.

But I can’t have a real dog or a real cat. I’m allergic to cats, but it wouldn’t matter. The food smells horrible and the poop smells worse. And sometimes they get diarrhea.

Alice: So, you refuse to eat at a buffet, huh?
 
Polly: I can’t eat buffet or cafeteria. I just can’t. The food is room temperature. It’s been breathed on. I’m suspicious of anything that comes from a vat. And maybe it's just a coincidence, but I mention diarrhea and that prompts a question about buffet? Of course it does.
 
Alice: Funniest thing you said this week?
 
Polly: I’m hilarious and I’m organized, but it’s not like I’m walking around taking notes on my own funny. I should probably hire a person for that.
 
Alice: Where do you wish you were right now?
 
Polly: At any given moment, on any given day, I’d probably choose to be at a spa doing spa things. In slow motion to avoid stress.
 
Alice: What would your mother say if she read this blog?
 
Polly: Well, she could read the blog but she doesn’t. I think that translates roughly into she’s already heard it all.
 
Alice: As an INTJ you cannot rest until everything is wrapped up, decided, and determined. That’s a quote. So does that mean you would have rather just written the questions and the answers to this interview yourself?
 
Polly: I want my house to be clean but I’d rather not do it myself. I like predictability but I’m not a micromanager. I prefer to sub out what I can.
 
Alice: You have a birthday coming up. Am I invited to the party?
 
Polly: Did you get me an expensive gift?
 
Alice: What’s your dream job?
 
Polly: Psychic advisor to Oprah. Or blues singer. Maybe both. But really, I'd like to be paid to attend spas. Not to review them or anything like that. Just to be there doing spa things.
 
Alice: Favorite movie, book, song.
 
Polly: If Lucy Fell, Shadow of the Wind, Close to Me.
 
Alice: What is your best INTJ characteristic?
 
Polly: I don’t have to be right. I usually am, but when I’m not, I’m fine with it. Unless the other person is wrong about me being wrong. Then I'm annoyed.
 
Alice: Being an INTJ means you’re not very friendly, right?
 
Polly: That depends on what you mean by friendly. But I’ll admit to disliking a sizable portion of the population. But only because they're idiots.
 
Alice: Where did you learn to do shots of Patron with such form?
 
Polly: The Marine Corps.
 
Alice: Do you love Foreskin’s Lament so far or what?
 
Polly: Everything but the genital mutilation.
 
Alice: If you had to be a celebrity, who would you be and why?
 
Polly: I’d be myself in celebrity form. Because I could keep my life but be fabulously wealthy, have more staff, and wear Valentino.
 
Alice: Most embarrassing moment?
 
Polly: Once, when I was packing, my vibrator fell out of a box and rolled across the floor. Of course I'd hired a moving company to do the heavy lifting, and of course the wayward item landed at the feet of one of the movers. And then the batteries popped out. I think Bookgirl might be able to top that, but not by much.
 
Alice: Proudest moment?
 
Polly: The vibrator thing.
 
Alice: One thing none of us know about you (except maybe Jack, but preferably not even him).
 
Polly: There’s a reason no one knows; I can keep a secret.
 
Pandora: I just purchased a candy bar. What was your last purchase?
 
Polly: Socks and underwear. Really.
 
Chance: Would you rather have a sex tape of yourself find its way to the internet or never be able to have sex again?
 
Polly: Too late.
 
Alice: How's the book coming along?
 
Polly: I’m on sabbatical.
 
Bookgirl: Never ending physical discomfort in the, lets say, hip or loud shrill screaming 20 minutes each day for the rest of your days?
 
Polly: I’ve kind of built up a tolerance for the shrill screaming and, in spite of it, I've become irrationally fond of Secret Lulu, so I’ll go with that.
 
Alice: You seem to have quite the educated opinion when it comes to birth control. What gives?
 
Polly: Everyone who is having sex should either be planning to use birth control or planning not to use birth control. But there should be planning. I cannot think of one manmade problem that would not be improved by the widespread use of birth control.
 
Alice: Rhode Island and San Diego. Biggest similarity?
 
Polly: The geographic footprint.

Alice: But seriously, am I your favorite?

Polly: I was being serious.