Before we get started, for the record, I still have a problem dealing with attractive people in person; I lose basic motor skills, my IQ plummets to disability-check-worthy lows, and, although I’m technically unconscious at the time, I’m 98% sure that I physically mutate into an equine anus during these encounters. This is something I hope to cure with time but, honestly, I’m not too optimistic about a full recovery.

However, back in my high school adolescence, I used to hate a few specific women who were beautiful… and the funny thing about this was that I actually thought I was hating them because they were beautiful. (Y’know, just like every other catty, insecure adolescent female being raised in this insane modern American society.) The weird thing was, though, that I only really loathed a couple girls specifically and then viewed/judged all the other beautiful girls around me objectively. For example, some of my closest friends at the time were “those girls” who were traffic-stoppingly/crowd-hushingly gorgeous and, while I sometimes cried with envy at the attention they were so easily able to garner, I never once actually felt any ill feelings toward them because of their staggering beauty. (Additionally, I never fell madly in love with any of my beautiful friends and thank God for that because aaaaawkwaaaard.) Similarly, there were other girls around me that our small community saw as “beautiful” but whom I genuinely couldn’t stand because of the horrible characters they actually were just a scratch below their coveted surfaces. I can honestly say that neither of these two varying types of beautiful acquaintances ever received anything other than objective emotional responses from me, which is pretty damned impressive now that I think about it, given how tormented by incessant, relentless insecurity I was at the time.

In my endless reflection on who I was (which is ongoing and consistently updated) you’d think I would’ve caught This Great Epiphany sooner, but, instead, it took me ten whole years to realize that the few girls I supposedly hated with every fiber of my being were, in fact, the ones I was in love with.

I know; it’s painfully obvious from where I’m sitting now as an “out” bisexual who has comfortably had relationships with women and has no problem identifying women I find attractive and acknowledging/praising the beauty in every woman. In fact, you would’ve thought I’d have come to this conclusion, oh, 7-8-ish years ago when I stopped being genuinely afraid of beautiful people (even completely inaccessible celebrities) after the realization that, just because someone else is physically beautiful, it doesn’t mean that I’m somehow not or am less of a person or should feel threatened/intimidated in their presence, etc. (You know… Normal coming-into-adulthood-after-a-bunch-of-therapy stuff.) Around that time (2003-ish), just like now, I just got shy and idiotic around pretty people (’specially women) but my first response wasn’t to automatically loathe them; that was reserved for just a few people.

There’s one recently recovered memory in particular that brought about The Great Epiphany. In high school (as in every high school) there was this One Girl in my class who was just outlandishly gorgeous and wise beyond her years and incredibly vulnerable but unabashedly assured in her sexuality (moreso than the rest of us, who were still trying to figure out how to admit that we were sexual beings without being labeled “sluts”, ’cause we thought that matteredAAANYWAY) and, while her character drew me in and made me a bit obsessive in my observations of her, I just looooaaathed her with an intensity normally reserved for terrorists and abusive exes.

I know the moment it started, too. She and I were invited to a slumber party of a mutual friend and, although I remember nothing about this party except for who the hostess was and that we listened to a lot of Shonen Knife, one instance stands out as A Defining Moment of My Identity. We were all gorging on ice cream and whipped cream (maybe icing?) like you do when you’re 15 and won’t gain an ounce from anything you ingest and, for some reason, She turned to me out of nowhere, in apropos of nothing, and said, “Hey, try this; it feels really cool.” And then She put some whipped cream (maybe icing?) on my tongue and sucked it off.

Don’t get excited; literally NOTHING else like this happened at this or any other slumber party I ever attended in my youth. There were no ensuing make-out sessions, no admittances to deep, love connections, no scantily-clad pillow fights, no comparing of breast sizes - nothing. She closed her eyes and slowly sucked the cream off the length of my tongue and then perked back into Her normal self, exclaiming, “Weird, right!?” and then went on with the rest of the night with no idea that She’d just changed my whole entire fucking life.

See, I knew I’d had inklings of being “into” girls before then but, you know, a girl isn’t “supposed” to get giggly and giddy and infatuated over another girl the way she can over a boy. Girls aren’t “supposed” to doodle other girls’ names into their notebooks or whisper to her friends about how cute the female object of her affection looked on any particular day. Sure, there had been female acquaintances during my previous 15 years that I’d been attracted to, but I would just bashfully shy away and ignore them, lest I found myself giddily blushing in response to their attention and wanting to ask people if she’d talked about me or what she was wearing, etc. And, so far, I’d been keeping a pretty good cover… Until the tongue-sucking moment.

Being that there’s no handbook on how to handle keeping a lid on homosexual attraction when you’re barely able to define your sexuality at all (and/or even believe that bisexuality is a real thing and wasn’t just made up for “My So-Called Life”), I took the 5-year-old-boy-on-the-playground approach and decided to publicly hate Her. Passionately. For years. Actively. It seemed totally safe and foolproof; if I loudly proclaimed how much I hated Her, there was no way anybody would possibly think I was actually infatuated with Her, right? As far as I was concerned, I was a genius in my ruse.

And this embarrassingly immature/textbook scheme lead to me being a complete moron about it for the next 4 years, being reallysupernice to Her face (because I actually liked talking to Her and being around Her energy) and then overcompensating to cover my fondness by saying truly awful things about Her to my friends. (Years and years later, when I apologized to her for being suuuch a cunt, I explained that my insecurity was such that I genuinely never thought someone like Her could possibly give a shit about what someone like me might be saying about Her, which is honestly/pathetically the truth. I really never stopped to think that She would/could ever be hurt by anything I was saying, just like everybody else I talked smack about in high school. Seriously, I was nobody; who would take offense to anything I had to say? I know; pretty messed up… Uhhh… however, I left the part about the infatuation out of that conversation with Her; I figured the aforementioned statement was fucked up enough. No need to pile on unnecessary levels of fuckery  this far into the future when it’s no longer relevant, you know?) What a totally awesomely foolproof plan I had concocted!

This actually happened with a couple other girls I was very seriously attracted to (if you’re reading this and somehow still hold onto the idiotic/ignorant belief that gay/bi people are wildly attracted to everysingleperson in their preferred gender(s), I’m going to need you to stop reading this and maybe do a little research on how human attraction and this stuff all works. Come back when you’ve taken some time to understand human sexuality a bit more thoroughly. It can wait.) before the inevitable monkey wrench appeared in my seemingly foolproof system.

I should’ve seen it coming; after all, I was in college by this point and I was in an area where “alternative” sexual preferences weren’t so horrifying and bizarre in the public eye. At this time, I developed a colossal, maddening, unabashed crush on this unbelievable, enigmatic beauty who was full of wit and eroticism and style and confident sexuality. But before I had a chance to start actively hating her (as per habit) she… she noticed me. And… and flirted with me. Me! And wanted to get to know me and would call me and she asked me to go out with her… like, on dates…

… and I didn’t know whatthefuck.

Like with any overwhelming attraction to someone who inexplicably seems attracted to me in return, my first instinct told me, “RUUUN!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!!!” (Seriously. Ask my husband. I met him at a meeting for the student magazine years after all this, we locked eyes a few times, and that was enough to have me sprint out of there like I was racing for a prize. It took the poor guy a whole semester of chasing me to finally corner me long enough to express himself enough to get a date.) but, for whatever reason, I didn’t run [and good things happened that I won't describe in full here.] And, since then, I’ve had the ability/comfort to admit when I’m heavily/very much/OMGwhoa attracted to another female.

Admitting it to other people is a different story, however. For the most part, I kept my crushes on other girls quiet around my friends, for fear of making them uncomfortable and I NEVER told anybody in my family when I was dating a woman; I figured I’d save that for “if it got serious” because, frankly, they had enough to worry about with me being literally-clinically-psycho and alcoholic without confusing things with my “sinful” sexual practices. (Plus, they might’ve confused my preference for both genders as a symptom  of my mental illness or a phase and I certainly didn’t want to perpetuate those misconceptions.) Over time, I kind of casually mentioned it to friends here and there but there was never a day when I decided, “I’m going to COME OUT!!! HOORAY FOR ME!!!” I mean, I never felt the urge to publicly announce that I was into light bondage or having loads of casual sex with people I didn’t care about when I was shamelessly doing so (and I’m still not ashamed of that, btw) or that I really liked to be spanked; that sort of crap is none of anybody’s business, right? So what makes the gender of my sexual interest so important to other people? I dunno… So I never really made an official proclamation about it.

And I’ve rethought that over the years, especially after I got married. Once, my husband and I were discussing my bisexuality and he said, “Well, that doesn’t really matter now because you’re with me.” and I took great offense to that. To me, that’s like saying, “Well, I’m right-handed, but since we’re all using computers to write these days, it doesn’t really matter.” because it does. Being right-handed AND attracted to both genders are both part of my identity, whether or not I put those to use everysingleday. The whole idea of it made me feel like someone was trying to discredit a part of my identity just because I’m not implementing it at the moment and that felt wrong to me… I didn’t stop finding women attractive just because I legally committed myself to a monogamous relationship with a man, the same way I don’t stop reading/loving “Peanuts” just because Charles Schulz is dead.

Anyway, the important thing here is that I have stopped hating women when I have crushes on them, which is really liberating and healing and, frankly, way more fun than the alternative. That being said, I still don’t know how to handle myself around beautiful women who acknowledge me fondly (this became screamingly apparent last year at Burning Man, when unrealistically gorgeous human beings would reduce me to low, rumbling, staggered chuckles simply by making eye contact and holding it while smiling/passing me a hookah tube/dancing with me/making a joke/touching me in any forum/offering me fresh produce, etc. I spent the whole week drooling and muttering “Huhhuhhuh…” in response to half the people I encountered for this very reason.)

But at least I don’t have the knee-jerk reaction to hate someone just because she’s beautiful and/or likable, which I believe may put me ahead of the curve. Honestly, when it’s all said and done, I’d rather be an awkward, pervy, socially-inept weirdo than a stereotypical, catty woman who hates the beauty in other women because of her own messed up psyche. Seriously, sign me up for the Creepily-Leering Dykes League over the latter any day.

* This isn’t me actually “coming out” so much as just a story of my relationship with femininity and this recent epiphany I had about hating certain people in the past. I don’t really believe in “coming out” and I look forward to the day when nobody has to because nobody gives a crap who or how other people are loving/screwing/whatevering.

It recently occurred to me that every action or implemented idea that I have ever made (in any form) has been driven from the fear [and sometimes what felt like knowledge] that I am not important.

Hunh.

Wonder what I’m supposed to do now.

Among the unspoken joys of becoming a parent is getting to listen to other parents pushily inform you why your parenting choices are obviously uneducated and inferior to theirs. (Seriously, we should do away with Sex Ed and just make teenagers hang out with other moms for a week; they won’t wanna touch each other ever again.) According to my numerous unsolicited sources, I’m wasting my time by not “couponing” (this is apparently a verb in suburbia) for 2 hours every night, I’m feeding my child nothing but poison glazed with sugar and tire tread, and I’m actively helping her brain rot completely out of her skull so quickly that she will arrive at kindergarten with only the ability to drool and stare at a wall while her peers discuss Dostoevsky and self-edit their Harvard application essays. So helpful, my peers are…

One of the great “debates” (I put that in quotations because I don’t actually believe there’s a war going on, even though many many women REALLY WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THERE IS, DAMMIT!!!) in the parenting world is what kind of schooling is The Right One. This conflict can just as easily be summarized into the thesis: Public School is The Devil.

And that’s the biggest load of horse crap ever. EVER.

Alright, allow me to say up front that “I get it.” I totally and completely understand why people are loudly proclaiming the incompetence of public schools; I teach college and am constantly depressed by the failures of the public school system as evidenced in the knowledge of my students. (For example: Only one of my 44 students this semester could tell me the date and cause of The Great Depression without more than 15 seconds of thought - 60% of them didn’t know at all. Same goes for WWII, Vietnam, and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Also, I have students putting quotation marks around the words “he said” instead of around the actual quote. Yeah…) I get that crappy funding lends itself to oversized classrooms, lack of materials and, ultimately, rampant apathy. I get all that.

HOWEVER, you know what? I AM LOUDLY AND UNABASHEDLY PROUD TO BE A PRODUCT OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM (and I ain’t no idiot, y’all.)

Let me explain.

Ultimately, public school is a perfect analogy for life and how the world works. A student is thrown in there among people with whom he or she (I’ll say “she from here on, ’cause I’m a “she”) may not have anything in common with demographically and has to learn how to function among them. This isn’t as basic as a student learning something as simple PC “tolerance” (read: “Oh, it’s adorable that you want to get ‘gay-married’ but I still think you’re going to burn in Hell so please don’t make eye-contact with me”) ; this is about raising a child in an environment where she is one of many many different types of peoples, thus providing her the opportunity to learn how to relate to, befriend, interact with, and, at the very least, coexist with many different types of people and handle a number of different social situations. She is expected to recognize others as friends and learn how to mange their widely-varying influences on herself to help her grow as a person and find her own identity. I know “homeschool moms” like to defend their choices by usually whining saying “Oh, we get [fill in precious, precious child's name here] out and involved with tons of social extracurriculars!!!!!!!!” but, the truth is that even those groups are homogeneous groupings of children with similar (if not identical) backgrounds, income-levels, etc. At public school, a student is exposed to eeeverything , which is basically a miniaturized version of what humanity looks like. Going to public school, I had friends who were raised in houses so big I would repeatedly get lost when I visited and other friends who had awesome sleepovers where we’d play “Capture the Flag” in their trailer parks and I hung out with those people without any pretense or irony but, merely, because I was a kid and wanted to hang out with somebody I thought was cool. At public school, I learned the differences between racial cultures (I once got laughed at by a few of my friends in 4th grade because I didn’t/don’t put grease in my hair and I had to keep explaining that I didn’t want grease in my hair; in my family, we were always trying to wash it out. It was an innocent conversation without any conflict or social awareness of what was really happening; only when I got older did I realize that it was a “black people do this and white people do that differently” conversation… and it all happened without any malice or anger or offense. Imagine that…) and I was raised in an educational society where there was no “them” and “us”; we legitimately were all the same and had the same potential, whether we were black or white or poor or rich or supertrendy or fug or whatever. In this environment, we are all people and we are all encouraged to see each other in the same light.

Additionally, public school kids are presented with an image of the world that has no bias, no pre-stated conditions; we were given reality as it was with the expectation that we would interpret and define it for ourselves. My favorite example of this happened when we were in 2nd and 3rd grade and participated in the annual Moore County Drug March, in which all the kids of every elementary and middle school in Moore County would don red clothing, make little flags, and parade a couple miles through the neighborhoods around the school screaming “NO MORE DRUGS! NO MORE DRUGS!” Now, while the other schools in the area would take their students through quaint little neighborhoods, our elementary school was in the building that used to be the Black High School during racial segregation and was surrounded by the old, run-down remnants of that era. There were horribly-decaying old houses with people constantly going in and out and, in between legitimately cute little houses where many of my classmates lived, there were hollowed-out shacks with bullet-holes and fresh police tape wrapped around them. But still, we paraded through the streets, waving our flags and bellowing “NO MORE DRUGS!!!” to people watching from their front stoops and, what’s funny is that we never thought to be scared. Not one of us ever said, “Those guys standing on the corner drinking out of paper bags look pissed; we might be hurting their market.” We just smiled and waved at our friends’ parents who ran out of their houses to take pictures of us and we whined about how tired we were at the end of the hour. You know. Just like kids. Only later did I think, “Holy crap. They marched us through the ghetto to scream at drug dealers.” That’s kind of how it was with everything in public school; things were what they were and our teachers encouraged us to explore things without any preconceived notions about the context. It was powerful stuff.

Of course, the natural progression of age lent itself to teaching us about the pressures of social expectations, as we merged into our teenage years and found ourselves segregated by what we were wearing or who was more attractive to the opposite sex (and why those people were inherently supposed to be feared and hated by people like me until I learned valuable lessons about self-love after my early 20’s) and, while I hate that a lot of that type of social education is inflicted on children and perpetuated from tradition, I do think that that, too, is an important lesson in learning how to navigate the waters of society. Even if a person decides not to subscribe to the bullshit that is society’s superficial expectations, knowing how to recognize it in its many forms and how it all works is invaluable when going out into the world. Sure, there are cliques and “popular kids vs. losers” dynamics going on in private schools, but arguably without nearly as much range in demographics. Secluded kids in private schools don’t have the designer-label-quietly-bitchy-white-girl-prom-queen clique getting laughed at by the proud-to-rule-the-hood-black-girls clique for having no rhythm; there aren’t any Hispanic family feuds perpetuating themselves in the hallways or rednecks wearing camo and talking about deer hunting and there certainly isn’t the facet of getting to watch all those insanely, radically different groups learn how to get along together. And, sure, I can understand wanting to protect your children from crazy goth kids who may try to blow up the school or emo kids who are making it trendy to sit around and cut themselves or whatever other demographic you’re uncomfortable with but, you know what? Shielding your children from people who are different than yourselves isn’t just a disservice; it’s ignorant. By putting a child in a situation where she has to learn about societal standards/roles and learn about the motivations of others’ family lives and learn how to relate to people who are completely different than herself, a parent is giving that child the tools to rule the world. (And, besides, the odds of your kid being shot or blown up at school are about the same as those of you getting shot or blown up at the bank.)

Sure, a kid can go to a school where everyone is just like her and then graduate into a university that is full of more people just like her and then go to work at a place with people just like her because of networking with other people just like her. Sure. That happens a lot. But those people tend to have a perception about the rest of the world that enables them to observe and examine other races/cultures/demographics like exhibits or temporary, disposable situations instead of real, tangible lifestyles and realities for other people. (No, I’m not saying ALL of those people think that way; I’m just saying it’s a very noticeable mentality bred from homogenized learning tactics.) The ideas of “them” and “us” are only perpetuated in this way and keeps people from understanding each other as actual, you know, PEOPLE, instead of faceless bodies filling demographic/societal roles. One facet of this that irritates the crap out of me is that this mentality keeps people from showing compassion toward those who live in poverty because of blatant misunderstanding about the condition OR (and this facet bugs me more) they only “give to charity” in organized, formal settings which still allows them to be socially disconnected from the people they are supposedly helping out of love and compassion. There’s that concept that it’s wonderful to give your money to homeless shelters but you’d NEVER take a homeless person out for lunch; it stems from the idea that “they” (the homeless/poverty-stricken) are deserving of this life, instead of the thought that they are just people like yourself. Going to public school, I knew kids who were homeless or had been at one point; I was good friends with a girl who shared a rundown, single-wide trailer in the boonies with 11 other people; and I knew dozens of kids on welfare and who lived in government housing. My point is that poverty was tangible for me (even though I was fortunate enough not to experience it within my household) and charity was as easy as splitting my lunch with a classmate who couldn’t afford it. (Which I believe is what Jesus was into, wasn’t He? Hanging out with different people and sharing lunch with them? I feel like I read about that somewhere…)

“But the education system is so flawed! It doesn’t teach kids crap!” you say. Dude, that’s incredibly ignorant of you. Here’s the thing about public school that teaches another valuable lesson about how the world works: Students have to work harder if they want to get ahead. (Ohhh! No way!!! That applies to life!) Because public school has to teach to the median, there are many students who get lost and left behind (read: Me in any math class I ever took ever.) and there are those who are super far ahead (read: Me in any English class ever.) Now, the kids who aren’t doing so well have to learn how to recognize their failures and make the extra effort and do what is necessary to improve him or herself (Ooo! Life-lesson alert agaiiin!! How could that possibly apply to being a responsible, self-actualized adult? Hmmm…) and those who are awesome at certain things are encouraged to seek out opportunities that will allow them to explore this talent (like writing club or the student yearbook group or the volleyball team or drama club in my case.) Sure, there are a lot of smart kids who aren’t spoon-fed the vast wealth of information they can probably handle so guess what? They get to learn an important lesson about initiative and how, if you really want to better yourself, it’s up to you to do that. If a student isn’t learning enough about history, it’s up to her to head on over to the library and read more about it (and, oh, I sooo did.) That teaches self-motivation and the realization that the world isn’t going to coddle each person and cater to everyone’s immediate needs. The same goes for the average student, too; if a student has been coasting through school on mediocre grades because she’s totally enrapt with her boyfriend/video games/blog/whatever, she has the choice to just be cool with that or work a little harder and shift her focus from distractions so she can be better. Sure, it’s a tough lesson that kids aren’t going to fully understand until they’re older, but these lessons instill habits and realizations that become a part of an adult’s common knowledge: If you’re not happy being mediocre, it’s up to you to change it. If you’re not happy failing at something, it’s up to you to fix it. If you want to do better than the status quo, you have to get out there and make it happen. Duh. Too easily, Americans want to blame “the system” or “the teachers” or “them” (in general) for being the way we are when, really, it’s up to each of us to make our lives the way we want it to be. This is something that public schools are teaching on a daily basis. There are always teachers at public schools who offer kids a little extra help when they need it and there are always special groups students can get involved with that will allow them to better themselves. Always. It is up to those students to use the resources and opportunities provided to make themselves better. And, if those somehow don’t exist, they’re faced with the challenge of going out and finding opportunities on their own (kinda like how we found good music, even though we lived in the South during the late-90’s-early-00’s… Read: Creed.) That’s part of life, folks.

One of the people I most admire is a young man I met in high school who, by all statistical standards, very easily could’ve dropped out and continued taking care of his single mother in the rough area of town where they lived. Defying the odds (and asking for no extra fanfare or credit), this guy made amazing grades, was involved with every single extracurricular project he could within the Theater program at our arts-based high school, got himself into a wonderful out-of-state university (although he majored in Theater, which, admittedly, is a bogus degree in a field that nobody will ever need accreditation to succeed within… I digress) and went forward to get blissfully married and now has a job at the freaking Pentagon (not sure how it happened, but he digs it, so that’s what counts here.) Now, while his isn’t the path I personally would’ve chosen (and, um, didn’t choose… which is why I get to tell stories about life in a mental hospital), what is remarkable is my friend’s unbelievable determination; from the day I met him, he’s been stating what it is that he wants with his life and, without requiring or demanding any credit for his efforts and determination, he has gone forth and done everything he said he wanted to. He has made his own opportunities and milked them dry and made the life he wanted. And he went to public school. In South Carolina, no less.

Sure, there are kids who get discouraged and give up. And there are kids (a LOT of them if you live in a tourist town like I did) who can get a job as a manager for some crap job making $22,000/yr when they’re 16, so they quit school to live that temporary awesomeness. And there are people who just don’t want to be in school at all so they join a gang or start dealing drugs and live a life of drama and violence. Yes. That all happens. And you know what? That stuff happens out here in the real world, too. There are plenty of people out here tolerating boring, mediocre lives in which they aren’t happy that will never improve due to lack of self-motivation. There are plenty of people who just give up in tough situations and turn to crappy quick-fixes to remedy things.  Public school teaches students how to recognize those failures in others and avoid them in themselves. It teaches self-motivation and it teaches students how to find their own strengths and how to find passion to work toward those in a world where there are so so many options and so much outside pressure and temptation to retreat. Try finding that in homeschool.

Going to public school has been one of the very most valuable life experiences I have in my arsenal. Sure, when I was a teenager/young adult, I thought I was better off hiding out amongst people who came from identical backgrounds as myself but, after I started teaching, I realized what a gift I’d been given. I can walk into any social situation with ease and confidence from having experience dealing with similar situations throughout my life. I can relate to and earn respect from the students that I teach in rural North Carolina because I understand their demographic on an organic level, instead of only having read about their statistics in some research piece somewhere and cobbling together methods from my assumptions. I can coexist and communicate with people from many different racial, ethnic, or economical backgrounds because I’ve been doing it my whole life. I understand a wide variety of perspectives on all sorts of issues and historical events throughout the last 20-ish years because I’ve been experiencing them along with many different types of people since I was a little girl. I know lingo and jargon and social nuances and I know when to say what in most social situations and what immediate effect it will have on the group I’m in and I know when to be PC and when I can get away with being irreverent in mixed company and I know how to cater to the needs of those who are in a completely different state of their lives than I am in mine. I can talk to people from any walk of life on a level that is respectful and coherent with their particular story or understanding of life and I can relate to and learn from people this way. Truly, this is the gift that keeps on giving.

Most importantly, though, I’ve learned how to define my character and grow a backbone around people who disagree with me because I had the opportunity to observe and experience a variety of mentalities through my peers and realize exactly what it is that I want, love, and stand for as an individual person among billions.

So there you go. Public school made me a well-rounded human being, capable of respecting and coexisting with others and navigating the waters of society with the tools I learned growing up. I have learned the value of self-motivation through countless examples and experiences. Simply put: Public school works because it made me a student of our society as a whole and, additionally, it forced me to create my life for myself instead of depending on others to provide my opportunities.

This is why I smile smugly whenever some uber-condescending, suburban white lady is rolling her eyes and scoffing, “I would NEVER send my child to public school!” Well, that and the thought of her trying to dance…

When I first learned about my upcoming high school reunion a few months ago, I promptly threw up from anxiety.

The worst part is that, until today, I had no idea why. In the months since, this same terror and apprehension has plagued me every time I bring up the “To go or not to go?” debate in my head and I’ve stayed up for many nights wondering what the hell it is exactly that I’m so scared of; there weren’t any bullies that I’m still intimidated by (those were all in jr. high) and it’s not like I was a total loner. In fact, high school was, for the most part, pretty good to me (ESPECIALLY when compared to the more-cruel-than-most-kids-have-it middle school years I’d just endured in another state.) I was friends with genuinely wonderful people,* I had a supportive family (even though, like all adolescents, I got to wade through the my-parents-are-human-with-flaws-so-now-I’m-mad-about-it phase), I was involved with student activities and was social and had handfuls of good memories… All in all, it wasn’t awful. So what it that was keeping me doubled over with abdominal pain every time the idea of reuniting with this group of people sprung to mind?

Only after a few months of contemplation did I finally realize what it is that I’m legitimately, wholeheartedly, fucking terrified of. There’s one person I very desperately never want to reunite with in any circumstance and whom I feel will be unavoidable at a high school reunion: Me.

Look, I know that sounds melodramatic and disgustingly self-centered but here’s the thing: I’ve spent the last decade fighting off and then ditching the person I was back in the late-90’s/early-00’s (In fact, on one occasion, I literally tried to kill her and had to be hospitalized for a littletinybit to learn how to get along with her… but that’s another story that I’ve talked about entirely too much.) I’ve spent years going to therapy to learn to not be anything like her and I’ve given dozens of heartfelt apologies for the awful things she used to say and do to people and how she used to make people feel. (Some have been accepted while others have not. This, also, is something I’ve learned to accept and put behind me.) I’ve obsessively tackled [almost] every fault I can so I’m increasingly less like the person that everyone I was around in high school will remember. (She and I still share a penchant for overindulgence, but I figure that’s not as pressing a personal issue as, say, pathological lying or spewing hatred for no reason or other soul-sucking yuckness.) I’ve worked really, really hard to make myself into someone I like being around (a first for me) and to have as little in common with my former self as I possibly can (on a behavioral level, anyway.) I’ve moved myself far, far away from her nasty mentalities, her cowardly cynicism, her need to tear down those she envied and her unbelievably repellent self-loathing. And the idea that I’d have to spend a weekend revisiting the time I spent with her is enough to make me sick with the guilt and regret I’ve only just managed to get over.

Don’t get me wrong; there are many people from these high school years with whom I have some very happy memories and who have shown me that they don’t remember me as some horrible monster. But, even when I revisit old pictures and remember how my mind/actions were completely fueled by fear and insecurity, it’s too black and embarrassing to deal with. The self-induced chaos in which I conducted my entire adolescent being is just too heavy, too overwhelming for me now. I feel myself being tugged down with the weight of it [in tandem with residual shame] and I’m not sure if being around people who only know/remember that part of me is going to be beneficial at all.

It would be different if I was still struggling out of all of that mental muck, but the truth is that I’ve just gotten to the point where I’m no longer constantly, exhaustively burdened by my past; I’d like to enjoy that peace for just a little longer without having to “test it out.” I don’t hate who I was in those years; I’m just over her and all her bullshit, in essence. She’s taken enough from me and I don’t feel like she deserves any more time or energy. The risk of running into someone who can’t get past the gossipy, superficial a-hole I was to most people and having to try to convince them of a change of character just seems like too much work for me, especially when there are only a handful of people there whom I’d go out of my way to reunite with in the first place. (And those people know who I am now anyway.)

So, I honestly may be staying away from any class reunions in order to avoid running into myself… which is arguably the craziest-sounding thing I’ve ever uttered AS WELL AS the most rational introspection I’ve done in a while.

Thanks a freaking lot, therapy.

*As aforementioned, my one major romantic entanglement from my adolescent years will no longer be discussed - neither on this blog nor in real life - so all of the above assertions are to be read with the general understanding that this relationship is excluded.

I cannot believe I forgot to include this in the original list of Awesome Things that Happened While I was 27 but I feel it HAS to be included.

~ I totally starred in a low-budget local ad as an entirely green witch peering into a crystal ball and foreseeing fabulously enchanting specials on golf packages. I’d say it was the highlight of my acting career, but I was in a show that sold out the Esplanade in St. Kilda (Melbourne, AUS) along with a handful of people who are going to be world-famous in 20 years (one is already internationally famous now, actually), but this is a definite second place, if only in a completely ironic sense. (I think I value terribly campy experiences more than I should - especially when I consider how demoralizing this gig would’ve been if I was trying to be a legitimate actor.)

Don’t act like you’re not curious as to how it turned out.

To check it out, click HERE and then click on the 1st link on the list. And enjoy.

Dear Birthday Fairy,
I made a mistake. I kind of took you for granted last year and just assumed you’d deliver magic like you did in 2009 (remember? Snow and Obama on the same day?!), so I didn’t nag you with specific requests and kinda got stuck with diddly stuff. And this year I forgot to ask Christmas fairy for any silly indulgences so I had to make a lot of returns at Bed Bath and Beyond due to people who believe that more “stuff” given = more love shared. (::Sigh::)

So, my bad. Anyway, I hope you’ve had a great year and are taking care of yourself. The list is in order from “Things I’ll Try to Get Even If You Don’t” to “Frivolous Things I Can Live Without”

Let’s get started!

Ammo for my Dream Garden
I finally have the time, the will and the yard to build the Backyard of my [budgeted] Dreams, but I need a little help. There’s a pile of here-and-there’s that I need (like a wheelbarrow, hedge-trimmers. mortar, bricks/stones, etc) and I want at least a bazillion things from a local nursery (I’m going to have a flower garden AND a vegetable garden with fruit trees! There’s a lot of plantery to be procured!) so, really, if you wanna just send some money for that local nursery or a gift card to Lowe’s/Home Depot, that works for me. I won’t be picky.

Invisible Shelves
Look, I have a crapload of books. I’ve read about 75% of them and have the other 25% in a giant stack/pile/mound beside my nightstand (where they HAVE to stay because I’m one of those people who reads 5 books at the same time. For example, this week I’m simultaneously reading “In Defense of Food”, “Fargo Rock City”, “Man and His Symbols” and the autobiographies of both Mae West and Tallulah Bankhead), which drives my husband bonkers because, apparently, they’re a fire hazard or a potential home for a colony of rodents or impossible to surmount or something… So, with these cool bookshelves, I can make my clutter look like some sort of wizardry! And who doesn’t want that? In fact, maybe he’ll be so astounded by my coolness that he won’t yell at me for spending money on more books than I’ll ever be able to read ever!! Win/win!

Looks like books are just hangin' out on the wall! Cooool!

Running Shoes
I like New Balance but, because I only update running shoes every 2-3 years, I don’t know much about the styles. I just know that I’m not much of a runner. But when I do it, I’m gonna need shoes that have tread on them. Unlike the ones I have now.

Yoga Mat
It has become apparent that getting into a couple poses once or twice a day is something I enjoy, which is weird because regimented exercise has always been one of those things I hate so very, very much. However, if I’m gonna do this, I at least need a decent mat because I’ve got rugburn like whoa.

Exercise ball
Doing repetitions of weird acrobatics is another weird thing I like to do on days around the house; however, my original exercise ball burst when the cats discovered its launching abilities. Fantastic.

Another Trip to Burning Man

Guess which one is a surgeon?

Alright, I’ll tell you right now that I’d sacrifice every single thing on this whole list to get back out to the Playa this year. I ached to go for the 7 years leading up to last year’s trek but, now, after having been, I’m afraid I’m going to miss it so badly I’ll hurt the whole week it’s going on. This being said, there’s no way we can make a trip like that work. I know people are always saying “there are ways” and “you just have to budget your money” and all that noise but honestly? It’s impossible for us to go again. Like I’ve said, if we hadn’t been handed that $1,000 prize for the exclusive purpose of going to the event last year, we never ever would’ve considered it (even if we’d won that same amount of money from another source.) When I went, it hurt when people kept saying “Well, there’s always next year” because I knew and still know that, for the foreseeable future, the 2010 trip to the Burn will be a once-in-a-lifetime trip. And I made sure to savor it as such and be incredibly grateful for the opportunity to do so.

But, man, it’d be great to get out there again.

The Following Books
Believe it or not! There are only a couple!

DIY Delicious
‘Cause I wanna learn how to make stuff from scratch

How to Build a Fire and other Handy Things Your Grandfather Knew

Or anything else on My Amazon Wish List

A Wax Seal Press
Not with my initials or a fleur de lys, please.

See? ah-like so...

Those Pretty, Pretty Peacock Shoes of Magicalness
I will never own them if you don’t deliver, Birthday Fairy. I’m just putting that out there. Size 9, please!

But look how preeeetttyyyy!

Toy Story 3 and/or Ponyo on DVD
These are actually gifts for the Bear, but also for me; we haven’t been able to return “Toy Story 3″ to Netflix in a month because the Bear looooves it so much. So, essentially, we’ve been renting it by the month. I don’t mind either movie and would like to have my Netflix service back, so owning these is kind of just practical, even though usually I feel like owning DVDs is a total racket.

The Just Ducky Tea Infuser
I actually bought one of these for my grandmother-in-law, but I didn’t have the funds at the time for another. They’re so cute and GENIUS; when your tea is sufficiently submerged, the ducky floats! How cute is that!?

He's adorable! And practical!

Homemade, Artsy Stepping Stones
Ideally, these would be made by a friend of mine who does mosaics, but I also like the idea of having a number of artists/friends make super pretty stepping stones for my garden, since the plain, cinder ones are a drag. And I hate the ones that come in kits that have whimsical stuff written all over them. I don’t even necessarily want them to be any more than pretty broken glass shoved into concrete; they’ve just gotta be colorful and shiny. Or hook me up with the materials and I’ll do it myself.

Coconut Lime Verbena Shampoo/Conditioner/Lotion/etc.

Look, I just don’t have $7.50 to spend on mediocre shampoo I’m only going to get 6 uses out of. However, having my hair smell like a tropical vacation wonderland in the middle of the winter is a true joy and delight and, frankly, that Suave coconut scent is whack. (Yeah, I said it.) This stuff is amazing and luxurious and lets me leave my [usually harried] shower feeling like I just sipped a Cranberry and Malibu Rum on the beach. Also, this is the first time I’ve excitedly wanted something from Bath and Body Works since I was 12.

A Skateboard and a Cool Skater to Teach Me How
I’ve just always wanted to learn. I figure 28 is as young as I’ll ever be again, so let’s do this thing.
Also, I’m really glad I’m learning how to do this in an age when JNCOs are no longer cool or else I’d have to add “dental insurance” to this wishlist.

Nonjudgmental girl preferred.

A Pretty Pretty Necky Kayak

Long distance-style. Color optional. (Clear would be cool, too, actually!)

Still on the list, dude. Still wide open to receiving it. Still living in a place with tons of water. Just FYI.

If none of those things sound like the sort of thing you’re into, feel free to grab me a gift card to Whole Foods, Ten Thousand Villages, World Market, Adam and Eve (or AdamEve.com. And, yes, I know I work for Passion Parties, but PP doesn’t sell some of the stuff I like from A&E), Pin Up Girl Clothing or the Flying Biscuit. Or a domestic, round-trip plane ticket to NYC to see my sister. Any of the above, really. Do what’s right for you.

If you want to just drop the hint to my husband that I’d REALLY like to go out to Taverna in Raleigh for wonderful Greek food and then somewhere to see something awesome (like a stand-up comedian or a concert or an indie film) or do something awesome (karaoke, rodeo, night at a B&B, ice-skating, laser tag, ghost hunting, indoor skydiving), that’d be perfectly acceptable and, actually, more exciting than the invisible bookshelves. Again, I’m open to creativity.

Thank you again for your time and effort.

Most sincerely,
Liz

“I feel like there’s something wrong with you.” One of my dearest of friends started one of our quarterly conversations with this sentiment.

I was quick to assure her that I was fine, if not wonderful. Really. “No! We’re great! I just spent a month vacationing with friends and family and we’re getting ready for Burning Man and the Bear is at a really fun age and we’re good. Seriously, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well, I hope you don’t get mad at me but I really think you need to hear this and I feel like you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed and I think being a good friend is telling someone the truth and I want to be a ‘good friend’ instead of just an acquaintance…”

Crap.

“Every time I see a picture of you or visit you, you’re wearing the same outfit and it’s starting to make me sad.”

It was true. I’ve always been one of those people who finds something she likes and just clings to it. Usually said article is extremely comfortable and somewhat flattering (although this wasn’t necessarily the case for the wood-and-leather clogs I wore every day in high school, but was certainly at least halfway true for the cargo pants I wore during that era…) This has gotten much worse in the last three years, however, as my life has become completely based on sitting around the house with a small child.

See, I have this great wrap skirt that I bought a few years ago at a hippie store called Loose Lucy’s. It’s lime green, flowy and doesn’t constrict when I’ve had a little too much to eat on vacation. I wore it through my pregnancy because of its expandability and will wear it around the house year-round because of its incredible comfort and versatility. Usually, I pair it with a light lavender t-shirt that’s fitted and comes down below my waist, giving me a fantastic hourglass shape while obscuring my little bit of loosened-by-pregnancy skin with a great big stencil-type graphic. This outfit is comfortable without being trashy, versatile and casual and cute and bright and easy. I love it. And, so, in my typical fashion, I wear it a lot.

But, unlike before, I can now get away with wearing clothes more than one day, so, I usually take advantage of that, safe in the knowledge that the only people who will see me are my husband, my daughter, and strangers in the grocery store. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, so who cares if I throw it on two days in a row; as long as it doesn’t smell, it’s fine, right?

At this point, the ensemble is loaded with holes. The skirt’s ties have had to be reattached at least twice. There are bleach stains from when I spilled cleaning solution one day while scrubbing the tub. I know, it looks rough but, again, I figure nobody’s going to see me in it so who cares? It’s really become more of a functional uniform than what one would call an “outfit”. And, really, I’m fine with that.

But my friend - the dear, wonderful one - recognized this as a cry for help. A mother of three, she told me about how, when her children were born, she would throw on a pair of black overalls over clean underwear and a fresh shirt every day, believing - like me - that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She told me about how, slowly, this subconscious idea that she wasn’t important [or doing anything important] enough to care for on a daily basis started to become a belief and how it moved her into a rut that affected her whole life, causing her to stop caring about things that really mattered and falling short of her personal standards. And she told me she was worried about me because she saw me slipping into that based on my self-maintenance and didn’t want me to have the same mental experience she did.

I was floored. First of all, I see this friend about once every two years and talk to her about 4-5 times a year, usually after months of “I swear we’ll catch up soon!” We’re the types of friends who can go for ages without talking but can pick right back up where we left off and know that, if something awful is happening, the other one is there. (Pretty good for a friend I made while exchanging sarcastic commentary from the back row of a Shakespeare class. We were like Statler and Waldorf with boobs.) So the fact that she was perceptive enough to observe this habit of mine over photos I posted on Facebook and stop to consider that this may be a sign of something deeper says a lot about how much she cares. My heart hurt with gratitude.

Still, she couldn’t stop apologizing and justifying this sartorial intervention. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch, Liz. I just hope to god that if I started dressing in the same thing every day like a crazy person, you’d tell me. You’re too pretty to do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

About a month ago, I had another one of my best friends call me and tell me we “needed to talk.” She was busy with other things all day so she couldn’t talk until 9 a.m. and I spent all day going nuts, trying to think of what it could possibly be that I’d done wrong. Later, on the phone, she gently explained to me that, for some reason, when we get out in public, I tend to get really judgmental and I cross the line with my jokes a lot. I also really hurt her feelings during these times.

I felt like shit. Not only did I have absolutely no idea that I was doing it at all but I had no idea where these sorts of things would even come from. This is one of those friends that I’m so nuts about that I constantly joke about how I sound like I have a fangirl crush on her and how I feel like she’s way out of my league as a friend. In my whole life, I’ve never had a friend who stuck with me and was so good to me as this one and I was sickened and heartbroken by the idea that some stupid, completely unconscious side comments would make her doubt her inherent awesomeness for even a second. (I know, I sound totally worship-y but she’s really, genuinely a great person. Ask anybody.) I was disgusted with myself on a really deep level.

The thing was, though, that this had apparently been going on for a really long time and, because she knew that I really do love her, she’d never said anything until now, figuring that I didn’t mean it (which is true, although that doesn’t make it acceptable.) And, instead of just saying, “You know what? You turn into a real bitch when we’re out in public and really suck as a friend. I’m done here.” she came to me and told me about it in a rational, straightforward tone and said, “I know you don’t mean it and I have faith that you’ll work to change it.”

I don’t mean to sound completely conceited or self-servicing but, frankly, that’s perhaps one of the greatest compliments a friend could give to another, I think. Valuing someone’s companionship enough to want to keep them around despite their shortcomings is one thing but believing in your friend’s ability to become a better person enough to point out a major character flaw? That shows an incredible amount of respect and faith in my rose-colored book. And, naturally, it makes me want to meet that set of standards for a friend who obviously cares a great deal about me. Those types are rare; I can’t afford to mess that up just from being a stubborn idiot.

I know looking at criticism as one of the greatest blessings in my life is a little weird and may make me sound like a glutton for punishment but I’m sure I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to keep friends around who are hypercritical and constantly tearing down my character or holding me hostage over my flaws, but having friends who believe that I deserve to be a better person than I am and gently demand that I try harder? I don’t think many people have that sort of luck.

So, yes, I’m throwing away the skirt and the shirt. Because someone loves me enough to tell me not to dress like a crazy hobo.

And that fills my heart with happiness.

NOTE:There are a couple things I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t write about on this blog anymore, including depression/mental illness because I’m just over it and, even though I might be duking it out with my brain’s chemical makeup for forever, I don’t need to dwell on it and rehash it all the time anymore. I’ve done gobs of therapy and heaps of acceptance of the illness and have a grasp on how to tackle it and deal with my bouts and symptoms and I know that sitting around discussing it publicly just perpetuates the idea that it rules my life, which isn’t true at all.

However, because a few readers have expressed appreciation for it, I may continue to mention it from time to time. I’ve found that, even after over a decade of dealing with mental illness, there are so many facets and avenues I’m still uncovering and grappling with that I really haven’t considered as separate subcategories under what seems to be the endlessly massive umbrella of “Depression”. Somehow, it makes me feel better to have acknowledged these to myself and, truthfully, I always feel incredibly comforted when I get the occasional email from a reader saying, “Oh, thank God… Me too.”

ALSO NOTE: I apologize if the language in this is hard to follow. I think the text explains/excuses that a little.
————————–

Up until recently, I’d always thought that there were only two types of depression in the technical, chronic mental-illness/chemical-imbalance category (versus the post-traumatic or “longterm blues” varieties.) There’s the chemically-induced stay-in-bed-all-day-unable-to-focus-on-anything-long-enough-to-make-any-physical-changes-to-your-situation-while-time-escapes-you type of depression that I deal with in giant waves about once annually. And then there’s the I-hate-myself-and-my-life-is-a-black-hole-of-nothingness-and-it-would-make-everyone’s-life-easier-if-I-wasn’t-here type of depression that I haven’t dealt with in a long time thanks to major life changes and years of therapy. (Naturally, I’ll have spells where I’m positive I’m wasting my life and I’m just a worthless person but, really, I think any introspective person is prone to those every now and then and they aren’t unhealthy if I can take something productive away from them.) And, of course, there are instances of depression that are combinations of both of these types, although perhaps involving different ratios of each. (For example, I started out with the chemical type in my preadolescent years, which developed into and later fed into the emotional type for a number of years until I got a handle on the latter and went back to just having the former, with tiny bouts of the latter every so often. Does that even make sense?)

ANYWAY, recently, I’ve been having a type of depression I can vaguely remember having when I was very very young and that might be more frustrating than any other: In the last few weeks (especially last few days) I’ve had this heartrending feeling that “something is wrong” and I can’t seem to shake it. It’s not a feeling of fear so much as a feeling of longing and heartache, where my chest seizes up and I feel like I’m on the brink of tears for absolutely no reason at all. It’s kept me awake until 2 or 3 a.m., just lying awake and shaking, with my mind uncontrollably reeling with memories and instances in hopes to figure out just what exactly it is that I’m so heartbroken over.

Even if I try to sit and meditate and repeat my mantras to myself and have fully realized that there’s no reason for this sadness and pain, it still persists. I begin to hunch over and stay quiet/secluded and I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles, even in 80-degree weather. All I want to do is stare blankly at the television or listen to “Surfer Rosa” on repeat. I fight the urge to self-medicate with mind-hushing wine or a couple Unisom. Sunlight physically hurts and social engagements are exhausting, if not overwhelming. I get angry at people around me for what seem like completely valid reasons at the time and then aren’t thirty minutes later. And I huuurt. It feels like someone is tightly wrapping a fine steel floss around my heart and it hurts to breathe, not unlike the symptoms of teenage heartbreak. Also like a post-breakup adolescent, I’m prone to crying in great, heaving, soul-jarring jags with no forewarning or buildup. (For the record, I’ve never even been this bad when I was um… hormonal.)

Again, usually when there are bouts of emotional depression, there’s something to focus on or some sort of trigger on which to blame the oily cloud of gloom I seem to drag around with me but, this time, there’s nothing, which I think may be somehow worse. At least when I’m all weepy and self-loathy about a personal shortcoming or an existential crisis or whatever may be momentarily plaguing me, I don’t have to waste energy trying to figure out why I’m upset; I can use all my resources to try to drag myself out of the funk and back to a level of regular functionality. My present situation is exhausting on a new level because, not only am I actively fending off the typical symptoms and habits of depression and working to move forward but I’m also unable to stop wondering “Where is this coming from? Is there something legitimately wrong going on in my subconscious? Do I need to go see a hypnotherapist? Maybe I can replay every painful event from my past - again - to see if any of those memories strike a chord with what I’m feeling. Good Lord, has my depression evolved again?”

I’m reminded of a weird joke one of my old pastors told that everyone laughed at but couldn’t pin down why exactly:

A little boy goes to his mother and says, “Mommy, it hurts when I do this.”
His mother responds, “Well, then, don’t do that.”
The little boy then tells her, “But that makes it feel better.”

Sometimes I honestly wish that I would just go ahead and lose my mind completely, so I wouldn’t have to struggle so much to wrangle in my thoughts/feelings. Like I’ve said [repeatedly], I’m really over all this and am ready to move onto something else that defines my immediate reality. One would think that, after so much time and treatment and medication, my mental health would get to a point where low-energy maintenance-only effort would suffice.

Don’t worry; I’m still keeping up hope that it can. This is just a bump-in-the-road of a different color and I’m taking it as a lesson to be wary of mental curveballs.

I won’t get all long-winded about the backstory like I usually do but, in the last week, I’ve really been struggling with a haunting from my past and an unclosed door with a broken-heart situation and how it relates to my current life and what I’m doing that’s wrong in it and all that noise. It’s been really attacking me, actually, and gave me a hell of a depression spell for a few days.

And then I realized that, in order to actually, totally forgive myself, I have to stop giving a shit whether or not anyone else does.

I’m starting to think that basic life principles need to come with footnotes for those of us who don’t automatically realize the implied intricacies.

‘Pronoia’ p.271 #1: Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

To whet you imagination, read an excert from the boast of Eric Baer, a participant in a Brag Therapy session hosted in Milwaukee. “I have opposable thumbs, ” Eric exulted. “I can read. I breathe all the way through the night even though I’m asleep. I have access to emporiums where I can choose from 25 different brands of toilet paper. I know how to turn food into energy. I live where knuckleheads run everything and yet nothing ever blows up.”

NOTE: I’ll be honest, it honestly took me a couple days to muster the gumption to do this exercise. But what the hell? You only live once. Here we go:

I sing rock songs done originally by men so well that I don’t have to pay a bar tab at most karaoke bars, and not just because I don’t drink alcohol. I put brown sugar in my tea which makes it more awesome than usual. I have the prettiest, healthiest, thickest hair of anyone I know - and the color is divine. I was curvy before it was trendy. I can say the alphabet backwards. I have hitchhiker’s thumbs. I have a soul and believe in helping people who can’t help themselves, which means that I may have to sacrifice some of my luxury to do so. Sometimes when I get on a roll I’m funny as shit. I can win debates with about 85% of people and I can level those people with calm, stealthy rhetoric. I’ve sampled more types of chocolate than most people my age. I have unbelievably dark and long lashes. I’ve rung up a $50 tab on sashimi all by myself. I can alternate reading the same 5 books and still remember where I was and what was happening in each of them. I believe in changing energies and the Law of Attraction and perform rituals to do so. I can do the best Ethel Merman impression you’ve ever heard. I can dance like a fiend. I only get about 4 zits every year. I can eat a whole gallon of chocolate ice cream in one sitting. I wrote my first piece of erotica at 12 years old. I can sing every song on Styx’s “Paradise Theatre” and “The Grand Illusion” albums by heart. I’m not allergic to ANYTHING. My child literally uses manners in her sleep because I rock at setting an example. I spoil my friends with presents, even when I can’t afford them. Actually, I love giving people things in general and have been known to make myself broke by making donations to charities, people, bums on the street, etc. I waited until I was totally ready to lose my virginity and, no, I don’t think I was too young and, no, I won’t be upset if my daughter loses hers at the same age. I’m more introspective and proactive about changing my dysfunctions than at least 70% of the rest of the people in the society in which I was raised. My nose piercing has looked the same since the minute it was done - no swelling, no infection, no redness, just adorableness. I’m the biggest ‘Sesame Street’ nerd I know. I have a fantastic alias/nom de plume. I totally pick up on social cues even though I choose to ignore a lot of them. I have five short stories I’ve been working on for a year now. My body magically knew to provide me with too much seratonin and dopamine during my pregnancy as a defense mechanism against my chronic depression. My eyes change color every day. I know how to spell. Every time that I’ve done something that someone else has perceived as psychotic, I’ve been fully aware that that was what was going to happen and I went ahead and did it anyway - sometimes just to freak people out. I’ve never ever cried to get myself out of a ticket. I look adorable in earmuffs, a furry hat, pincurls, dreadlocks, kitty-cat ears and 1950’s style A-line housedresses. I’ve had over 20 diaries and journals since I was 5 and I’ve kept all of them. I know exactly how to be annoying and I can cite the minute it happens with anyone I’m targeting. Oh yeah, and I annoy people I don’t like but have to be around because it’s totally fun and I’m thoroughly amused by it… and because I have to let my inner brat out from time to time. I pwned the 12 Steps and tools of therapy. I’m so irresistable I’ve had to put out not one but two restraining orders on people. I won a multiplication bee when I was in the 3rd grade and, because the teacher preemptively knew I’d win it, she bought me some Sherlock Holmes books ’cause she knew I loved reading them. I’m fully aware when I say things that make me look dysfunctional. I was the only one giggling when I saw both “Titanic” and “The Notebook” (I was dragged) in the theatre. Despite what my high school drama teacher (”facilitator”) said, I got my own paragraph-of-glowing-praise in the public reviews from the only two community theatre productions I’ve ever been in… and in one of those productions I didn’t even speak. I make ideal pancakes. I have over 40 mix tapes and CDs that were made by friends in the last ten years. Oh, and I make arguably better mix CD’s than most people. I saved at least $1,000 by buying all my textbooks from Amazon.com and teaching my family how to do the same. I work every day on self-betterment, even if I don’t have time for it. I didn’t marry an idiot. I have my own desk, my own computer, my own filing cabinet, my own Etsy store, my own three domains and my own two blogs. I get gifts from across the planet every year. I make the most artistically badass scrapbooks I’ve ever seen. I’ve played a 200 year old piano located at Juliette Gordon Low’s house after the tour guide said, “We only let one girl do this every year.” I’m so irresistable I’ve had not one, but three “stalkers” (crazy people who won’t leave me alone and keep calling/harassing me because they’re in love) and have had handfuls of people I’ve heard can’t/won’t/don’t stop talking about me even years after I’ve forgotten them. I live in North Carolina. I know a real enigma. I survived both jr. high and high school. I’m not a bigot. I’m a neo-feminist which means that I can enjoy baking, sewing, knitting, etc without feeling some sort of guilt that I’m backsliding or being a slave to societal patriarchy. I look awesome in red. I also look awesome with purple highlights in my hair. My guitar was given to me by a Grammy winner and Top 40 recording artist. My top half is two sizes smaller than my lower half. I can recite every line in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” The Movie. I’m no longer envious of, threatened by or hateful to beautiful women (and not just because I’ve embraced the fact that they turn me on.) I have a Pick of Destiny. I get more excited about autumn than most [Christian] kids do about Christmas. I’ve never seen an episode of “The Hills”, “Laguna Beach” or “Jersey Shore”. I won/earned a Girl Scout Silver Award before anyone else in my troop did and I earned every Try-It that Brownie Girl Scouts could in the early 90’s. I’ve traveled abroad and have been to all but 15 of the United States. I’ve learned how to cut needy idiots out of my life once they’ve screwed up too many times instead of staying emotionally invested and draining myself for no reason. I stopped biting my fingernails. I have the cutest child on the planet who also happens to be polite, selfless, sociable and giggly. After years of apologizing and making amends for all those years I was a terrible, awful person, I’m finally in the clear and don’t owe anyone anything [for the moment]!!! I had the best wedding I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.