Well, if you’re reading this, then you’ve found my little cubby hole on the world wide internet. This is what my high school counselor, Mrs. Jane, calls “the shouting room.” Though this place doesn’t seem very open, and I’m not really into shouting, but Jane, with her long hippy hair, flowing dresses, beads and registered Democrat card, seems cool enough so I’ll indulge her.
But first things first. I’m Mable, 16, a soon to be sophomore, and that’s about the only true stats you’ll get out of me. Anonymity, per my parents, is the only reason they’re letting me blogcast. “No real names just aliases. We don’t need crazies knocking on the door late at night or egging the Caravan.” Dads words verbatim.
So here we go. Mom and Dad are just that, middle-aged Mom and Dad, my little brother, 14, is Oliver, and big sis, 20, will be Morgan. Jane is just Jane. She doesn’t mind.
We live in Greenville USA, population 30,000, give or take. It’s small enough that you can bike to school, but just large enough too always take the bus. It snows in the winter and bakes in the summer. There’s a community college, a mall circa 1977, a struggling paper mill, and two thriving Super Wal-Marts.
Dads an assistant manager at the paper mill, having worked there for about 20 years. Moms a hospice nurse and therefore cries a lot (or use to cry a lot) over the endlessly rotating cast of people in her life, though she rarely brings her emotions home (she’s a real cold fish, and the possible root to my neurosis). Oliver, who is about to be in the 8th grade, is a homebody geek with a ham radio set and friends he more hears than sees. And finally, there is Morgan, a Skankosaurus Rex attending a distant community college and who is only home on weekends.
There are others but the only one that’ll make it into the about page will be my BFF June P. Rodriguez, or June Bug to me, that “Mexican girl” to Mom. She moved up from Big Texas last winter and lives with her brother Sunny and mother, Mrs. Rodriguez (white) at the Hunter Estates Trailer Park. She short, fat and with her thick curly Latina hair ever pulled into a strong ponytail. She curses perpetually, smokes occasionally and is sharp as a razor. She is also perhaps the most honest person I have ever known, and I love her for it.
The reason for this blog is simple. People say I don’t talk enough and my speechlessness is getting worse. I talk less now than a year ago, and a year before that, according to Morgan, I couldn’t shut up. Jane says its because I’m a middle child of two middle children and am tagged with some especially rare Freudian curse. But the truth is I just don’t have the words to say what I feel, or even know what it is that I feel or why I feel it. I’m sure many of you feel the same. Was that a play on words? I think we’re going to have fun with this.
We’ll just keep it PG-13. Mom says she’ll check up every few weeks or so to make sure I haven’t posted our SSN’s or bank account info and that everything is in general “kosher.” (My mother actually said the word kosher!) Oh, and if you forgive my bad punctuation and grammar, I’ll forgive yours.
PS: Well, after a few months of blogging, everyone’s seemed to have forgotten about my little WordPress adventure. Mom hasn’t seen a single page yet and honestly I’m not sure I want to reminder about it. Let sleeping blogs lie shall we?
Also, I am talking more with Mom and everyone else. Just a few more steps towards normalcy. Perhaps by thirty-five I’ll be just another CPA with 2.5 kid, a loving husband and and a small suburban lawn cut weekly by the Johnson boy down the lane. Ahh!! The American Dream.
American Dysfunctionality 