I don't really. . .

I've been tossing around ideas for my first blog entry. I want something deep, profound, light, whimsical, defining, engaging, amusing, and perhaps even genius. Of course, I've got nothing.

Well, actually that's not entirely true. I've got loads of ideas. They are jumping about with their hands raised shouting, "Pick me, Pick me!" But I can't seem to commit. None of it sounds good enough, and given my standards, I suppose that isn't surprising.

One idea that came up would be titled, "No panties Thursdays." I like it, but I think, with it being Sunday and all, I'll wait until next Thursday to whip that little nugget out. The second idea was the fact that I have been jonesing like a fiend to give New Moon another read. If I did, it would make my third time, but that isn't why I'm refraining. Neither is the fact that I am 35 and it was written for girls who are less than half my age. No, no. None of that is keeping me from jumping in to my favorite series and ignoring my children, dog and husband for the engaging residents of Forks, WA.

What is restraining me is the "rule" that I have set for myself. New Moon will be read the week of the movie release and not a second before. My book sits, taunting, on the shelf in a manner similar to the desert I place before my children to encourage them to eat their vegetables. I'll swallow the time because I want the story to be fresh, the movie to hit me just so.

This of course, struck me as completely unacceptable. No one in their right mind would reveal their silly quirks to the blogosphere so early in the relationship. You need time to know me before you realize just how disturbingly cooky I really am. I mean, I wouldn't go telling you that I have full blown conversations with my English bulldog or that I glean and respond to the social commentary present in SpongeBob episodes, would I? Seriously.

Take for instance, my latest guilty pleasure. I DVRed and watched the pilot for the television series, The Vampire Diaries this week. Okay, I watched it two and a half times. Once in a hurry, before I went to get the kids. Then I watched about fifteen minutes this weekend until my husband came in and I coerced him into watching it with me. Then the final time, with said hubby while snuggling against the sound of rain outside.

I considered discussing the show, but then thought about how I'd blown off the fandom of my friends for TruBlood. I dismissed the show for being "just a little too much like Twilight." And it was not without a bit of self-righteousness that I mentioned that I don't really watch TV anyway.

And I don't. Not really. Of course, I do watch what I DVR every now and again. Like WipeOut and That 70s Show reruns.

Well, last week I spoke with someone very briefly. I say very briefly because the conversation stopped abruptly when I brought up the subject of Facebook (did I mention I have an addiction to FB? Later, there's time for that). When I asked her if I'd seen her post on Facebook, this (otherwise wonderful) woman said, "Oh no, I don't really do the whole Facebook thing." She scrunched her nose and mouth and actually moved her hand like she was shooing flies at a barbecue.

Hmm.

Then I spoke with a girlfriend the other day -- I'll call her Jane -- who was telling me about feeling somewhat judged by a fellow friend -- let's call her Sally. Jane was at that awkward place in the relationship when you are deciding whether or not to move into the bedroom. Well, in a response that was overwhelmingly self-righteous (and downright hypocritical given our knowledge of Sally's history), Sally said, "I don't really think it's appropriate to have sex so soon." "So soon" in this case was just over two months in, which is neither here nor there, because we are all adults. Who on earth is justified in getting all Prudy Petunia when it comes to someone else's decision to get frisky in the sheets? Certainly not mine. And if I was one for saying (which I clearly am not) I would toss out there that this particular girl has enough skeleton's in her closet to sufficiently motivate her to shut the heck up. But, of course, I don't really comment on things like that.

So all this thought about what I don't do got me to thinking. What's up with the "I don't really. . ." statements. In the past year or so, I've heard folks who "don't really. . ." do so many things, from wearing make up (they always do) to using the plastic bags at the grocery store. I wonder if their statements are functioning in the same way mine have: often as feeble attempts at self preservation and sometimes as a balls-out lie.

I am truly tempted to ask the next person who floats one of these "I don't really. . ." statements my way if they might just be doing the same thing. But then again, I don't really get into what other people do.