Cliques: I Just Wasn’t That Girl.
The One Who Tried Fitting In.
When they made me, they broke the mold. Like, for real. My mom tells me that all the time, I broke her down, wore her out and jumped on her last nerve. Go me! In high school, back in the 80′s when things were way cooler than they are now, I was considered a ‘burn-out’. Which, I think they just call them trouble makers now but that’s a different post. I didn’t play sports in one of the biggest ‘sports’ schools back in Chicago. I wasn’t the know-it-all smart kid with super fantastic grades. I wasn’t even in band… (that one time, at band camp) I just wasn’t one of those people you’d considered fitting in.
When I started having kids 26 years ago, I found myself a whole new level of not fitting in. I was 18, a baby having a baby. A teen mom before being a teen mom meant fitting in. Mom’s were all suburban 30 something’s. Popping Valium, drinking wine and making gooey fondue cheesy things I still to this day do not understand why that’s even a thing! Bleh. Can you picture the other mom’s faces when they saw me, all 80′s Madonna looking, chomping on my gum with my bra outside my T-shirt, showing up to playgroups? <whisper, whisper, got knocked up, whisper, whisper, drop-out, whisper, whisper, whore> Totally not fitting in. But, to be fair, my son did sport that Mohawk like a rock-star and their crotch monkey’s were all way to Granimal, so take that Valium popping suburbanite soccer mom! (did not help with the fitting in, I know!)
Years later, when Grandpa and I moved to that 1 paved road, no McDonald’s or pizza delivery guys small town in the middle of Nowhere, AZ? You guessed it. Not fitting in. Because I was a cultured Chicago girl used to colors, flavors, cussing, brushing my teeth and you know, showering and stuff. They were white bread, in a tan background with equally tan teeth and if brown(ish) tan had a smell, they were that too. I needed to talk to people who could form sentences longer than “Yeeeep” and when they did form sentences it didn’t center around Area 51, chewing tobacco and Sarah (screech) Palin. (barf) I totally was not fitting in. We stayed for 12 years until the kids grew up and moved out and I was either getting the heck out of dodge or hanging myself. Before my teeth turned brown.
And now? Remember the other day when I posted about not fitting in because I’m not a mommy blog? I’m not all pink hearts, rainbows and unicorns with leaky cloth diapers and don’t wear my babies. (I really like to poop alone, not juggling a kid on my knee) I am too old for the blogger drama, and have left more than a few bloggy groups because I wasn’t fitting in. I mean, just because you’re in the Blog Queen Parade and have a fancy tiara, you simply can not call me ‘dear’. I have crotch monkey’s older than you. Not happening blog queen, just not happening.
And, I know my awesome readers probably aren’t aware but for those blogger’s reading this, you know about thos God-awful ‘cliques’ right? How well are you fitting in? I sure as shit am not! Too old for a Mommy Blog, not luxurious enough for a Luxury Living Blog, and don’t get me started on some of those super secret campaign driven Big Bloggers groups. You know, where they compete to get new washing machines, remolded kitchens and drive luxury vehicles. Screw that noise. Grandma Juice ain’t (yes, I said ‘ain’t) drinking the kool-aide, taking your secret sorority pledge or giving my left arm for the sake of fitting in. I can however be talked into throwing my future ex son-in law out to the wolves if there’s any takers. Just sayin’.
I wasn’t really trying. But got a bit discouraged at toning down the bad and amping up the happy, happy, joy joy. I wanted to connect with real peeps who talked my language. I didn’t relish the idea of fitting in to a Mommy Blog. A Luxury Living Blog. I’m Grandma Juice! I’m happy to be fitting in and relating with my ever loyal and FULL OF THE AWESOME readers! You get me, right? We click together like puzzle pieces. In all the ways that make us laugh, cry and commiserate, we belong together. We love our families but they drive us bat shit crazy. We adore our small fry’s but want to hang them in a closet and nap sometimes. Laundry and house cleaning suck and if I never read another post about how happy I am to do it because my man likes a cooking, cleaning, baby making machine I may just puke.
You won’t find that here at Grandma Juice. I’ll be fitting in with those of you that can laugh at the crapola life dishes out. And, if they want to send me a new washer and dryer to help me do that pile of laundry, I sure as shit am taking it! My busted up dryer needs replacing.
Oh… and no kool-aide. Unless it’s purple. I like purple! And for the love of Jose Quervo, take that damn tiara off!
When was the last time you felt the pressure so you’d be fitting in? How’d that work for ya?