"I hate that you don't have a blog," said a woman about to undergo heart surgery, as she gazed sincerely up at her boyfriend, "I hate that I don't know what you're thinking."

Mark and I burst into raucous laughter and had to pause the episode of House that we were watching to wipe away our tears of glee and catch our breath.  Seriously?  "I hate that you don't have a blog?" Really?  Yep.  That's what we personal (and dare I say it, female?) bloggers are all supposed to be like.  So divorced from real life connections, so caught up in deluding ourselves about these supposed "friendships" we have online, so obsessed with our hit count, so eager for an audience, so narcissistic, that we can't even talk to our partners or parent our children, at least not unless there's a screen between us.

The comments on the recent Motherlode post on "mommy blogging" back up this perception. There are lots of women there talking about the community and connections they've made and about the therapeutic release of writing.  And there are plenty of others saying those connections aren't real and that the children of these deluded, self-obsessed women are being sorely neglected.

And it makes me wonder, why do people think bloggers and other social networkers are so crazy and scary and dangerous and delusional?  Why is an online presence portrayed as something that precludes, rather than enhances or supplements, other relationships?  What makes friendships "real?"  Why do we believe that people don't know what "real" relationships look like?  Why does it matter so much how people (particularly women) spend their free time?  What makes us believe that online time is not, in fact, free time, but time that is being taken away from more important things?  For that matter, why do we always have to be doing something "important?"  What makes something "important" in the first place? (From what I read "important" is anything from things I'd count as truly important -- like spending time with loved ones -- to things I consider not at all important -- like making sure the house is tidy and/or we're making more money.)  What makes it ok for a published author of personal essays or a memoir to write in detail about herself, her life, her children, her friends, her family, but not ok for bloggers to do the same?

If there are any universal answers to those questions, I don't know them.  What I do know is that there are hundreds of people who have passed in and out of my life and have all seen a sliver of me, both online and offline: sitting next to me in a movie theater, driving me a few miles in a taxi, clicking on a link to my blog and clicking right back out again.  I know that there have been dozens to hundreds of lurkers in my life, both online and offline, who have seen bits and pieces of me (and not always the nice bits, nor for that matter, always the nasty ones): the neighbors who (assuredly) heard Mark and me arguing or laughing or having sex through the thin walls of our old apartment just the way we heard them, the folks at the next table in the restaurant listening to our conversations, the people silently reading my blog.

I know that I have hundreds of people I've talked to and spent time with each day over the years, who've shared a workplace or the classroom or the social space, both online and offline: coworkers, high school and college buddies, neighbors, moms at my kids' schools, folks in online discussion groups, blog readers, fellow bloggers.  Some I know well, have fun with and consider good friends.  Others are acquaintances whom I don't know, and still others I don't really like at all (and vice versa, I'm sure).

Then I know that there are people in my life, both online and offline, who are my soulmates: the ones who are family or like family, the ones who would know my voice (spoken or written) anywhere, the ones I call first when I have joys or sorrows to share, the ones who can come into my house and help themselves to a drink or a snack, the ones I laugh and cry and eat ice cream with, the ones who see me -- as me, all of me -- and get me, and are there for me, as I am for them.

Some of those soulmates are people like Jay (whom I've known for almost a decade now) and JW (who is my son Austen's absolute favorite person in the world to talk to long-distance (just don't tell his grandparents)); people I met online.  I didn't know what they looked like or what their voices sounded like or get to see or touch them in the flesh for years.  And some of those soulmates are people like my husband Mark or my friend Kelly; people I happened to meet "in real life."

I also know that I am fortunate enough to have six hours a day free when my kids are in school and my husband is at work.  I know that I spend the vast majority of that time on housework, household administration and errands that are unseen by the and unacknowledged by people both in and out of the blogosphere.  And I know that I take some of those six hours, as a gift to myself and a support to others, to write.  I know there are people who don't respect that or see it as useless and "a waste of time" because I either don't get paid (or don't get paid much) for that.  I also know that I love my life and the way I spend my days, and that although what I contribute to the world (whether in doing the dishes or feeding my kids or blogging) may seem small, it's important: just as, in my favorite movie, It's a Wonderful Life, George Bailey's life and work in his small town was as valuable as anything he ever could have done if he'd gone out and built those bridges and skyscrapers he dreamed of.

No doubt there are people out there who become so obsessed with some aspect of their life or group of friends that they ignore other relationships.  No doubt there are people who can't tell the difference between a genuine friendship and the high of a falsely instant connection (I'm married to someone in recovery for just that, remember?).  No doubt someone, somewhere in the world, has to conduct a poll of everyone she knows before making major life choices.  No doubt there is a mom out there somewhere who is ignoring her kids while she does something else.  But all of that is hardly new to the Internet, just as "real" friends in my life haven't been confined strictly to people happen to have met in person.

And that's why Mark and I laughed as we listened to that fictional blogger on House.  We laughed knowing that I blog (about intimate details of our lives) and he doesn't.  We laughed knowing that we were snuggling on the sofa watching House after talking for over two hours -- about everything from mundane topics, like scheduling the kids' doctors appointments, to quite serious matters about our marriage -- during which I never once wistfully opined that it would go better with a keyboard in hand.  We laughed because Mark knows me better than anyone, online or off.  And we laughed because we both knew exactly what bits and pieces of those few hours spent talking and watching TV would go on the blog and what never would.

My daughter Janie ran up to me today, curls bouncing and eyes sparkling, and exclaimed enthusiastically, "Mama, I love you the most of anyone!" Then she thought for a moment and (clearly not wanting to leave her other loved ones out of the picture) tempered that with, "More than anyone outside our family.  I love our family the most!"

"I love you so much too! I love you and Austen and Daddy more than anyone else in the whole world," I replied.

"What about our cat?" asked Janie, "He's part of our family. Don't you love him too?"

"Yes, I love our cat, but not as much as I love you."

"Oh," said Janie, "Do you love your friend JW?"

"Yes, I love JW."

"Do you love her more than the cat?"

"Yes, I love her more than the cat."

"And who else do you love? Do you love your other friends, like Jay and Kelly and other people like that?"

"Yes, I love my other friends too."

"Do you love them more than the cat?"

"Yes, I love them more than the cat."

"Why?!" she asked, clearly shocked at the amount of love that was being directed outside of our immediate household and away from the cat.

"Hm, because the cat is, well, a cat not a person. Cats can't talk to me and have a relationship like people can. So, I don't love cats the same way that I love people."

"Do you love all people better than cats?"

I laughed and thought of a whole slew of people, from the kid who used to shoot spitballs at the back of my head to my high school history teacher to George W. Bush to blog trolls, and said, "No, I definitely love our cat more than some people."

This week I plan to tell one of my best and oldest friends about my husband's addiction after nearly six years of silence around it. I've wanted to let her in to this part of my life, because keeping her out -- keeping anyone I feel close to out -- feels like I'm creating a huge chasm in our relationship. The million little joys and triumphs and heartaches of recovery that have shaped me are all hidden, and when I think to share them, I have to bite my lip. I can't entirely be myself in a friendship where I have always felt most myself: most loved, most cherished, most dear. But Mark and I both needed recovery to be ready to share.

When I discovered Mark's addiction and we began our journey of recovery, we thought about who we ought to share with, and for the most part, we chose people we knew would be supportive of both of us and keep loving us no matter what. Mark didn't feel comfortable sharing, because he was so full of shame and fear that it would change the way my friend and her husband saw him. I knew they would love me just the same, but I worried that Mark was right and they wouldn't be able to forgive him. I also couldn't stand the thought that they might love him less after what had happened, so I tried to take care of him, take care of our image as a happy couple. And then as time went on, my friend had her own sadness and losses, and I couldn't bear to burden her with what I was going through. So, I tried to take care of her by hiding my problems in an attempt to lighten hers.

Now, six years later, I'm finally ready to let go of the fear of hurting her or hurting Mark by sharing all of myself again, and so is Mark. I can't control how she'll feel, but walling myself off in an attempt to control her feelings, isn't really doing a service to her or to our friendship.

We go out shopping,
try a gaudy sweater dress
just to laugh at it.

Bright, flashy, sparkly,
we expect pure tackiness
but she looks stunning.

The joke is on us:
That strange, laughable dress proves
everything's her style.

When Austen was a baby, a friend of my husband's gave him a stuffed camel, which she brought for him all the way from Israel. However, Austen never showed much interest in toys without wheels or numbers. The sole exception was a stuffed rabbit my friend Kelly sent him for his first Easter, which he dragged around everywhere by its ears. The rabbit played "Easter Parade" when you pressed its belly, and Austen would crawl with it, each movement of his left hand marked by a soft thud followed by the electronic tinkle of music. Somehow that rabbit set a standard for music, and all songs since have been met with screaming; Austen hasn't liked music since the batteries (that were the soul of his first love) died.

Austen ignored the camel. But it had come from far away, carried over the wide sea just for him, so I put it up in a place of honor on a shelf next to his crib. When Mark and I opened the door to his room, the camel was one of the first objects to greet our eyes each day: sitting on that shelf, gathering dust and watching over our son as he slept curled next to his rabbit.

When Austen was two, Mark admitted that he had had sex with the woman who had so kindly given our baby boy the stuffed camel that sat by his crib nearly all his life. And suddenly my son's room felt poisoned and oppressive: tainted by the presence of that toy. As angry as I was at Mark for anything, I was perhaps most furious at him for letting the blood money of his addiction touch the life of his infant son. But Mark didn't need the sharp prod of my anger to hurt him. Each day, when he entered that room, he had seen the camel there, a reminder of his shame, and he'd been washed in self-loathing that would make him feel physically sick. He tried to avoid looking at it. He tried to think of how to get rid of it, but he couldn't think of how to manage it without arousing suspicion. And he thought it best, at the time, that Austen and I never know what had happened. He would keep this secret, because surely, now, finally, (he said to himself) he'd be able to stop, and this would really, truly (this time he meant it) never happen again. Until at last, something inside him shattered, and he had to admit he needed help.

I took the camel out of Austen's room, and intended to get rid of it. But I couldn't bear to give it to charity, to throw that shadow of betrayal over some other innocent life. And throwing it in the trash seemed too casual an action for a symbol of such hurt. So one night, after we put Austen to bed, Mark and I put the camel in our old charcoal barbecue grill, doused it in lighter fluid and set it on fire. It flared up; flames licked the night air, as it curled and dissolved into a plume of black smoke. Mark and I put our arms around each other and watched it burn, and I felt cleaner and closer to him than I had since I'd learned of his addiction.

We scrubbed the grill and sold it at a yard sale: every bit of the camel gone from our lives. But the simple emptiness and lack were not enough. Like a symbol for our marriage, from the ashes of that shame and pain, I wanted something new and beautiful to arise. So we went to a toy store, and picked out a stuffed bunny (since Austen was partial to them) and took it to a women and children's shelter along with some old clothes and baby gear, hoping some other child would love dragging this new toy around by the ears.

I even have favorite Disney princess, the one to whom I most relate: Belle of Beauty and the Beast. Belle, the one walking around with her nose in a book, dreaming of a different life, falling in love with a man (or rather, beast) for his library: that's me. In my pre-kid days, I used to commute to work by public transit, and I would read door to door, reading as I walked. Somehow I avoided any major accidents, or maybe they avoided me; I was too busy reading to notice. And I have been known to fall for a man for his library, although I can't say I recommend it.

But I relate to more than just Belle's bookishness. As I have been reading this Disney princess book aloud to my daughter over and over, it has occurred to me that Belle's story is one I used to believe in and wish for. I didn't dream of marrying a dashing, handsome prince; nope, I always dreamed of marrying a lonely, solitary, isolated man who would be transformed by my love.

The beast physically assaults and imprisons Belle's elderly father and verbally abuses and imprisons Belle. But simply by loving and being loved, he's cured, healed, fixed! No more anger management problems, just gentle loving kindness. He loves her, she loves him, and he literally and instantaneously transforms from a monster to a man. Her love is the magic ticket to the happily ever after. It's just what every codependent wants and believes is possible. And just like all fairy tales, it's a fantasy. Now to explain that to my daughter...

I could have sworn that, before I left on vacation, The Pentecostal Pariah tagged me again with the 8 Things About Me meme, but now I can't find a mention of it. So, either I am crazy or she took the post down or someone else tagged me but didn't actually link to me so it doesn't show up when I search Technorati. Whatever. This is what I planned to do today, so screw it. The kids are done with their summer activities and I've been up late reading Harry Potter with Mark. (Mark and I read aloud to each other and we are not done yet, so: closing my ears, lalalala, can't hear you!) Anyway, with my brain working on how to keep everyone occupied for the next few weeks and worrying about where the Horcruxes are and what Severus Snape is up to, I can't do but so much other thinking.

I'm going to tell you 8 more things, but since I can't find any evidence of the tag and since I've done this meme before, I'm going to change it up and blog about 8 things I loved about my recent trip. And then, tomorrow, I'm going to move on to Aphra Behn's interview and let blogging about the trip rest for a while. And then I'm going to leave on vacation (again) and this time I'm not going to look at my stats when I come back, and I'm going to know that no matter how much any of you comment, it's not going to matter, because until I do a better job of finding God, sitting in meditation, doing yoga and embracing myself, I will always be a bottomless pit of codependent insecurity and neediness seeking endless external validation. Sigh!

8 FAVORITE THINGS ABOUT MY TRIP

1. I love that Jess has a new car, but it still smells like all her cars, like her, like Love's Baby Soft and cigarettes.

2. I love old friends and being in the small town where I grew up. I love that I could call Janice and on a few hours notice, have a place to stay and loving people around me.
3. I loved that when Missy's baby fussed, I could scoop him up in my expert Mama arms and quiet him and get him to fall asleep on my shoulder. I loved the feeling of him sleeping there, small and warm and soft. And I loved that new mama Missy worried that, at 14 pounds, as a "big" baby, he was a heavy burden for me. My kids are 40 and 60 pounds now, and six years of carrying them has strengthened me so that I can carry them still, both at the same time. My arms are strong: I'm a mama, they have to be.
4. I loved holding onto Kelly and crying and having that say everything I needed to say.
5. I loved seeing my friend Deb and her family and meeting the daughter that looks just like her, only with red hair.
6. I loved seeing two guys in particular at my high school reunion. One was someone I didn't like in high school because he was handsome, and in my own insecurity, I imagined that meant he was arrogant. He turned out to be kind and warm and open and genuinely happy to see everyone, including me. The other was a good man I'd lost touch with who was doing well and was happy after some hard times in the past. He told me he wants to pinch himself everyday because he can't believe he's managed to arrive at such a good place in his life. And I was happy to see him doing so well.
7. I loved sitting on the beach with Ellen as her kids circled like seagulls in the sand. The ocean doesn't smell or sound the same anyplace in the world as it does back home.
8. I loved finding serenity and gratitude during my illness in my car ride with Pat.

And, because I don't want to put much thought into anything today, if you want to blog 8 things about yourself, consider yourself tagged. Only don't blog about my vacation, blog about yourselves!