As Her Bad Mother says, sometimes you can't vent openly about something or other because whatever that thing is will get you in a whole lot of hot water. So she has organized the Bitchin' Bitchfest Blog Exchange to give a whole bunch of us an outlet to do it. Over this weekend around a hundred bloggers will be venting their spleens on other people's blogs, getting the opportunity to release the bad feelings without causing more of them. I have opened my blog space up to another blogger to free him/herself of whatever's causing them consternation. I may or may not be one of the hundred rantin' up a storm on someone else's blog.
Want to get in on the action? Get the cathartic effect of reading all this mess? Then checkout Her Bad Mothers Basement for details.
When I started writing on the internet in 2003 I was suitably freaked that my workplace would find out. I worried about internet stalkers and all kinds of random acts of crazy. But I never thought about the consequences of telling my family about my blog. I have a tiny (but loyal!) readership (super tiny!) and I tantrum with glee about customer service and freaks on the bus and feminine hygiene products.
I don’t write about work because I like paying my mortgage. I don’t write about my marriage because I like being married. And well, I don’t write about my sister because she reads my blog. And her explosive self-righteousness would set fire to most of Florida.
My sister was once my dear friend. I looked past her pettiness because I love her. My parents behaved much the same way. We managed her the way you manage a colicky baby—stifle the screaming at all costs. But the shit has piled up and the little things feel less little. The little things that seem so ridiculous on their own make me feel like an idiot for not saying anything. But I can’t say anything and keep the family peace. Except here I can.
I can talk about how my sister compares herself to me constantly. The last time I saw her she dove into my suitcase to check out the sizes on my clothes. Jeans that were loose on her were declared ENORMOUS. Anything that was too tight was obviously too small for me too. She can tell you our SAT scores, who won what awards in school, who got what grade when. I always thought it would be difficult to be the smart daughter compared with the pretty one or vise versa. But now I know that two daughters who are pretty similar in every way have it much worse. At least if one of them is competitive.
I can talk about how my sister holds an ugly grudge against my mother, for something that she acknowledges my mother is not at fault for. She says hateful things to my mother, treats her horribly, all for things that my mother didn’t do. That didn’t happen THIRTY YEARS AGO.
I can talk about how she threw a tantrum at my wedding. How she screamed at my mother for what she called a tacky wedding (knowing that my mother and I had planned it together). How she pouted and wailed that I couldn’t get married first because she was the older sister. How she really expected me to wait even though she wasn’t engaged—in fact hadn’t had a date in years. How that wait would have been almost seven years.
I can talk about how she counts her gifts at holidays and birthdays. And counts mine. Like a ten year old. Even though our parents are careful to spend the exact amount on both of us. How last year, after I had a miscarriage and my mom was just crushed under the stress of the holidays we still went out to get my sister’s presents because we knew she would have a fit. I told my mom not to worry about mine.
I can talk about how she babies her husband and expects us all to as well. How he can’t handle any teasing—oh and I don’t mean we can tease him (some people are sensitive to that and we don’t know him well) but we can’t make jokes of any kind around him because he is “intimidated.” How now that they are taking a trip she is panicking that he will hit his head on the bulkhead—an adult man too silly to duck if the ceiling is low?
I can talk about how it crushed and humiliated me when we met some of her friends and they said “Oh you’re the Jews. We pray for you to come to your senses every week.” How she will lecture me about how we aren’t “real Jews.” Do I have to even mention that she isn’t Jewish?
I can talk about the shame I feel. That she is so greedy. That she quit her job but asks for money from our grandparents and parents. She didn’t quit because she was going to do something else, or was caring for children or wanted to go to school. She isn’t trying to build a business or change careers or volunteering. She isn’t really doing anything.
I can talk about how she broke my heart. How I know by coddling her we have created this monster. That I am glad she reads my blog because it means I don’t have to talk to her as much. Because talking to her reminds me of how much distance there is between us now.
Up for more ranting? Check out Anyabeth's blog Tantrum Warehouse.
