(RE: The Title. Name that showtune!)

~ There are two moments in sitcom history that make me cry everysingletime I see them in reruns. The first is when Jack and Karen sing “Unforgettable” in the series finale of “Will and Grace”. The second is episode 424 of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” (’Papa’s Got a Brand New Excuse’) when Will’s father Lou shows up for the first time in 15 years. They bond and decide to turn over a new leaf, Lou (played by the incomparable Ben Vereen) agreeing to let Will travel with him back to the East Coast for the summer. At the very end of the episode, however, Will’s dad bails on him again and leaves the news with Uncle Phil who tells him what a disgusting father he is. This is enough to get the Choke Throat but when Will learns of it he presents this monologue that is perhaps the most moving thing I’ve ever seen Smith perform and easily one of the best moments ever on prime-time television. (Watch the 3-minute monologue HERE. And get some tissues ready. That last line is the nail in the coffin.)

~A reader just told me she missed my prattlings so this is really what this blog entry is about. I’ve been superbusy between this new business prospect Greg and I are fervently collaborating on and working toward, battling this ongoing undiagnosed gastrointestinal problem, studying like a maniac for the GRE (and only feeling dumber by the day, still), running a functioning household, holding down the freelance writing gigs I do have, and trying to talk myself into starting Chloe’s socialization practices (Mother’s Morning Out, playdates, etc.)

I’ve still been writing to my pen pal every week and I’m honestly still enjoying it and our deep conversations. Although we haven’t spoken directly about her specific crime, she has mentioned that a lot of people have sent her hate mail over the years after seeing her listing on WriteAPrisoner.com but she feels the same way I do in that she doesn’t require forgiveness from anyone other than herself, her Higher Power, and those that she has directly harmed. It sounds like, after 7 years in the slammer, she’s really used the resources that the prison does implement to start mental recovery. She’s mentioned that, if anything, the penal system only produces criminals unless the prisoners actively seek out help and reform, which is what she feels is the best expenditure of her time. I admire that. I also really like that she’s not an idiot. I know that sounds bad, but she never graduated from high school, so I kind of expected someone not quite literate or some other shallow preconceived notion of what an unfinished undergrad education would provide [that I realize is horribly wrong of me so there's no need for a preachy commentary.] However, not only is she rather intelligent and self-educated, she’s really into literary criticism and philosophy, which I love! I’ve been looking for someone to indulge my penchant for critical analysis and general bookish nerdiness and that’s something we both share, not having anyone to really compare mental notes with. It’s nice.

Me and Greg are working hard on our new project and hope to launch it in the next 6 weeks. I’ll be sure to start plugging it publicly once we’re on the brink of a formal presentation. Although it’s a bit of a risk and there’s no guaranteed success with it, it’s something we’re excited about simply because we feel like we’re being proactive about our progress and our future and we finally have something that we can work on that isn’t directly dependent on the responses of other people. (Although any business eventually is, it’s not up to other people whether or not we get it started.) Plus, it’s inexpensive and will only cost our time and energy, so this makes it another appealing risk that we can afford to take at the moment. Sorry to be so vague; again, details will come in the next month. I promise.

Somehow, I’m staying busy but still managing to read a new book about once a week, which leads me to highly recommend Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Jesus’ Childhood Friend. First of all, it’s HILARIOUS and, although irreverent mostly, it always keeps the pure image of Jesus intact so there’s never any rewriting of recorded history involved (and, thus, no book burning by crazy Christian fanatics whose faith is threatened by literary musings… idiots…) Like other Jesus fanfiction I’ve read, Moore tries to fill in the blanks of what really happened during those years between 12 and 30 but, unlike the other works (the dreadful version Anne Rice cranked out is what I’m mostly referring to), he never diverted from fact, but really gave Jesus a humanistic character, in that he had the same cravings and feelings of any young man and wasn’t some omniscient being right from the start. Moore also takes the time to make a few little side jokes pertaining to modern cliches and unanswered religious traditions. For example, Christ and Biff spend their adolescence(s?) seeking the 3 wise men who apparently knew that Jesus was something important when he first showed up on earth and trying to get answers about his supposed identity from them. They spend Christ’s 18th birthday with Balthazar, who lives in a fortress with a demon he keeps captive in exchange for eternal life (not relevant to this story) and 8 Chinese concubines (who are fantastic lovers and have hilarious names to coincide. Like the girl called “Keeper of the Three Tunnels of Excessive Friendliness”) who make him a glorious feast of Chinese cuisine. Biff points out that eating Chinese food on Christ’s birthday is a tradition that Jews have maintained up until today. Heh. That’s just clever. So yeah, it’s the best book I’ve read in a longlong time, which was sadly followed by Rue McClanahan’s “My Five Husbands” which is the most boring piece of drivel I’ve ever picked up. (Seriously, it’s like she didn’t even have an editor.)

So that’s the news in brief. Correspondence, perpetual health issues, plans to visit my Gran in a couple weeks, reading, studying, working on secret business mission, writing, researching grants and scholarships for both grad school and this research book I’m still planning to write… You know, the norm.

The Bear is 17 months old this week which means it’s time for another trip to Wal-Mart for ubercheap pro photos to send to family and friends. At the moment she has 2 ear infections (I hope we’re not going to have to get tubes put in,) a disgusting scalp condition that is requiring a steroid cream to treat, and the worse diaper rash she’s seen yet (which really isn’t that bad considering this is only her second.) So between my mental and gastrointestinal prescripts and her various drugs, I’ve been to the pharmacy 3 times in 8 days and I’m sure they’re convinced I’m a hypocondriac. Although aside from prescription buttcream, I HIGHLY recommend Bordreaux’s Butt Paste (that’s the real name) for diaper rashes even though it smells exactly like every Ben and Jerry’s Scoop Shop I’ve ever visited. (Seriously. I don’t know why.)

~ This all brings me to the piece de resistance, which is for me to indulge on my worst guilty pleasure to date: American Idol: Season 8

First of all, even though I wasn’t particularly “rooting” for anyone, I’m really glad Kris won. Not only was he by far the most talented musician, but he brought something new to the show, which was the exercising of artistic talent. I loved his rearrangements of popular classics and really think he’s one of those artists we may be watching for a while. Granted, I don’t really get into the whole Jason Mraz/Jack Johnson/Ben Harper acoustic-sensitive-guy thing so much (I tried. I really did. I just can’t. After DMB’s “Crash” I just lost interest. I need rock. All the time.) so I won’t probably won’t be buying his albums, but I think he has great potential to turn that genre on it’s ear. And that’s exciting. Also, while Adam Lambert is fun to watch and/or look at, his need to shriek his high-note talent at the end of every song like it’s a freaking magic trick is going to get really old. Plus, he really didn’t do anything too different to compete with Kris’ arrangement talents and, the one time he did, it was kind of boring. I will say, however, that his finale show with KISS was b’dass and I was totally enrapt during the whole performance. It’s amazing someone could make KISS fun and relevant again, if only for a few minutes.

The other unsung performance of the finale show was Cyndi Lauper and Allison “The Latina Kelly Clarkson” Iraheta doing a beautiful rendition of “Time After Time”. And who knew Lauper could rock a dulcimer?! She wins bonus bonus fanpoints from me.

And then, of course, there was Nick Mitchell “Norman Gentle”’s unexpected return to the Idol stage, which sent me off my seat in excitement. Sure, the boy’s only got one song that’s worth a damn, but I think he’s genius for having the balls to take a comedy-based fictitious character/performance art piece to a pop-oriented show like AI. I hope to God he gets some gigs and starts running the cabaret circuit. I’d buy tickets to any show he books anywhere close to the Southeast.

The rest of it was just kinda “meh” for me. I don’t like Rod Stewart at all, but watching him drunkenly stumble around was interesting. And Greg and I do a great rendition of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long”, so it was fun to treat ourselves to that. And that was about it.

(NOTE: This is NOT a plea for reassuring compliments. Any such commentary will be immediately deleted.)

I’ve never thought I was attractive. I mean that. I don’t mean “I’ve never thought I was beautiful.” or “I hate the way I look.” I just mean that I don’t consider myself to be an aesthetically attractive person. And I’ve sort of come to peace with that. 

Don’t get me wrong; I have days where I think I look better than usual. I felt that way on my wedding day, once during a Spring Festival Court I was nominated to in high school, once during a photo shoot north of Cairns in Australia. But these days are few and far between and seem to feel like breaks from my usual visual self.

It hasn’t always been that way, of course. In my early teens I was at the tail-end of early-adolescent-awkward-glasses-and-braces-hideousness and chose to ignore my appearance altogether, often dressing for utilitarian purposes and avoiding interactions with my mirror at all. Later in my high school experience, I was encouraged to explore my appearance as I was attending an arts school for theatre and an actor’s main tool is his/her body, so it was imperative that I looked at myself objectively.

When I looked, I saw the same thing I see now; a slightly overweight, average-looking girl next door. She wasn’t particularly unattractive, but she certainly wasn’t one of those women who would turn heads in hallways and on city streets. She was an under-the-radar mediocre and, as an actor, that should have been enough to work with. 

(This idea, by the way, was the basis of my relentless Low Self Esteem [LSE] and resulted in years upon years of allowing emotional abuse in exchange for the male attention I desperately craved. This, of course, is something I’m sick of talking/thinking about and is way way too cliche for my demographic, so we’re going to tactfully gloss over that entire aspect of my struggle with LSE so as not to make this another one of “those blogs”. You’re welcome. [insert smile here])

But naturally, as with most things in my late teenage years, I rebelled against this notion of mediocrity, grappling for a visual identity in a plethora of sartorial identities and never feeling a resonance with any of them. Eventually, I began hiding out in androgynous looks, wearing cargo pants and shapeless sweaters everywhere. This escapist look carried me into my college years and, although I took a few risks here-and-there, I always treated these bold new looks as crazy experiments, not suitable of someone like myself. I would love to resort to outlandish outfits with melodramatic zeal,  in hopes that everyone else would get the evident joke that I was desperately trying to make: I get that I’m not hot enough to pull this look off; it’s irony, people! 

The looks became increasingly bolder and, in my early twenties I found myself hiding out in them every single time I felt uncomfortable in my own skin on a public level. (Which, when added to my social anxiety was A LOT.) When I wasn’t hiding out in baggy, nondescript clothing, I was hurdling myself to the other extreme, going over the top with “looks”, coating on dramatic makeup and putting on airs like it was all just an act that everyone was in on. 

Not only this, I started obsessing about my appearance, taking photos of myself on a daily basis and plastering Photoshopped/retouched images all over internet forums and networking sites, practically begging for the confirmation and adulation I desperately wanted. I was never comfortable completely exploiting myself (unless I was annihilated/inebriated/drunkbeyondreason, of course. Then all bets were off.) but I was prone to narcissism to an embarrassing degree, all in hopes that I could quiet the resounding knowledge that I was average-looking. Somehow, seeking attention and compliments translated to happiness and comfort in my appearance in my messed-up thinking and I was a junkie for it, no matter the source. And all the while I knew that it was all entirely driven out of the fear that I wasn’t any sort of notable beauty, that I wasn’t one of those people who would ever command attention from her looks, and, mostly, that this aesthetic mediocrity was what made me worthless as a human being.   

When I met my husband, I was at my heaviest weight ever and had made a lifestyle of sobriety, which included a new modesty in my appearance. I’d dealt with my social anxieties enough to feel comfortable being seen in public, but I didn’t do much to call attention to myself and I had finally begun to settle into accepting what I really looked like. After years of obsessing about my appearance and my supposedly obvious flaws, I was taking the time to focus on my strengths and accepting my body as the vehicle it was designed to be. I started shirking away from cameras, not calling attention to myself through outlandish attire anymore but focusing on the things that were unique and attractive about myself. I started bellydancing and kayaking and going out to do karaoke with friends and finally not worrying about how I looked doing any of it. 

Now, I’m about the same. I’ve dropped a significant amount of weight since before I was pregnant, which lends itself to easier shopping and general movement, but I’ve finally resolved myself to the fact that I may never be a striking beauty that people whisper about and envy and that’s alright with me. My whole life I prayed for a significant other who would tell me I’m beautiful every day (I even argued constantly with one of my exes because he would rarely dole out compliments… sigh...), and today I have a husband who does just that, even when I was at my most pregnant or my heaviest in post-pregnancy or when I’m at my most disgusting in the early morning or when I’m a sniffling, coughing, snotty mess. Although it’s a completely new concept for me, not caring about how I look but knowing that I do visually please my partner is a welcome relief from my old habits. I still dodge his camera lens when I can, but I take a lot of comfort knowing that the weight of my old low self-esteem is being helped along by someone who loves me. 

But my focus isn’t entirely off aesthetics altogether. I’ve now become obsessed with the beauty in my daughter, often gazing at her for hours and admiring her perfect skin and puffy cheeks and wispy blonde hair and devastating blue eyes.  I love her pudgy thighs and tiny toes and pointy ears and crooked teeth with more enthusiasm than I ever loved any teenage crush.

And yes, I’m fully aware that she’s not what most people would classify as the epitome of beauty. I’ve honestly never cared less about those sort of societal standards in my life. I’m perfectly happy moving the spotlight to her, turning the attention from myself to her on every possible occasion I get, plastering images of her to show off to friends and family. For the first time ever, I show off these sort of images without a care in the world as to the responses they garner. I beam at the compliments she receives but they don’t affect me in any way after my smile ends. I am certain that if she never received another compliment about her appearance for the rest of her life, I would never find her any less beautiful.

I’ll admit it’s a strange way to find confidence despite the opinions of others, but I genuinely can’t think of a better way to learn such an important lesson.

Scruffy wisps of dirty blonde hair are combed over the bald spots on her peeling scalp that perches atop an enormous forehead. Between pointy Yoda-esque ears, two spherical cheeks monopolize her pudgy face and nearly obscure her mouth, empty except for a few crooked teeth running along her upper and lower gums. Although hairless and free of dimples, her limbs are encased in doughy fat that conceals her knees and elbows almost entirely. This would seem out of proportion if not for her rotund gut that protrudes far past her beltline and comprises the majority of her mushy body.

But when she smiles, her eyes twinkle and, as she shouts indecipherable gibberish at me through toothless gums, I never doubt that my daughter is easily the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

Happy First Birthday, Bear.

Attn: MSNBC, CNN, NBC, Reuters, BBC, CBS, and… FOXNews (if we must)

I’ll advise you to go ahead and cancel all other news stories today to make room to discuss my infant daughter recently STANDING UP ALL BY HERSELF without ANY exterior support from ANYONE for almost a WHOLE MINUTE!!!!!!

I will be issuing a press release shortly to cover details of this momentous occasion and field questions pertaining to Chloe (11 months old), who has been publicly recognized and critically lauded as The Most Beautiful, Brilliant, and Talented Person Ever to Inhabit the Globe. Please no shouting or flash photography around Ms. Pardue-Schultz and DO NOT bring up the Poopocalypse Incident of last September or all cameras and notes from the event will be confiscated and a press package will not be issued.

Thank you,
Castallare