Yep, it’s Wednesday, and I’m still calling this my Monday morning dirty secret spill.

For one, it still kind of feels like Monday since this week has flown by and, for another, it’s my website so I can do that if I want to.

Okay, are you ready? Because here…we…go!

I love rinsing my sinuses out with saline water.

I’m ecstatic that it’s snowed two days in a row and that it’s cold again (and I’m not kidding in the slightest).

I don’t like Instagram pictures of food—but I’m guilty of putting a few up myself.

(That’s (stellar) whole wheat pizza dough made from scratch and homemade sauce and, no, I’m not ashamed.)

I don’t like Instagram pictures of yoga postures, but—you guessed it—I’ve put up some of my own.

Oh, and while I’m not even at 100 Instagram followers yet, I’m doing better than my previous tally of 8.

I like the word tally.

And sandbar.

And I strongly dislike the word lunch (even though I adore lunch itself).

I like the word Legos, though, and I’m still digging playing with them. Actually, I got my husband a set for his Valentine’s Day gift. (That gorgeous creation above is his and that teensy hand is my daughter’s, who’s impatiently wanting to play with it.)

I’m still watching Glee and—although the Glee club is called “New Directions” (please say this over and over again until you get it) and despite my husband insisting that it’s making him dumber—I’m still having fun watching.

I haven’t seen Downton Abbey since my previous announcement of our break-up (but I’m not saying that I’ll never watch it again either).

Because I don’t believe in saying never.

Also, I don’t understand writers who think their writing stinks or who fish for compliments. If you stink—or if you think you stink—why are you writing? There’s nothing wrong with owning your strengths. We are so afraid of being perceived as arrogant that we sometimes can’t even embrace our confidence. Let’s reclaim confidence.

Okay, off my soapbox now.

Speaking of soap, I loathe laundry and mine tends to pile up because I wait and do it all in one day in a few large loads. I tell my husband (and myself) that it’s because I have a small child and the laundry room is downstairs and that if, someday, we have a washing machine up near the kitchen (where they should be), that the laundry will always be done. However, this doesn’t completely take into account that the part about laundry I dislike is the folding.

I know how to fold a fitted sheet…wait for it…two different ways! (But I still bundle it up in a kind-of-neat ball and put it in the linen closet.)

My daughter is snoring next to me. She’s only napping because she’s home sick. While I don’t want her to feel unwell, her little body sleeping soundly next to my furiously typing one is like a tiny piece of heaven that I’ll keep stored away in my heart forever.

I’m using Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You? as a mousepad, and I’m leaning forward at an awkward, uncomfortable angle to reach the mouse because the book is wedged between my slumbering child’s leg and my own.

I refuse to use my laptop’s lame attempt at a “mouse”—and I insist on using a real one instead.

Finally, I hope my little girl sleeps for awhile, because, frankly, I need the break.

Over and out.

Photos: Author’s own.

The post Monday Morning Dirty Secret Spill—Um, Wednesday Edition. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Here goes.

My second dirty secret spill, in what I hope will be a weekly special here on my website.

The above picture is from roughly four years ago, when I was asked to be a hair model. I like the picture, though, and I like to switch my bio images up every now and then, so I used it.

And…Downton Abbey and I broke up.

It wasn’t messy and I don’t have hard feelings, but, last week’s episode, frankly, wasn’t enjoyable to watch. It was, for me, just too much horrible drama.

Yet, part of the reason saying (a temporary?) good-bye to Downton wasn’t terribly difficult was because…I’m already seeing someone else.

Yes, I’ve been watching—drum roll—Glee.

This might be a television show from 2009—and I may or may not have religiously made fun of it—but I’d never seen even a five-second clip of this show until this past week.

Because after last Monday’s dirty secret spill two things happened: one, my daughter got sick and we spent quite a lot of time holed up together at home and, two, well, I’ll get to that shortly.

So, back to my child getting sick.

She loves music. Loves. (I actually think that she could be in a glee club someday.)

I was browsing our Amazon Prime selections and noticed Glee as a “recently added tv show” and I knew instantly that she would adore the musical aspect of it.

Needless to say, she did break out her microphone to begin singing along after less than five minutes of the first episode, and it helped make our week amazing rather than difficult.

And, the second thing that happened last week.

This:

A

And this:

(Yes that’s a one-horsepower car.)

And this, too:

(Yep, that’s a full kitchen, a loft—oh and my husband later made me a lava lamp.)

Oh, and…this:

Yes, my name is Jennifer and I’m obsessed (again, at age thirtysomething) with Legos.

Also last week, I officially diagnosed myself with ADEVVC.

Adult Delayed Eddie Vedder Voice Crush.

I might have owned Pearl Jam’s first album Ten on a cassette tape (Google it if you were too young to have ever used Myspace—which, much to my joy, is often referenced in these early Glee episodes), but I was never a Pearl Jam fan. I lost interest after Vs. (Although I did buy that on—ahem—CD.)

Anyways, I’m still constantly listening to the Into the Wild soundtrack (hence my ADEVVC).

I now have 51 followers on Instagram rather than 8. (Not to brag or anything.)

I keep tissues in my bra because I’m usually wearing yoga leggings with no pockets. (Hey, at least I don’t keep pencils, money and a full-on purse selection in there like my great-grandma did—yet.)

I feel bad a$$ when I drive my stick-shift Jetta.

I haven’t listened to my voice mails in nearly two weeks.

I’m still not used to my iPhone’s touch screen. (Which is probably why I didn’t text you back yet.)

I’m down with Madonna’s general need for attention, but not with her recent usage of the N-word.

I was rooting for Gwen Stefani to have a girl.

I won’t let my husband take our Christmas tree down.

I was thrilled to finally share some of my storytelling with the world via this article about envy, but I’m not really an envious person—which is why I wrote it.

One last dirty secret spill for this Monday morning:

That caged girl piece I wrote?

I’m really proud of it—it’s my personal best so far—but it wasn’t hard for me to share.

It didn’t feel courageous or brave or any of the other beautiful responses that readers have messaged me (but thank you). And here’s why:

Some things shouldn’t have to be secrets in the first place.

Over and out—for now.

Photo credit: Author’s own; Neal Jennings/Flickr.

The post Monday Morning Dirty Secret Spill. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Well, today didn’t exactly go as planned.

My not-feeling-so-hot daughter stayed home from school this morning, nixing my own plans.

This isn’t the biggest deal. Rather, it’s more of a stringing series of happenings that seems to be building upon one another regularly—and haphazardly—much like the Legos that she and I played with yesterday.

(Exhibit A—Lego Proof:)

(

So, that happened.

It was awesome.

I digress.

Here’s what didn’t happen: a visit I was looking forward to, a yoga class my body needed—and that my spirit needed more—and, most importantly, a mother’s heart is never truly at ease when her child is out of sorts.

And yet.

And yet the two of us aren’t usually the kind to mope—or mope for too long.

Instead, we might be putting NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert out of business with our own Tiny Bathtub Concert series. We broke out the hairbrushes and the combs and, essentially, anything that could serve as water-friendly microphones.

We listened to all of the songs on this playlist plus a few more from this one.

Then we had bathtub snacks and beverages, of course.

But better than Legos, hairbrush microphones, bathtub bubbles and favorite music was the fact that, for the first time in two days, I stopped crying.

I’ve been excessively and unusually weepy—and I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Sincerely. It’s me getting in touch with my reality.

Because I’m not perfect. (Although I am perfectly imperfect.)

I have gloriously lofty ideologies, but I will forever make mistakes, and, thankfully, plenty of them.

Because I don’t want to be perfect—that’s boring.

I don’t want to always be good, wholesome, happy and anything else that’s pretty to write about—or read, for that matter.

What I do want to be is this:

Honest.

I want to live my life from a place of genuineness, even if that means that I’m open with my missteps and errant ways.

Still, I don’t want to be open and honest if it means not being kind.

Honesty that deeply hurts another should be questioned adamantly.

Improper.

I don’t want to live in Downton Abbey, although it would be nice to visit.

Sure, I love the clothes and the characters are a fascinating collage of personalities, but it’s—how do I put this—a little too stuffy for me.

I don’t want appropriate at the expense of enjoyment of life.

Idle.

Permanently idle, no—but capable of being idle, yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Movement can sometimes be an escapist means of denial.

To sit in my discomfort, when it arises, is to know myself, and to know myself breeds wisdom and, potentially, a better understanding of those around me as well—and that I want. (Plus, we all need balance and part of balance includes rest.)

Does this mean that I don’t try my damnedest every day to be a wonderfully good and wholesome creature? No—but there’s also a striking difference between intentions, aims and end results.

Much like my day not going as planned, life doesn’t—overall—typically go as scheduled and, further, because of these unexpected detours, we become the people who we are.

And I like me.

I like my sassy tongue–even if that means I’m occasionally a touch too sharp with it.

I like that I’ll never be able to spell occasionally without thinking about it—it means that I’m human.

And I like my daughter’s quirks—they’re, strangely, often her most pleasant talents.

I like, too, the days when my child and I are snowed in or that we’re home not feeling our most amazing—because this is when those little snippets of life happen that bring me the greatest, most genuine, most honest, least expected joys—and that’s why I stopped crying, finally.

After all, there will be plenty of school days and plenty of yoga classes, but there won’t always be days when I have a three year old who wants to sing with me into our toothbrushes in the bathtub—or maybe, just maybe, this will, likewise, be different than I suspect.

Photos: Author’s own.

The post Life (& Happiness) Happen When We Make Other Plans (& Stop Aiming for Perfection). first appeared on Jennifer S. White.