Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a Boy who loved me very very much. In fact, this particular Boy loved me more passionately, with more unabashed zeal, attentiveness and dedication than any other man in my life ever did, right up until three years ago. This superior love far outweighed anything I’d ever experienced, including that of The Other Guy I was currently in a long-term relationship with.

It all started out very harmlessly, as these things always do. We went to tiny local concerts together and made mix tapes and wrote postcards for each other when we were apart during the summer and there was nothing romantic about it or evident of any sort of ulterior motive. We both had significant others that we loved and we talked about them regularly, although more often than not his shared anecdotes were more pleasant than mine as I was prone to crying on his shoulder, sobbing about how The Other Guy had lied to me again or had been overheard talking badly about me or was just not giving me what I wanted in general. Over time, however, his words of encouragement and reassurance became more intimate than friendly and I found that mine were following suit. Suddenly, we realized we were in the throes of very deep, very unexpected emotions.

Soon, we were spending even more time together and flirting with the idea of “where this could go” and really becoming overwhelmed with emotion and excitement of new love. And then he pulled out the stops and broke it off with his girlfriend to offer himself to me exclusively. On my birthday that year, he lined all 10 miles of the major highway route to our school with signs that said “Happy Birthday, Elle!” and planted a banner in the front with the same message. He stuffed 20 empty glass bottles with varied hand-written loveletters and gave them to me for Valentine’s Day. He adored my family, he came around whenever he could, he always kept up with how I was feeling, what I needed, what I would need… he was everything I had ever wanted and I was enamored with him.

And there wasn’t much not to like, really. He was one of those kids who came from a rough upbringing and somehow beat the snot out of the status quo. He was more determined and driven than any single person I’ve ever met to this day but, even more importantly, he kept about him this constant attitude of optimism and joy. He was a spiritual guy who always kept that at the top of his list, even though there was no parental figure holding a gun to his head to do so (This was a new concept to me.) and he was proud of that aspect of himself. He even took me to my first and only Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. He was open-minded, healthy, successful, friendly, joyful, spiritual, ambitious, creative, resilient… the list could go on.

The problem, of course, was that I was an emotional wreck of biblical, Jericho-like proportions. Usually, these stories have that pathetic theme: “Girls only want bad guys and nice guys finish last.” but this time it doesn’t apply at all, surprisingly. The truth was that I’d always wanted to be with someone like him; who doesn’t? And, specifically, I wanted him. But I - being submerged and brainwashed with self-loathing and general desperate insecurity - was positive that I was not deserving of this sort of happiness, that somehow I was going to screw it all up and only be reminded of how undeserving I was in the aftermath.

And me, never being one to pass up the opportunity to fulfill a personal prophecy, went ahead and did just that.

(WARNING: This is where the Crazy kicks in. Also, the Pathetic. I sound like a complete, psycho-ex-girlfriend-stalker-type loon from here on out. Just be forewarned.)

So, in unbelievably predictable fashion, I cowardly sprinted back to The Other Guy in the “safe” dysfunctional relationship I was familiar and “comfortable” within. (For those of you who haven’t spent years in therapy and/or 12-step meetings, this is textbook codependent/addict behavior. The more you knooow.) My heart ached as the Boy kept coaxing me to come with him and let him make me happy after I’d told him my decision, but once I’d finally settled on my choice, I transformed into something very very sinister and hideous.

From where I sit now I can only come up with one theory as to how my mind possibly justified my behavior immediately after this, but that doesn’t make it any less excusable or blatantly insane. I guess because I was genuinely ruled by the staunch belief that I was worthless, unimportant and undesirable, my mind concluded that anyone who would bother to try to romance me was a moron. I’ve discussed it before, but for years I had a very Eeyore vernacular, always thanking people for paying attention to me or thinking of me and always wondering why in hell I was included in any sort of social engagements at all. When I started dating The Other Guy in my earlier high school years I was just amazed that any male would find me desirable at all, so I settled for that and assumed that I was lucky to have even obtained that much. So, when I see the Boy continuing to go out of his way to make me feel wonderful and show me his affection and shower me with adulation, I start to think there must be something wrong with him.

Soon, I’m treating the Boy like a pathetic, lost puppy who is intent on over-romanticizing everything and must be desperate to still be pursuing me. I start mocking him and emasculating him, both to our mutual friends and to his face. I ignore his calls, laugh at his attempts to talk to me like a concerned friend, and try desperately to swat away any remaining emotions I may be experiencing.

Jesus Christ, it just seems so arrogant and ridiculous from where I am now… anyway.

When we got to college a number of months later, I found myself feeling remorseful and missing his company but, still tumbling down a slope of self-destruction, my attempts at apologies were always overshadowed by my desperate loneliness and my hopes that maybe he’d come back and try to rescue me again. Any formal apologies I initiated always turned into a weepy, clingy drama fest in which I would be torn between desire and guilt while he would just be trying to figure out what the hell he could do to escape without causing me to implode. Naturally, his resistence in these conversations translated through my insecurity as blatant rejection and sent me into even more despair. (Like I said: I. Was. In. Sane.)

Honestly, I just thank God he had the integrity and self-assuredness to get the hell away from me instead of letting me drag him into a quagmire of Crazy. It’s one of those things that’s rather admirable about him.

Anyway, I left that college after I hit Rock Bottom: Episode I in 2003. We kept in touch here and there but it was always kind of strange and stilted. Frankly, I was so amazed that he’d waste any more time talking to me at all that I didn’t care what our meetings were like, but I always felt that he saw me as some sort of charity effort and I fought not to loathe myself for that.

Presently, we’re both married to people we’re insane about. All he ever wanted was to find someone to love, get married, and start a family and, like with everything else in his life, he did exactly that right after he graduated college. We speak when we can, although conversations are always in that cordial, scripted, “Hi, how are you, I’m doing well, it’s good to hear from you.” kind of language you use on loose acquaintences and your parents’ friends. While I know there will never be any more singing or giggling or sharing absurdities, I am quietly heartbroken at the knowledge that there will never be any reminiscience - happy or otherwise - between us and the realization that this is entirely my fault.

I found myself thinking about all of this after I recently came across a friendly “Hi, how are you…” message from him in my inbox from many months ago. And I realized that, even after all these years of real, intense apologies that I’ve had to issue to pretty much everyone I’d ever spoken to before I got sober, I never bothered to give him one. Yeah, there were a half-dozen of those drunken, blubbering apology sessions I previously mentioned but I’m positive those couldn’t have been taken seriously.

So, after 8 years I sat down and wrote him a letter in which I sincerely apologize as a sober, [mostly] sane, self-realized adult. Truthfully, I really hate doing that sort of thing after all this time because it kind of makes me look like some obsessive freak who can’t let things go and needs to rehash shit that other people have obviously laid to rest and gotten over. Most of the time I feel like I’d be better off just leaving it alone. And heaven forbid if this somehow gets misconstrued as me trying to instigate trouble or something else.

But, as per my Twelve Step practice, I know it’s something I’m responsible for and, even if I never hear from him ever again, he deserves to hear at least one sober, sincere apology from me. And frankly, if I went to my grave knowing that I didn’t grow a pair and give that to him, I’d never rest peacefully.

However, THIS? THIS is what we should be talking about in those government-funded D.A.R.E. programs. “Hey kids, you shouldn’t drink because one day you’re going to have to look at all the carnage in your rearview, pull a U-ey and clean it all up.”

I’ve been kind of freaking out about the Bear’s development as of late. My parents insist that I could name letters and numbers when they were pointed to by the time I was 18 months (apparently my dad used to place bets with his friends as to whether or not I could and, when they stood there slack-jawed he got to chuckle and remind them that they now owed him a beer) and I have friends who tell me their siblings could read by the age of 2. Meanwhile, my daughter is still barely making out words and mostly sticking to the same 5-8. Although she is adopting a new word every other day or so, she seems to easily forget them the next time I bring them up.

Naturally, this sends me into that whole worrisome insecurity I’ve transferred from my lovelife - where it is no longer necessary - and over to my parenting. Am I not letting her socialize enough? Maybe we watch too much TV! Should we be reading more? Do I need to drill her on letters and numbers? Is she going to be behind when she starts preschool? Maybe I’m being a terrible mother. I need to do more reading about this age; I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Maybe all the accomplishments of hers that I’m impressed with are months overdue! Should I have done that whole sign language for babies thing even though I heard it stunts their verbal progress? Oh God, why can’t I do anything with competence!?

And yeah, I know a lot of moms say that kids just naturally do things on their own time but there have been reports of kids who were locked in basements and such that never developed at all, so clearly that theory is bunk. And I’m not leaving my kid solitary confinement all day (or ever) but what if her expanding brain is just turning to mush because it’s not stimulated enough? Again: Oh God, why can’t I do anything with solid, consistent competence?!

So I’ve spent the better part of the day planted in front of the computer reading parenting resources on Parents.com and Disney’s parenting site. (I really should’ve started this earlier because I need to start introducing more vegetables into her diet and I have no idea how to deal with these tantrums she’s started throwing and I really have no clue as to when to transfer her to a normal bed or when to start potty training. ::sigh::) As it turns out, she’s right on track, despite what I’m hearing about these freakishly brainy kids who will probably turn out to be socially stunted like savants and prodigies always seem to be.

In fact, there are a few things she’s already doing preemptively, which is really exciting for someone who’s parenting without any sort of guidebook. It’s funny with kids because they just start doing something and you don’t even really notice or recognize it as a milestone until someone points it out to you. A lot of times when I was reading about her anticipated monthly accomplishments I found myself going, “Oh, well yeah, she’s been doing that for a while.” She’s been running and kicking for a few months now, she’s putting together small phrases (”It’s HOT!”, “Hi Kitties!” and “Hey doggie!” being her favorites), she’s sorting things by color, she’s able to recognize things even when in different forms, she turns letters and text right-side-up when she grabs a book (even when there are no pictures) and she’s doing a few other things that really aren’t due until later in the year.

Hunh.

So basically, what I learned is that, through absolutely no deliberate action on my part and no idea as to what I’m doing, I’m managing to not only keep my child up to par, but even enabling her to surpass the average. Um, yay me? I’m sure when this sort of thing is viewed by psychologists, they’d say that it has something to do with the individualized attention she’s been getting but I’m genuinely positive I’ve had nothing to do with this at all. All I do is play along with her and redirect her when she’s getting into something potentially hazardous. That’s it. No Montessori technique, no Dr. Spock recommendations, no playgroup-discussed methods. Nada. And it seems to be working.

And I am perfectly happy with continuing this lifestyle. After all, I want what’s best for my child.

Maybe I’ll write a book about it and coin “The Slacker Parent Method” (much different from the book “Slacker Mom” which was so horrible I couldn’t even finish it. The woman who wrote that wasn’t a slacker so much as a coldhearted, selfish bitch who probably should never have procreated in the first place. I want to start a therapy fund for her poor kids, especially knowing that this woman’s book sales have inevitably vindicated her atrociously apathetic attitude. ::shudder:: They’ve got a long road ahead of them.) I could become another “child expert” (heh… what a bullshit job title… kinda like “life coach”) and show up on panels and stuff. This could be very lucrative.

*Copyright pending

I’ve about had it with people justifying crappy art by saying that “It’s Christian!” And frankly, if I was God, I’d be a little miffed that my advocates were out there making atrocious music and writing terrible books after all the stuff I’ve given them, but I guess he really looks at it like those crappy finger-paintings kids bring to their parents…

This is not to say that everyone who publicly sings or writes or speaks about loving God is automatically awful, by the way. Matisyahu might be one of the most revolutionary musicians to emerge in the last ten years and that guy hasn’t changed a thing about his orthodox Judaism and writes songs exclusively about that. And rocks the music scene. Most of the time when people get sober their music just goes down the crapper (Aerosmith, Coltrane) but Johnny Lang is out there rocking it and putting on a better show than ever. It’s really amazing. And although I never ever would’ve picked it up, “The Shack” was surprisingly moving and thought-provoking, (even though it bordered on brain-washy once or twice.) And I think Christopher Moore’s “Lamb…” is the best book about Jesus ever written, if not one of the best books ever written. (YOU MUST READ IT. Even if you never want to have anything to do with Jesus and think his followers suck. Seriously, it’s awesome. Not preachy, not brain-washy. Just fun. Promise.) People have been moved to do great works of art in any genre in the name of God for thousands of years so don’t think I’m railing on that at all; I strive to be God-inspired in what I do, too.

HOWEVER, if I had a dollar for every person that told me “He’s a Christian musician/writer/comedian, but he’s actually really good!” I’d literally have a couple grand in savings. And I don’t get why people don’t understand that that sort of recommendation is not only ridiculous and cliche but will only result in repelling me further.

The worst thing is how people can produce genuinely terrible work and the Bible-thumping crowd will eat it up and then judge people who don’t like it as people who must be anti-Jesus. For example, I picked up a book last weekend called “90 Minutes in Heaven” that I’d heard a lot about from a few church-goers I knew. And it. Was. AWFUL. I mean, the story might’ve been okay (I couldn’t get through the whole book) but the author had a ghostwriter and even then the book read as though written by a 13-year-old. And I say “13″ specifically because all of his points were redundant, paragraphs were repeated ad nauseum without bothering to rephrase them at all and he loooooved making those melodramatic, blunt sentences that signal truth and transition at the end of every subsection. And somehow he managed to make the story drag through redundancy even though the book was 140 pages.
Bad. Badbadbad. Even the family members I talked to who had read it admitted that they couldn’t get through it because the writing was abysmal. And yet, this book has sold millions upon millions of copies while other, actually brilliant novels have sat gathering dust on shelves. It’s bullshit.

I remember a few years ago I attended a church that did those contemporary “rock” services that were just dreadful. When I told one of my acquaintences that the music made me want to take a drill to my ears she looked at me as though I’d said, “Jesus can go screw himself.” and then made it a point to never speak to me again. Yeah, I get that this makes her a loser of epic proportions but seriously? We’re judging people on what sort of music they listen to now? I guess that goes back to the whole church mentality of “YOUMUSTAGREEWITHEVERYTHINGWESAYORYOU’REDAMNEDTOHELL!!” that so many people don’t realize is optional.

But when I worship, it shouldn’t feel like a chore. I shouldn’t be made to sing boring, soulless songs that move me in no way, (this is why I think we should all sing gospel music exclusively. And not that bland, WASPel that they advertise collections of on the Weather Channel, but real, African-American written, raucous, joyful, 20-minutes-per-song gospel.) I shouldn’t be forced to listen to crappy comedians who rely on outdated cliches and the fact that they’re syndicated through churches to keep their careers alive, I shouldn’t have to read godawful literature that’s just some talentless moron’s way of making money off blind followers. I want to be moved. I want to feel God and feel life and feel joyful for all of it. (And no, Rick Warren’s “Purpose Driven Life” drivel didn’t even start to budge me, so don’t throw that crap in my face… again…)

I just don’t get why people think that you can’t have genuine, legitimate, innovative, fun art and still be considered divinely guided. And I’m tired of watching terrible artists find relative success just because they’ve learned how to manipulate the Bible Thumpers demographic. And I’m really reeeally tired of people feeling like they have to pray for me and worry for my soul because all but 4 contemporary Christian musicians suuuuuuck.

I’ve often heard and have grown to believe that the best way to make God laugh is to make plans. Apparently, I needed a refresher course.

Since the Bear is adamant about spending as much time as possible outdoors, I thought I’d change up the scenery and take her out to a local park while my hubs did some stuff around the house. It was mostly cloudy with a generous amount of breaks which was great because it meant we could spend the middle of the day outside without burning alive.

So we get down to the Kiwanis Family Park, one of our city’s beautiful playgrounds with big fields and running trails and grills and the whole bit.

Chloe is ecstatic and tears off at a dead run (which only translated as an effortless trot for me) and flailing her arms while screaming “WHEEEE!” I decided to take her on one of the trails as she’s not spent much time in wooded areas. She couldn’t have been more excited and, in the first few minutes she’d already picked up the words “creek” and “bridge”.

We’re hiking along and Chloe is loving every minute of it, pointing at birds, scampering down the trail, waving to every person that passes. I try to get her to turn off onto the paths that would lead us back to the starting point, but every time she screamed and cried, pulling my arm to let her take the long route.

Although I knew it was a .75 mile trail, I kind of shrugged and laughed about it thinking, “Well, I guess the worst that could happen is that she gets exhausted and I have to carry her back.” Plus, we were still around people in that I could see houses and major roads through the trees, so if we were bitten by a snake or something awful, we wouldn’t be far from rescue.

We get to the end of the trail and I have to pick Chloe up, screaming and kicking, to get her to turn around and go back the way we came. After a few minutes she gave up the fight and we were off. About five minutes in at Chloe-walking-speed, we started to feel a little bit of light rain but were under a thick canopy of trees, so Chloe really enjoyed it. As we walked, the rain gradually got a tiny bit heavier and I was still chucking to myself, thinking, “Ah man, we’re going to get so wet.” But still, Chloe was enjoying herself and even though I’d picked up the pace and was keeping us toward the edge of the path for more cover, we were having a good time.

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

Regardless of how long this summer storm was going to last, I knew Chloe would only find heavy raindrops pounding her body for a few minutes, so I scooped her up and began to run while yelling, “Whee!!” Now, I think it’s important to note that, because I was prepared for a leisurely day at the park, I was wearing a skimpy camisole, a flowing hippie skirt, and cheap leather sandals that I’ve had for a few years and have completely worn the tread off of. Also, I’d left the diaper bag back in the car but was hauling around my big leather purse with my wallet, keys, camera, juice boxes, etc. Still, though, we were giggling and I was kind of enrapt with how funny this all was and what a ridiculous story we’d have when we got home.

But about five minutes up the road, the rain somehow increased to the point where we couldn’t see ten feet in front of us and Chloe became hysterical. The fact that I haven’t been exercising recently was already a factor, but add to that the fact that I’m carrying an extra 25 lbs on one arm and trying to run in sandals in such a way that I don’t fall and hurt both of us, and I was working harder than I believe I have in the last ten years.

I was torn between trying to run fast and trying to keep my balance while soothing Chloe’s terrified screams so the .65 mile I was running took literally 10 minutes to cover (I could easily walk a mile in that on a normal day.) And then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude upon seeing the clearing up ahead, a bolt of lightning hit a tree less than a mile away (we saw it as we were leaving the park later on) and elevated our level of panic to outright terror. There hadn’t been any signs of lightning before that moment so, even though we were soaking and Chloe was really upset, I was safe in the knowledge that we weren’t in real danger. When that was snatched away, my adrenaline kicked in and I somehow sprinted out of the woods, into the clearing, and another 200 yards to the nearest shelter.

Just as I hit the slick floor of the shelter, my treadless shoes became worthless and I hit my knee harder than I think it’s ever been. However, because of my wildly flying hormones and emotions, I didn’t even notice it until a few hours later. As a few dry families watched, I sat on the floor right at the edge, rocking and soothing Chloe as best as I could while she wailed and shivered.

Even though the shelter was lying elevated on a hill, it began to flood and I realized I was sitting in a slowly spreading puddle. I moved us to one of the picnic tables and kept rocking and clutching the Bear. I was terrified she’d get hypothermia or pneumonia or something and it’s honestly the first time that she’s screamed in public and I did not give a shit what anyone else was thinking, although I hardly think that’s praiseworthy or unnatural given the circumstances.

After about ten minutes, I noticed one of the men in another family come running back from their car, soaking and clutching a bag. He handed it off and his wife and her daughter walked over and handed me a clean, dry set of little boy’s clothes and a new diaper. As I tried to tell her how much I appreciated it, it became obvious that she spoke no English at all and I was reduced to pitiful, broken Spanish and an idiotic redundancy of “Gracias”es. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and, to be honest, as I’m writing this, my eyes are welling up with tears, (although that could be the residual effects of the day messing with my emotions.) While I changed an increasingly chilled and frightened Bear, the woman calmly stabilized Chloe as her daughter spoke softly to her and tried to get her to smile. Realizing that I couldn’t hold the Bear up to my chest to warm her as my clothes were soaking, the woman made a gesture to ask permission and, after I nodded, she picked Chloe up and held her for a few minutes. When Chloe finally settled a bit, we sat her down and I became pathetic with gratitude, probably driving the woman insane with my relentless thanks. She held up a hand to tell me it was no problem but ran back over to her purse and handed me a small bottle of Bio Salud!, a revolutionary Mexican dairy beverage that is loaded with live cultures and nutrients. Suffice to say, I was floored.

After Chloe calmed down, she went back to her normal self, sitting beside me while I wrung out my skirt a few dozen times and babbling and pointing to the rain and smiling at me with wonder. I even took the opportunity to get a few pics, because I’m pathetic and thought I should have evidence of the story when I tell her one day.

The rain died down and the woman and her family stood up to leave. Even though I hated the idea of stripping Chloe of warm clothes, I knew we had some clean ones in the car about 200-ish yards away and could make it work if we had to. I made feeble gestures to tell the woman that she could have her son’s clothes back but she adamantly shook her head and patted me on the back with one of those “knowing mother” smiles.

It took me about an hour after we left the park to settle down and realize how exhausted I was. I just felt deflated after the intensity of the emotions plus the unrehearsed running.

I’m sure, though, that this is one of those days I’ll remember. Not to oversentimentalize things but the culmination of the fear that was so easily diffused by one family’s simple generosity made the whole experience remarkable. I know, it’s not like I was a refugee taken in by strangers, but still the lessons here are twofold:

1) ALWAYS prepare for the worst when out with children. Al. Ways.
2) Don’t be so cowardly or cynical as to doubt the existence of real, good people, no matter how much you see evidence to prove otherwise.

I like to casually keep an eye out to see what sort of people are paying attention to me. That may sound incredibly narcissistic but hear me out. I don’t do it out of the need to build myself up or float my confidence on the approval/attention of others or anything codependent or self-loathing in that vein. For me, it’s really just a great source of humor and brings me a good deal of amusement.

For example, I’ve learned that, avoid them or not, there are still some politics that function within Facebook relationships of any kind, apparently. (Gross.) A few months ago, I received a “friend request” from a guy who’s lusted after been a pathetic disciple of been friends with one of my exes for years. Intrigued, I “friended” him but never checked out his profile (he has the personality of a tub of mayonnaise; what’s to learn?) or spoke to him, etc. Noticeably, within a few weeks, he’d “unfriended.” Heh. Interesting.

(To be frank, this particular ex has had a lot of strangeness surrounding him and his Facebook interactions with me, which I find even more hilarious since we’re not “friends” and I never respond to him anymore at all. - Brody, this may sound familiar :::ah-wink!::: - However, because I legitimately don’t care and this person is a separate, extreme case from this entry’s intended thesis altogether, I’m not going to bother delving in. I will say that I am proud of myself, though, for being at a place where it doesn’t anger or bother me anymore. It’s just more vindication and amusement on my behalf. Whee! I’m petty!)

I especially love the “Spy” feature on this WordPress app I have to support this here blog, which I use from time to time to see, you know, who my readers are, where they’re coming from, what Google searches brought them here, etc. (Unfortunately, a huge fraction of my daily hits come from the one post I did about sexy posters. ::sigh:: That one may be coming down.) I don’t use this feature daily or even weekly, but I do enjoy watching my reader base grow and even seeing familiar IP addresses of old friends who only drop me a line every couple months but still take the time to read. (I hope you guys don’t mind me knowing you’re out there.)

But there are a handful of readers that bring me incredible amusement. (Don’t feel embarrassed; nobody else knows you’re here.) There are a few that I see who have gone out of their way yyeeeaars ago (like, 8-12, depending on the person) to tell me that they loathe me and hope I die a horrible, painful death who are still bothering to sniff around. There are others with whom I’ve had lesser relationship intensity that I haven’t spoken to or seen in years who also peruse my painfully self-indulgent ramblings. What’s even more amusing is the frequency of some of these obscure, random acquaintances’ visits and their apparent, intent interest in my day-to-day. While some people may find a former adolescent bully’s daily interest in their life perturbing or frightening, it really just gives me a rush of gloating amusement, especially when I consider that I genuinely don’t give a shit the other way around. (Besides, I’m never scared of Crazy anymore. Perhaps because I arrogantly suppose I can outCrazy anyone, but mostly because it’s not foreign territory to me like it is with most people.) (Oh, and thank you, again, therapy!)

Anyway, not that the notion didn’t exist before the Internet, but it’s become more evident to me as I grow older and technology improves that indeed, all people - regardless of their roles or illusion of sanity - are strange.
To put it lightly.

And funnily, this makes me feel not just “not alone”, but somewhat confident and/or proud in the idea that, even though I’m admittedly strange-bordering-on-occasional-Crazy, I’m not putting up any false fronts about it.

I am severely, noticeably awkward.
And not in a way I know how to classify.

A lot of people say that about themselves, mostly because “awkward” has somewhat become a trendy form of humor these days like in “The Office” with the painfully social ineptitude of those characters or the bumbling awkwardness of Lemon on “30 Rock.” In this new post-technological society where nerds are ruling the world, “awkward” has suddenly become a mainstream form of “genius” entertainment, bringing back styles similar to those created by Andy Kaufman.

There’s the cool awkward where a cute girl is klutzy or emotionally crippled in some adorable, faux-needy way.
I’m not that.

Then there’s the “nerd” awkward where the social ineptitude leaks over from adolescence into the real world and LARPers and Trekkies still think it’s important to violently argue about Asimov’s theories. (By the way, it’s weird how geeks across the planet have the same awkward speech cadences and ticks, or how they have identical gestures or facial quirks… it’s like a gene.)

That’s not me, either.

There’s the random-humor-and-obscure-loser-reference awkward that Andy Samberg and the Lonely Island guys like to play with.

Not me.

And then the painfully-insecure-overcompensating-Michael-Scott-epic-fail type of awkward.

Ehh… Used to be me. Then I stopped drinking, so not so much anymore.

And there are countless other subcategories that aren’t really publicly illustrated but are definitely noticeable to the average person. There’s the fat-girl-lost-a-lot-of-weight-and-doesn’t-know-she’s-hot-so-still-acting-self-loathing-and-sell-outty awkward. There’s the 40-year-old-math-teacher-divorcee-trying-to-reclaim-her-youth awkward. There’s obligatory-creepy-lecherous-perv awkward. There’s the-gay-guy-trying-to-cling-onto-the-coatrack-in-the-closet-even-though-everyone-KNOWS awkward. The list could go on forever.

Again, none of these are my type of awkward.

I’ve known about my type of awkward since I was little and started listening to my deeper-than-everyone voice on my parents’ tape recorder. I noticed that my cheeks encompassed a majority of my face and the corners of my mouth stick together when I’m talking, which has caused more than one person to remark, “You remind me a lot of Melissa Joan Hart.” (…awesome…) My nose spreads endlessly across my face like a tribute to Bill Cosby, my arms have always looked like turkey legs even at the peak of my weight-training regimen, I have more facial hair than anyone who isn’t Italian should legally have and for whatever reason, I’ve always been at the very least a leeeetle heavier than my doctor says I should be.

And that’s just the physical stuff. I literally can’t leave any social situation without having at least one moment I look back on and think, “Why in the hell did I do/say/wear that?! What the eff is wrong with me!?” Fortunately, these actions are never part of a major disagreement or conflict (God blesses me with good judgment and the ability to only say what I mean during those moments) but the other 96% of my life is fair game for my social uselessness. Actually, the only place I don’t immediately flinch at my actions in retrospect is in text and I accredit that to my ability to edit. This same questioning-of-actions is constant and is heightened when I revisit old performances or photos or memories of defunct relationships or any era when I was really reeeeaally dysfunctional and/or inebriated. Suffice to say, there’s a lot of forehead slapping involved in my self-analysis.

And honestly? Yes, I am always amazed that I’m able to have/keep better-than-amazing friends and even more amazed that I’ve ever been able to trick anyone into finding me attractive. That’s the truth.

Don’t get me wrong here. When I say that I’m awkward, this is not me being self-depreciative or loathing, if you can believe that. I’m not saying I’m socially inept or incapable of any sort of productive, enjoyable existence. And I’m definitely not saying that I don’t have any redeeming qualities about myself, physically or otherwise. I’m really just saying that even after spending years upon years watching myself and finding that, even after years of therapy and tankerloads of introspection, the Awkward is the one thing that remains constant. It’s mine to keep, apparently.

The problem with having recognized my awkwardness is that, unlike performers like Rachel Dratch or Chris Farley who seized their awkwardness and entertained the masses with it, I have no idea how to make any of my Awkward appealing or humorous… or if it’s even possible. At all.

Even though I worked a lot of the “Who am I?”s and the “What the hell is going on with me?”s out in my younger years, I’ve come to realize that I still waste a LOT of time grappling with this ongoing resistance to the ultimate notion that I’m a bit left of center. I still play dress up and take pictures of myself to try to convince myself that I’m extraordinarily attractive when really, even the one usable photo out of every 200 that I take is only satisfactory. I still fling as much of myself “out there” as I possibly can even if I have absolutely nothing informed or relevant to bring to any table at which I may be aiming. I recognize that I did a lot more of that in my adolescence, which is really strange considering how much I haaated myself. You would think that someone who was completely convinced she was a hideous moron would hide under a rock but for some reason, I still enjoyed being a bit rogue and outspoken when I could… I know; it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

Now, though, I don’t have all the disgust and hate for myself that trails around with me through all my actions, so I’m really just looking at myself objectively. I’m awkward, not ever going to fit into some battleax role, nor am I ever going to be a lusty object of desire. And, despite all my flailing idiocy, I’m 99.9% sure that I’m always going to slide into average obscurity with the rest of the masses. That’s just how it is and I’ve become happy with that. (And yes, for the record, I do blame this celebrity-crazed society of ours for trying to convince everyone that if they aren’t wildly famous or publicly lauded then they aren’t worthwhile. It’s all lies that I’m happy to avoid.)

However, the underlying question that keeps nagging at me after all these conclusions is simply “Where the hell does that put me?”

What does my type of Awkward qualify me for? Where would my Awkward be best utilized? How can I get that to work for me? How do I even start figuring all that out?

I once heard a story about a famous writer who would ask his wife and/or assistant to lock him in his study, demanding to be held captive until he’d finished the work he’d allotted for himself that day. Apparently, within twenty minutes, he would be banging on the door, screaming, “LET ME OUT! I’m a fraud!!”

I loved reminding myself of this story as a means to soothe my own insecurities as a writer and have used it for many years during times when I had completely convinced myself that I’m a useless poseur who was only wasting her time by chasing this dream as a writer.

Recently, I started researching this story to try to remember who the writer actually was so when I repeated it to those around me, I wouldn’t sound like I was fabricating the whole thing.

And then a few days ago, I got my answer: J.D. Salinger…

…which really defeats my whole purpose because I think he suuucks and, as far as I’m concerned, he was a fraud.

So back to Square 1, I guess.

It used to make me sad when pop culture made fun of dysfunction, primarily of the WASP-y family variety. (And when I say “WASP” here, I don’t mean the literal meaning of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, I’m referring to the social connotations and stereotypes associated with this sect of people, particularly of the upper or upper-middle class variety.) I first felt this way when I watched “Will and Grace” and they loved to highlight the incredible mental fuckery of Will’s Connecticut-based family who did the stereotypical behaviors of ignoring their children’s unorthodox principles, sweeping blatant conflict under the rug and allowing it to manifest into drinking problems and mental/emotional instability, denying any destructive, self-loathing behavior to live life in perpetual stagnation and misery, and working so hard to keep up with the Joneses and create an ideal appearance that they breed more self-loathing, distrust, empty materialism, etc. Oh, and this was the fine, successful life they encouraged their offspring to embrace and aspire to. The same could be said about the pill-popping Karen Walker character who laughed about her broken marriage and loveless existence by criticizing everyone, spending money wildly, and drowning any hint of emotion in booze. The more I started paying attention, the more I recognized the apparent public appeal of making jokes about privileged, wealthy white people (not all of these people, by the way. Nothing here is ever a complete blanket generalization.) and their insane, destructive behavior that stems from the drive to show of wealth and prestige. And not only this, it was also funny to make fun of the copious antidepressants and therapy treatments we resort to because of this very broken, sick mentality. And on top of that, (and perhaps what makes all this the most absurd) this sort of humor was/is never geared toward outside minorities; it was/is always directed and marketed to the very people who fit the description.

Originally, it seemed tragic to me that family dysfunction was rampant enough to become a public joke that everyone watching could understand and relate to. Had we become so jaded with this comfortable, accepted societal insanity that we were able to gloss over the pain of it and make it yet another important issue we swept under the rug?

And then as I got older and began to see these exact traits and stereotypes within members of my own family (not all of us) and the incredible pain and destruction it caused, I started laughing with the others out there who had stepped outside the brainwashing, became a little introspective and driven toward self-improvement, and didn’t settle for perpetuating any more ignorant, stubborn, emotionally disengaged lifestyles. Elated to be amongst like-minded people who were free of their pasts, I finally got the joke:

If we didn’t learn to laugh at the complete vapid uselessness and the absurdity of what we’d seen and experienced, we’d never ever make it as whole people… if we made it out at all.

There are two main things that people believe they are so far better at than they actually are: singing and being funny. However, if there is anything more painful and awful to watch than someone who mistakenly believes they can sing, it is someone who truly believes they are funny and desperately are not.

This is why I’m terrified to chase my real, secret dream of becoming a comedy writer… but I’ll get to that in a minute.

I say that these are the “two main things” (aside from, say, being well-read or knowing how to act or something else that is completely subjectively judged) because these are the two things that everyone has access to attempting every day of their lives and that throngs and throngs of misguided people flock to various auditions for in hopes to find success in these coveted crafts. It’s far harder to be convinced that you’re a brilliant doctor if you’re killing people left and right or that you’re a fantastic pilot if you can’t even turn a plane on, right? Those are things that require actual evidence of talent and capability in order to acheive success at. But people who mistakenly believe that they are great singers or groundbreaking comedians aren’t required to have any sort of tangible evidence that they have any competence or training in their field so they’re more likely to hurl themselves toward it in complete delusion. Maybe it’s because those who can entertain are considered heroes in our culture, maybe it’s because those people who are mistaken about their talents think that fame and recognition for these likable talents will make them feel loved, but whatever the case, these are the two things that people in any social class or setting attempt to demonstrate constantly, whether to small audiences or on a nationally-syndicated television show. And they come in droves as those most willing to make colossal asses of themselves.

This starts on a basic level, which we’ll call Level 1’s (The Socially Unfunny.) Usually there is one person around who loves to think of him/herself as being “witty” and “sarcastic” and will also brag to new friends that these are among their best qualities. And, while they may actually have learned the definition of “sarcasm,” their development of the implementation of the technique apparently stalled immediately afterward. (Typically around the early 90’s.) Level 1’s are incessantly interjecting commentary that is not only insipid and predictable but is almost nauseatingly unfunny. True, the comments they make are technically “sarcastic,” but they are in the very most primitive form, indicative of the exhausting Chandler character on ‘Friends.’  Usually, this behavior is found in children ages 10-17 who have just learned about the idea of sarcasm but still have no grasp in irony. (And, for the record, this was definitely me for the majority of my adolesence. Another problem cured through sobriety!) However, when this person is any older than 18, it just becomes obnoxious.  

For example, if a friend of one of these Level 1’s (L1) was to trip and fall in front of the L1, the L1 would automatically be inspired to say something like, “Hey, next time why don’t you try walking?” or “Walk much?” Sometimes the L1 will take it to an L1.5 response and hint at irony, like “Look out for that sidewalk; it likes to shift.” Another example of an L1.5 response would be if, say, a frequently-unkempt person had decided to skip a bath for a day and told their L1.5 acquaintence, only to be told, “And that’s neeeeeever something you’d do. Because you’resoooohygenic. ” [Insert I'm-totally-kidding-wink here.] Any of these variations are categorically Level 1, though, because they are agonizingly dull, uninspired, obvious and outdated. (Because I was a candidate of L1 status as a drunk, it serves as yet another strong reason as to why I should avoid the booze.)

The Level 2 gang is only slightly advanced in that they understand the basics of generalized wit, sarcasm, and perhaps even humor-inducing elements/formulas but their voices and attempts are based on the trends of popular contemporary comedy styles. These people are funny enough to stand out in small groups of people and L2.5’s may even attempt a career but ultimately won’t be able to make any name for themselves or find any real success because they are simply carbon copies of real talent. An L2 probably adorescomedy and is capable of reproducing various styles of humor that are all relevant to current pop culture. For example, an L2 can mimic the Random-Humor style of “Monty Python” just as well as he can cite obscure references like “Family Guy” has earned vast recognition for [beating to death.] Although it’s an easier format, many L2’s are popular for their ability to channel the revolutionary (at the time) Awkward-and-Silly humor that Adam Sandler introduced and Andy Samberg continues today. And, a very advanced L2.5 may even be able to grasp the absurdist satire styles that create such shows as “South Park.” All are popular subgenres of comedy for a reason and, recognizing this, an L2 is happy to jump on board.

And the very worst of these egomaniacal Unfunnies are the Level 3’s. L3’s are so convinced that they are humorous that they have committed their lives to treating the world to their humor. These are the types who are capable of thinking outside of the box but their attempts at humor fall into the unsuccessful subcategories of comedy like Pretentious Humor, So-Abstract-Nobody-Gets-It Humor, So-Twisted-And-Disgusting-That-You’d-Have-To-Be-Soulless-To-Laugh Humor, or So-Overwrought-With-Intention-That-Nobody-Gives-A-Shit Humor. Similar to the Level 2.5’s, the L3 often copies popular styles of humor although on a more elitist level. An L3 is more likely to mimic the Uncomfortable-And-Awkward-Situation Humor as popularized by shows like “The Office” and “Kath and Kim” (The UK and AUS originals, of course. This type of humor requires subtlety in order to really be effective and if there’s anything Americans cannot seem to grasp it’s exactly that. Oh, and the idea that we’re not a theocracy… but that’s another conversation.) and even in the groundbreaking “Napoleon Dynamite” (most recognizable by it’s overquotation from L2’s.) These people believe they are the next Andy Kaufman, that they are going to shake up the way we all accept humor, that they are going to redefine the comedy world, and the only reason that they haven’t been able to touch the masses is because they’re ahead of their time and nobody recognizes their greatness yet. But L3’s are not destined to become actual comedians because they are chronic Unfunnies and the only genuine humor they display is the sad fact that they cannot see how terrible they are and the complete irony that their life often matches the exact crappy comedy they’re writing/performing.

I am petrified that I’m destined to become a Level 3.

I’ve always secretly dreamed of being a writer for SNLor some comedy-based performance company in general. Then when Tina Fey started stepping out I became even more excited with the realization that women are finally starting to get taken seriously as brilliant comedians capable of entertaining masses on an intelligent level. Although I’ve been performing on stage since I was 6-ish, I’ve come to the realization that I’m just not that funny to watch, really. And when I’m watching recordings of my performances I am literally sickened by all my terrible artistic choices and the opportunities I missed and my general cluelessness when it comes to creating a presence. With that in mind, I was fortunate enough to write and perform with a quite successful comedy troupe in Melbourne, Australia a few years ago and just adored it. I enjoyed collaborating on ideas with others, I loved feeling like my work was something people really enjoyed and I became intoxicated with pride and glee when a line or sketch I’d written garnered laughs and applause. Again, when I watch my performances from those shows now I blatantly cringe at my awkward stage persona (and the sad realization that I don’t even have the brilliance to make that work for me, like the dozens of awkward comedians we love because of their weirdness) but I really started getting excited at the idea that maybe some of my thoughts were original and maybe I wasn’t completely idiotic to the comedic cues of social consciousness.

The problem is, I’m 99.9% positive I’m not a funny person. I mean, I can feed right in to obvious jokes and can even adjust these responses to match the demographic preferences of my immediate company (so, I’m pretty L2, even though I’m not as blindly confident as the aforementioned L2’s in the descriptions) and there are times when I’m genuinely on a roll about something and have people chuckling more than usual, but when it comes to real, uniquely stylized humor, I’m completely inept. No unique voice, no original thoughts or concepts, nothing that doesn’t fit some preconceived, overused everyday format.

And this gets even more frustrating in my daily life as I’m a bit addicted to really bright, insightful and/or progressive comedy in almost any form. While I love to read popular humor writers like The Sedaris, The Eggers, Sloane Crosley, Jenn Lancaster, Erma Bombeck, Everyone at The Onion, etc. and I looooooovewatching/following stand-up comedy like I’m a paid reviewer (Patton Oswalt still being my favorite; I’m almost to groupie status with my collection of essays and speeches and bootlegs… I like that he’s intelligent and well-read and expects his audience to be so as well instead of catering to the lowest common denom crew. It’s admirable.), I’m constantly becoming discouraged with the realization that I am not as brilliant as these people I’m so in awe of. Sure, half the sketches on SNLthese days are so terrible a 3rd grader on heroin could’ve written them, but for the most part, comedy has made a massive comeback since the Great Comedy Massacre of the late-80’s-early-90’s. And I feel like a prepubescent white kid trying out for the NBA for even daring to think that I could work in this industry.

Thank God I’m not clueless as to my inabilities because I would HATE to be one of the previously discussed idiots blindly plunging forward in a ridiculous confidence. But on the other side of the coin, I’m wondering how much of that is realistic and if, by some wild chance, my fear is actually holding me back from even so much as attempting to contemplate researching the ability to begin this dream. (No, seriously. I’m that hesitant.)

So today I’m at a party in the Chicago area and happened to fall into a conversation with a woman who was very good friends with a woman who started as a performer at Second City, where she met The Fey (cut to me having a Gat-damned heartattack) and from which she transferred to SNL. When H.R.H. Fey decided to begin her own empire of genius, this woman (we’ll call her K.) was invited to come with and is now a writer for ‘30 Rock.’ (This was the part where I lost my bowels.) Trying not to gush (I mean, this was a person who knew a person who knew Mrs. Fey. It’s not like I was touching Her garments or using my hair to wash her feet.) I mentioned how much I loved the show, admired The Fey’s work and influence on the industry and had always really wanted to get into that sort of thing but was limited with my lifestyle and location for the time being. After I told her I’d had a little experience working and writing with a real, legit troupe she casually mentioned that she’d be happy to send a message to K and ask for any insight into getting into the industry, if she’d be willing to take a look at some writing samples and offer criticisms, etc. I was mortified at how childishly excited I became at a mention of a chance this woman might mention me to someone who knows someone who knows someone that will more than likely turn into absolutely nothing at all. This woman had never met me, will probably never see me again, has never read any of my work, and honestly was probably doing the typical just-being-nice-because-I-mentioned-a-connection thing. Still, I turned into a moron but was able to create an adult persona until I was able to attack Greg with the embarrassingly non-existant “news.”

And then I started thinking, What if, by some wild freak chance, this woman I met today was serious and wrote to K and I somehow got in contact with her and was asked to send some writing samples or something equally improbable… What then?

What I mean specifically is “What the fuck are you going to give them? What do you have to offer at all?” Greg and I have agreed that we’ll up and move anywhere it takes for the other to realize their dream no matter how ridiculous. So relocating or taking a dream job or any of that isn’t my question in this case, mostly because I literally never think it will ever be a reality.

So it all comes back to me not ever wanting to be a clueless, arrogant L3. Sometimes I so wish I had that idiotically blind superego that so many untalented artists have, like Adam Levine who literally believes that Maroon 5 is the greatest band on the planet. (He said this with no irony intended. At. All.) Because even though those guys look like giant arrogant idiotic douchebags, their crazy confidence has made them successful and able to express their art and bring it to the masses… which is exactly the objective. (Although when Tenacious D parodies these guys’ attitudes, it’s just amazing.) But I can’t do that. I can’t go out there and proclaim to be the next Bill Hicks and tell show producers that I’m going to pwn the industry and be the greatest writer they’ve ever worked with. Hell, I can’t even confidently convince someone that my best essay will make them crack a smile. So charging headfirst completely assured that I have any talent at all is a LIE.

My husband and I have always made the promise to each other that if there’s something we’re aspiring to do or be that we are blatantly incapable of, we would be honest and tell the other so as not to cause the other person years of rejection and heartbreak. This, of course, was decided while watching one of those American Idol season premiers where they show the god-awful singers who were never told the truth and are just making themselves look ridiculous on national television. And yes, I love my husband enough to save him from public shame and humiliation.

So anyway, this evening I sat down and told him to be honest about whether or not he thought this was a valid, obtainable dream to even attempt going after. Not that I don’t want to be a columnist or pen a memoir or get my counseling degree, but if the opportunity arises for me to reasonably chase my wild dream I’d prefer to go after it above anything else. And he said I was hilarious. And then I asked him if I was creatively hilarious or just run-of-the-mill hilarious. And he said I was creative and I catch him off guard with quips all the time. And then I asked him if I was innovative and capable of creating new, unique premises and executions of comedy and he said, “Um, sure.” so I asked him to give me an example of a time that I’d had a unique, original thought that wasn’t just a riff or takeoff on someone else’s… And then he started rubbing his temples and chuckling and asking God why he couldn’t just have a wife that nagged him about normal things.

So that’s why I’m awake until 3 a.m. wondering if my fears are valid and if they’re even going to matter in the long run. (Either way, worry isn’t doing me any good. I know this.) And then I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to get a really incredible opportunity without feeling completely undeserving of it.

What I Should’ve Said: A Collection of Unsent Letters
by Castallare

Table of Contents

I.
Everything I Needed to Know NOT to Do, I Learned From You Idiots.

II.
Pathologically Lying about Trivial, Unimportant Things Makes You Look Certifiably Crazy
or - By the Way, We’re Onto You.

III.
Is There Any Stereotype of Ignorant White Trash You Don’t Fit?
or - Stories About Your Family’s Tasteless Antics Will Fit Nicely Into My Novels

IV.
Your Beliefs are All Oxymoronic and You Sound Like an Imbecile Proclaiming Them Constantly

V.
If I Had a Dollar For Every Time I’ve Wanted to Tell You to Grow Up and Stop Whining All The Damned Time, I Could Afford a Mansion of Roman Proportions. Literally.
or - Yes, People Really Are Avoiding You On Purpose
or - Diplomacy and Class Have Kept Me From Ripping Your Face Off and Making You Cry

VI.
You’re Evidence That There Are People Without Souls
… So There’s No Need For You To Worry About The Afterlife

VII.
One Day You’ll Pay Money To Watch Lesbians in Action
… So Making Fun of Them Now Kind Of Makes You Look Stupid

VIII.
You’re a Jealous Coward
… But Because I Love You, I’m Not Mad At You Anymore

IX.
I Get Why You Drink But You’d Be Better Off Just Leaving
or - Tell Me Again Why You Married This Guy?

X.
How Did You Become Such a Materialistic Bitch?
or - Wow, That Didn’t Take Long at All.

XI.
No, I Don’t Give a Shit How Much Money You Have: Rich or Not, You Still Suck
or - Having a Giant House Won’t Save Your Soul

XII.
Everyone Who Matters Is Seriously Over You
or - How Come You Didn’t Turn Out As Cool As Everyone Else?