~ Sometime after I got pregnant I turned into a giant softie. I wasn’t emotionally devoid before this or anything but ’round the time I got knocked up I found my emotions had moved to just a sceeerraaatch below the surface. Suddenly I was the woman crying about Clorox commercials (The one where the little girl is pretending to be a mermaid in her bathtub, to be exact. I was thinking “One day my daughter will have an imagination!”. Waterworks.) I kind of thought that this would go away after all the Natal Juice dissipated. No such luck.
And honestly, it’s more than just ridiculous at this point. I mean, there are things that have always made me cry (”The Land Before Time” made me sob in the theatre when I was 8. I can’t even listen to the music to this day and I haven’t seen it in some 17-ish years…) but then there are things that make me tear up for absolutely no reason at all. This happens about once a day and, while I’ve developed a technique for thwarting oncoming tears, I’m still pretty embarrassed by the whole thing. And the motives for the tears run the gamut, too.
My husband tells my daughter she’s beautiful? Tears.
A woman is crying in her car in the Sonic parking lot? Tears.
A song reminds me that I miss my best friend? Tears.
Holocaust footage? Just as many tears as if I see a dead cat on the side of the road.

~ The programming on Bravo is making me lose faith in humanity. With all these “Real Housewives” shows and other shows based around self-centered, drama-laden idiots it’s turning into MTV for adults. Which. Is. Gross.

~ Celebrity verdicts? Alright, here we go:

- I don’t think Dave Chappelle lost his mind; I think he didn’t want to sell his soul for fame and that’s admirable and even more indicative of his genius. I miss his work but I admire his integrity.

- I don’t think Michael Jackson did anything with those kids. Do I think the man was bonkers as a result of a fuuuuucked up childhood? Yes. Do I think that his music was only really “great” when he was working with Quincy Jones? No question. But the first kid who’s parents pressed charges came out years later and admitted to making the whole thing up and the second case pretty much showcased a mother out for MJ money. Also, when the kids stayed in his bed, he slept on the floor. Just let the man rest peacefully, for Christ’s sake. I really think that his life is one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard. Fame took a toll on his sanity; he’s free from it now. Let’s try to learn something and then get the fuck over it. (And I’m glad he pwned his dad in his will. Way to stick it to him, Mike.)

~ I just wrote a song, which is weird because musical inspiration NEVER comes to me and when it does it’s always a massive exercise in terrible. But this time the song is actually pretty good. It’s more pop-rock than is my taste so I’ll probably never play it in public, but hey, it’s a start.

~ Two days until the trip to Chicago. I folded and purchased Dramamine today. I’ll be using this for emergency only and will probably suffer from a little guilt afterward.

~ Shit, I’m bored.

~ When Greg and I had only been dating about six weeks we traveled up to Chicagoland to visit his parents. While there we took a superlong road trip to Cleveland for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony (which, by the way, takes place in the freaking Waldorf-Astoria… miiiiles away from Ohio) and stopped off for lunch in the small town where Greg grew up. Even though we were only at the beginning of our relationship and were still completely unaware we were about to become parents, we looked at each other and said “You know, I wouldn’t mind starting a family and living in a tiny town like this with you.”

I’d forgotten about this exchange until just this morning.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one of those posts that starts out all redundant and whiny but it has a totally reflective, positive ending. Promise. I’m still riding this whole revelations thing, apparently.

The daily frustrations and insecurities have been slinking back into my daily life. There are so many things I really want to do right now and the constant understimulation of observing of a small child all day have been starting to take a toll on me, my self-esteem, my sense of self-worth again. I start becoming convinced that I’m wasting my 20’s being counterproductive to society and not accomplishing any of the things I genuinely want to do, to start in my life right now. Additionally, all that momentum I was feeling a few weeks ago regarding my handful of major new projects has started dissipating as I’ve found myself unable to get anything completed with the lifestyle I have right now and I’m starting to feel confined and trapped within the restrictions of caring for an active toddler. This is something I’ve been told many mothers experience but that knowledge rarely makes me feel any better when I get these spells of self-pity. And nothing seems to quell the repeated frustration of having the wind taken out of my sails yet again.

Now, look, I’ve been through enough therapy and recovery to know what to do with myself during little typical-human rifts like this. Divert my attention to the things I’m grateful for. Make a game plan that accommodates my needs and still allows me to make progress on my goals. Don’t focus on the negative. Accept that this is normal new-mother behavior and ride the waves of life until this works itself out. Be patient as this, too, will pass and as the Bear grows older, she will become more independent and I will have the time to finish the projects I have planned for myself.
I got it.
I know.

But still, sitting in my therapist’s office, I felt like such a whiny fool for having this same problem that was affecting my mood and powerless as it’s something I have to just accept and live with at the moment. I feel powerless that I can’t provide for my family better, that outside forces have held us back from advancing in our careers and physical location, that even though I start every day with a handful of intentions, rarely are they all completed by the time I go to bed.

Then my therapist asked me something that caused me to immediately burst into tears:
“Is this the life you would have chosen for yourself?”

Obviously, this is a life I did choose for myself. I did have the option to not keep my child, I did have the option to not marry my husband, I did have the option to choose a path much much different than the one I’m on now. But I knew then and know now that these things really weren’t an option for me; my heart wanted to keep my child, my heart wanted to commit myself to my husband. These are choices that I’ve always been proud of and always been happy with. Even now when I’m struggling to find a sense of competence within them.

But when I found out I was pregnant, I was in a really transformative stage. After years of being crippled by depression, addiction, shitty self-esteem and the ensuing lifestyle choices that inevitably follow these sort of criteria, I was finally emerging on my own. I was finally happy being romantically single, I was finally getting out and getting involved within my community, exploring new facets of myself and enjoying things that I really loved doing. I had this great momentum I wanted to ride into my postgraduate years, taking the inner independence I was uncovering and seeing the world, attending graduate school, finally getting out from under my parents’ watchful eye and trying this whole adult lifestyle thing again. These were things I was actively working toward around April 2007 and things I was finding more excitement for than anything else I’d been a part of in many many years. I was high on the relief and joy of finally stepping into my own.

I love my life now. I love my husband and my home and my daughter and I honestly would not give them up for anything in this world. I wouldn’t even take a time machine and delay their arrival if I had the choice. I mean that. I’ve not spent a moment in the last two years resenting or regretting anything about my choices and there’s liberation in that. True, I’m not living where I want to and I’m not able to make the forward movement in my career and education that I want to, but aside from that, I live in a tiny paradise. And I’m thankful that I get to look forward to the rest of my life with these two in tow.

However, my therapist brought to attention that maybe I hadn’t taken the time to think about the loss of hope and optimism I had just before everything changed. I had been banking on a new change, a new start and, while I certainly got one, it might not have been the one I would’ve chosen for myself at the time if given the choice. In fact, if I’m going to be completely honest, it definitely isn’t what I would’ve chosen at the time.

Shit, that’s hard to say out loud. Especially to someone else. (Not that I talk to myself… or… or anything ::sheepish laugh:: I mean, I’m not crazy… heh.. anyway.) Even though I’m delighted with how everything in my immediate life has turned out and who I am as a result of choosing it all, I hate that apparent admission that it wasn’t my first choice when it all started. At the time I didn’t hesitate to fling myself into the joy associated with bringing a new life into the world and starting on a whole new journey. I really didn’t take the time for reconsideration or even questioning this new lifestyle; I was scared and uncertain, sure, but I think I was so excited about having found love and the unexpected surprise of a daughter and so eager to hurl myself into change and forward-motion that I didn’t pause to reflect on the diversion my life was taking. Maybe I was so desperate for change that I rode the high of having it handed to me a little blindly. Not that I regret that when I think about it; wasting time questioning myself would’ve only added to my stress during all of the moving-in-together, and preparing-for-baby and all that. Maybe it was a mental defense mechanism…

But when my doctor asked me that one question, I found myself in tears I absolutely wasn’t anticipating and didn’t even know were part of the equation. Admittedly, it was a bit of a luxury to cry over the loss of a self-indulgent, egocentric lifestyle I’d planned for myself (a sad stereotype of being an early-millenium twenty-something it seems.) and I’m trying not to waste time on guilt with that, but apparently it was something that needed to come out, this whole act of taking a little bit of time to recognize and mourn the loss of a projected path, an ideal lifestyle I’d crafted for myself.

Naturally, this doesn’t mean that all hope is lost for my life’s potential or anything ridiculous. I’ll continue to have the same ultimate goals for my life that I’ve always had and I’ll continue to plug away and try to make those a reality, although they may take more time to accomplish than I’d like. (Damn you, Universe, for your tireless lessons on patience!! ::shakes fist::) Inevitably, on any path I would’ve encountered obstacles that would’ve hindered my enthusiasm and progress, so it’s not like this one is any worse or outstanding than the others.

But it kind of felt good to recognize that, while they were totally selfish and self-serving, I did lose something I badly desired for myself and I am allowed to feel pain for the sacrifices I made to have the life I do now. I don’t know why feeling these things required permission from an outside observer; maybe the guilt of seeming ungrateful or hurting someone’s feelings was too much for me to admit this revelation to myself no matter how bad it was eating away at my subconscious. Whatever the case, it was freeing in a way and really started putting my doubt and frustrations in a perspective based on my personal circumstances, even if that’s more than a bit of an indulgence. If nothing else, this whole realization and chance to grieve has served as a sufficient pressing of the “Reset” button on my mentality as to how I’m living right now and the pressure I put on myself to adhere to the same rules and regulations I had before being a parent was my defining job title. It shifts the whole frame of reference to something completely different and there’s a good deal of liberation in that.

And maybe I’m finally starting to emerge from criticizing myself so oppressively based on the standards I assume must apply to everyone and maybe even starting to accept that everyone has their own set of actions that define their “personal best.” Maybe there’s something to that 4th Agreement that I’ve been raving about for a couple years now…

Christ, it takes me a long-ass time to “get” things. My therapist must really be enjoying my [literally] retarded breakthrough process, if only financially.

In the last month I have sat down repeatedly at my computer to begin building a decent resume to present to potential employers. I write my name, my address, my various alternative contact informations. And then I reach the line labeled “Objective” (a new addition to the professional resume since my high school days) and I come screeching to a halt. I freeze for a moment, commence my existentialist panic at having to identify and describe my whole objective in my potential life’s work, switch off the computer without following the formal log-out procedure, and run out of the room. This exact event has literally happened at least six times since the end of February.

Seriously, what the hell? I don’t know if I’m even qualified to obtain a decently-paying job in the first place and now they want me to sum up the [theoretical] ultimate goal, the great personal dream that will fuel and motivate me to push myself forward, working and investing my life’s energy to one day accomplish into a teeny tiny sentence that may or may not capture the eye of someone who is looking to hire me for somewhere around $10-$15 an hour?! Somehow that seems both extremely arrogantly brash, ignorant, and juvenile in addition to incredibly daunting.

As the weeks have flown by and slowly built up the frustrations at myself pertaining to my life/career’s stagnation and the notion that I’m not actively doing anything to remedy this ever-compounding frustration. So I did what I always do when I come to an unsolvable mental problem. I took it to my therapist. (Hey, the woman helped me pinpoint what I wanted to write about for my thesis after months of confusion and procrastination. She’s good.) I was sent home with the very very primitive homework of brainstorming everything I had done in the basic categories of “Education”, “Paying Writing Jobs”, “Paying Other Jobs”, “Various Creative Ventures”, and “Objectives”. Alright, cool. I can do that. Baaaaby steps. (Apparently, I just need someone to cut up my meat before I dig in to this Great Feast of Life. Hence all the therapy.)

So, after a week and a half of brainstorming I have a half-page (of notebook paper) pertaining to my completed education, a whole page pertaining to paid writing jobs I’ve had, a page devoted to paid other jobs I’ve had since 2001-ish (turns out I have 6 years under my belt with DG Golf Management! Score for longevity and versatility!), and THREE WHOLE PAGES of unpaid creative ventures that I’ve been directly involved with in the last 8 years.

(On a completely self-indulgent side note, I was honestly shocked to learn that I’ve been a far more productive flighty bohemian than I’d assumed. I’ve been a performer in six full-length plays and/or theatrical productions, I’ve been a makeup artist for a short film, I worked as technical crew for a community theatre, I ran my own ‘zine out my dorm room during my first two years of college (in the midst of developing problem, no less!) that was sold in a handful of indie music venues around North and South Carolina and was featured in a 2002 North Carolina Zine Directory, I was an artist’s model at NCSA, I’ve had numerous stories and photography published in a dozen magazines and literary journals (internationally! And some of which weren’t even student publications!), I’ve run a small consistent web store since 2003 and launched a small independent business last year with my Yum in the Tub stuff. I signed a contract after auditioning and being accepted into a burlesque troupe in Charlotte (that unfortunately lost funding and never got off the ground), I performed and traveled with a bellydance troupe, and I wrote, choreographed and performed with an award-winning comedy troupe in Melbourne, Australia. I’ve won a handful of awards for writing, photography and humble kayaking skills. And I’ve kept a blog consistently since the summer of 2003 that is now recognized by and featured in BUST magazine’s blog directory and is syndicated through Skirt! Magazine’s website.

Holy crap. I’m kinda productive. Who would’ve thought?)

And, still, I sit staring at the page titled “Objectives” with no idea what to write.

My first reaction consisted of basic, utilitarian answers:

• I want to work so I can get paid and have a house and feed myself and my family and not be supported by my parents for the rest of my life.
• I’d like to work at a job in my field of expertise that would allow me gradual advancement and a chance at happy retirement.

Next came the realistically-based goals, although somewhat irreverent:

• I want to work in an environment where I am not some arrogant superior’s “bitch” and am able to contribute to society without perpetually battling through a minefield of self-worthlessness.
• Please just pay me to do something humane.

And then were the goals that allowed my inner-self to fly fancy free and that would inevitably have me escorted from any HR office:

• I want to write an opinion column for a publication of some sort where I blather on about parenting or music or pop culture or whatever else I feel like.
• I want a 5-book deal with a major publishing house to sit around and put my bloggery into essay form a la Sedaris and then travel the globe on book tours. I don’t want to be terribly world-famous and I don’t intend to be revolutionary or even brilliant but I want to write about stuff that people can relate to, smile about, and maybe even remember enough to recommend to a friend.
• I want to be the ringmaster for one of those crazy, bohemian circuses like the fantastic Yard Dogs Road Showthat tours the country with firespinners and erotic aerialists and various oddities.
• I want to collaborate and perform with a burlesque troupe and pose for retro pinup clothing companies like the gorgeous Max Masuimi at Pin Up Girl Clothing.;
• I want a job that requires me to travel the globe and write about food artistry and movements.
• I want to be Tina Fey and write for SNL and then have my own self-produced/written/directed/starred-in sitcom that’s a major, massive, brilliant hit that redefines comedy.
• I want to be a lingerie or artist’s model without having to get any sort of reconstructive plastic surgery to fix all these baby-induced damages.
• I want to found a magazine or journal with my husband where he is the graphic designer and I am the editor.
• I want to own an indie record shop and host indie bands and have crazy parties when Bjork releases crazy new albums.
• I want to open that multiplex that shows old movies all the time.
• I want to pass the Bar and become a lawyer and help fight for laws protecting women around the world from genital mutilation and caste-system violence.
• I want to sing jazz at a night club every night and wear schwanky evening gowns along with a giant flower tucked behind my ear and Billie Holliday makeup.
• I want to own a house in the country where I work writing books all day and then tend to my garden and hike around our sprawling property in my spare time. We’d go fishing in the ponds and kayaking on the rivers and camping in the fields and every so often we’d have a big bonfire and invite all our friends out to have a Romany Gypsy-style moon party.
• I don’t wanna work. I just want to bang on the drum all day.

I’ve spent hours doing this to no real, tangible avail.

And then, out of nowhere, it sort of all came to me and was, in fact, the most obvious answer imaginable. What I’ve always really worked for and been passionate about is exactly what I want and plan continue to do for the rest of my life, regardless of whether I’m getting paid for it or not. Why didn’t I think of that?

Objective: To preserve, perpetuate and promote liberal arts, artistic movements, and creative mentality in any form or venue.

Yeah. Let’s see what kind of reactions and job offers I get from that.

I honestly don’t know if I can do this.

I know what I believe. I know what I want to make of myself as a person. I realize that the crime this incarcerated penpal of mine committed has nothing to do with me and, therefore, does not require my judgment or forgiveness. I know what the right thing to do is right now, but I don’t know if I have the strength of character to do it.

Before I Googled this woman yesterday, I was halfway finished with a letter that I was writing to her. I hadn’t caught up with her in a while and I owed her some correspondence as I felt bad for having neglected her in the last few months. When I read what she had done, I was immediately put into a tailspin and was really confused and troubled by what I’d learned about her. All afternoon my heart was heavy with shock and grief and, hours after I laid down to go to sleep, I was still unable to stop thinking about it, wondering about it, trying not to put a visualization to it.

I finished the letter today although the words were staggered and awkward without the usual comfort I’d been able to exude in the first half. I fought my way to the post office and sat in the drop-off lane looking at the letter until the man behind me honked for me to make a drop or leave. Holding my breath, I dropped the envelope into the slot and roared away before I could begin to regret what I’d done.

I immediately threw up when I got home. Even now, I’m anxious and troubled and unable to think about anything else.

Christ, it’d be nice not to have to feel every single emotion I have so damned intensely for a change.

I know what I believe. I know what kind of person I want to be.

But I feel more sapped of energy and strength than I have in a long time. I am ashamed with how defeated and cowardly I feel about this whole thing and how my overwhelming judgment could be capable of changing my entire relationship with and personal worth of someone else who has never done anything to hurt me or my family. I’m embarrassed and troubled about what that says about me as a person. I am embarrassed about what that says about my commitment to my convictions.

Suddenly, I feel very very weak. Very very small.

I spend a freakish amount of time dissecting and scrutinizing myself, motivations, emotions, thought patterns, actions, etc. I’ve discussed it before but in my recovery I kind of took the whole “taking a daily self inventory” thing to an extreme. (I’m big on extremes; never much for moderation. This, too, I’ve discussed. Moving along.) Most of the time I’m not so much reviewing my actions as convincing myself further that I am an emotional disaster that even the Red Cross wouldn’t cover. I obsessively judge every single thought that crosses my mind and I tend to drive myself into a self-beaty-uppy frenzy more often than I’d like to admit. Honestly, I’m not just tough on myself; I’m fucking relentless.

Recently, however, I’ve been privy to a few different situations that kind of have stopped me in my tracks. A while ago I talked about the Universe momentarily dropping the veil between my life now and what it could have been hadn’t bothered with practicing active recovery and, since that didn’t seem to be enough to get the message across (I’m a slow learner sometimes), the Universe then began hurling at me more and more examples to support its point. I was kind of starting to get it, but apparently I needed an extreme example. Go figure.

So yesterday I’m folding laundry, washing dishes, doing other general housewifery and watching a documentary about women who are stalkers. I listened to women who were reformed stalkers and had gone on to live normal, sane lives and other women who were still proud of their actions and felt totally justified in their completely insane tactics. It was weird how some of the women on either side discussed a very real sense of purity and justice in their actions (even though the reformed ones have since realized that this was a mere illusion) and remembering how, in my craziest (usually alcohol-soaked) moments I felt the same drive. And then I thought about people that I knew/know in my own life who display this same kind of Crazy… and then I started thinking about the people I know who display a lot of Crazy in other forums.

And I started to feel really really good about myself for a change.

Here’s the thing. I still have tendencies toward the Crazy from time to time and sometimes they even get a little out of my control, which is scary. But I am always always working to get better and I’m consciously keeping them in check (or immediately wrangling them back into check should they momentarily escape.) And you know what? My Crazy isn’t ruining my life or the lives of those around me anymore. My Crazy isn’t bailing on my friends and family, isn’t busy trying to destroy myself with drinking or drugs or insane spending sprees or shitty relationships. My Crazy isn’t driven from fear or loneliness or selfishness or low self esteem anymore and I’m no longer perpetuating a shitty or even mediocre existence out of confusion or denial or anger or fear or anything, really. My Crazy doesn’t conduct any of the dramas that inevitably come into my life and I’m able to dismiss any unnecessary bullshit quickly and efficiently because the Crazy doesn’t rule my ego anymore.

In fact, if I can take a minute to fling humility by the wayside, I have a pretty rad life right now. And, given that this life is so much better than it used to be a few years ago, I’m pretty convinced that my work in therapy and sobriety and general recovery is directly responsible for building this around me. My family not only completely trusts me these days (a MAJOR change from the former) but they enjoy my company and have confidence in my abilities as a parent and as a competent adult (an even more major change.) I have a base group of amazing friends who constantly have my back and are always rightthere when I need them, without me having to ask. I have a functional, jealousy-and- [99%]- insecurity-free love life with a man whom I trust and love completely, who treats me the way my parents always told me I deserved to be treated, who is committed to growing and nurturing each other in our lives together. I have a healthy, happy daughter who is developing perfectly on schedule even though I know next to nothing about being a parent.

Apparently, even though my Crazy may always be on my mind and I may always be on guard for its attacks, it really plays a very very minor role in my life these days. My neuroses (and ensuing insecurities and then the resulting complications of such insecurities which cycle back into neuroses) are minor obstacles that crop up every so often instead of acting as guidelines and barriers in which to contain my whole entire existence. Proudly, I can admit that this is the very first time in … well, since I can remember… since 5th grade?… that I can say that. These days the things that used to cripple me and keep me submerged in a miserable life are just little mostly insignificant quirks to my character that are laughable among my close friends and family, instead of being exhausting and embarrassing to those around me.

This doesn’t let me off the hook, of course. I’m never off the hook, really, if I plan to keep growing and learning about myself and life and recovery and all that (which I do.) And I certainly don’t think I’m all figured out or have all The Answers or am somehow above fault or relapse or missteps. I’m not a conceited idiot. I’m sure I’ll continue over-scrutinization/criticism of myself until I’m old and grey (even though, like effing everything pertaining to my thought behaviors, I’m working to find a middle ground on that, too.)

But for just a second, I think I’m going to take a break to be a little smug and arrogant. (Again, I’m big on extremes.) ‘Cause I used to be Utterly Hopeless, Pathetic, Destructive Crazy, but now I really believe (supported with aforementioned evidence, of course) I’m safely in Self-Aware, Seemingly-Normal(-Whatever-That-Is), More-Than-Functional/Downright-Thriving Crazy. To the outside [of my head] observer I’m functional, capable, assured, competent, sane, trustworthy, normal-amount-wobbly, instead of being chronically catastrophic. Nobody’s making “Crazy Bitch” or “Crazy Train” the ringtone that sounds when I call them. (This actually happened at one point.) Sure, people may have terrible things to say about me (people always have terrible things to say about anyone, it seems) but they’re not locking their doors or putting restraining orders out because of me. (Frankly, I think anyone who may have a problem with me these days really just has to be looking for drama. Clearly they’re wasting more time/energy being pissy and resentful than I am, ’cause it’s clear skies on my end.) And I’m not covering my head in shame from my most recent stint of making a total ass of myself or loudly defending myself to a bunch of random people I may or may not have wronged a la “Springer”. Not having the Crazy at the ready is pretty damned liberating, relaxing even.

So yeah, I’m taking a minute to sit back on my laurels and indulge in a little schadenfreude toward the Crazies with whom I no longer share a category. Of course it’s morally wrong/bitchy/insensitive and an incredibly cocky, shameful fault to admit to publicly. However, this emotion will, of course, settle into a middle ground of healthy, normal, gratitude with which I can maintain a productive sense of humility. But for just one second I’m going to enjoy snorting and sighing at the Crazies around me with knowing pity, “Damn; that bitch/bastard is cah-razy.” without feeling too much like a hypocrite.

I’m probably going to start with my next door neighbor. It’s like having Springer’s show delivered to my home! (Actually, any reality TV is good for this.) And then there’s the crazy bitch that keeps harassing me via MySpace from 1,000 some miles away. Oh, I could do this for a while.

“I’m rich rich richrich rich.” - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

In spring 2007, about a year after my most recent hospital stint, I found myself sinking into my annual Springtime Depression. (I know, most people get it during the Winter, but I’m one of those freaks whose depression is triggered when everything is rejuvenated. Go figure.) Instead of hiding away into my usual practices and wasting what was easily the best year I’d had in college (with the exception of my semester abroad), I went on a Pronoiac rampage, inspired by Rob Breszny’s ‘Pronoia: the Antidote for Paranoia’.

I spent a whole weekend printing out individual mini-posters with pronoiac, inspiring factoids (like “After an accident that left him paralyzed from the nose down, Jean Dominique Bauby dictated his entire award-winning memoir to his wife by blinking his left eye.” and “Because there is no machine gentle enough to handle them, every strawberry you have ever eaten was picked by hand.”), running over 500 copies of them, and plastering the walls of my university’s academic buildings with them. (Without authoritative consent, which angered a lot of people, apparently.) I posted them on behalf of the “Laboratory for Truth and Beauty” (Breszny gives his readers permission to do this.) I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing except my relatively new boyfriend (to-be babydaddy) who rolled his eyes and smiled at my tendency toward the slightly insane.

It was cool to see people’s reactions, even though the majority of the population had no idea how to process the idea that someone (or a group of someones) would take the time to just post notes of happiness for the simple, innocent purpose of spreading love or joy. I’d say that it was strange that some people were even angry about them, but this is something one can just expect in a Fear-based society such as ours, I guess. My favorite moments came when, in one of my classes, my professor mentioned the signs and started a class discussion in which many of my classmates and friends expressed gratitude for having something to amuse them and break the redundant stress of the approaching exam season in addition to the heartbreaking aftermath of the V.Tech shooting.

When my then-boyfriend told me that the student newspaper was going to run a story about the strange presence of the Truth and Beauty Lab, I decided to drop my ruse for a moment and reveal myself to the newspaper’s editors (who were/are pretty good friends of mine, thankfully) in hopes of possibly speaking on behalf of the T&B Lab to explain my motives anonymously. (The BEST reaction came from my friend Fish, who laughed, “I knew it had to be someone cool.”) I still have the newspaper in my folder of personal achievements.

Anyway, immediately following this was when my life really began to be kicked into high gear. That semester I finished with my highest GPA ever, I was praised heavily by the guest author who taught the fiction workshop as having the “blue ribbon story of the year”, and then there was the whole baby-engagement-moving in with Greg thing that made me happier than I had been in yeeeaars.

Now, I’m not one of those people who swears by ‘The Secret’ or anything and, actually, I was pretty disgusted with the book as it seemed to advocate a positive attitude for the exclusive purpose of acquiring monetary success, which I think is a bit misguided. However, in retrospect it seems kind of reasonable that my sharing of a positive attitude was responsible for the massive return of love and blessings I received in the aftermath. No, I don’t think that plastering a few hundred flyers around a campus is what changed my entire life, but I certainly believe that this random act of love and joy attracted more love and joy into my own reality.

So, even though I’ve been sitting around focusing on my own personal life and working to propel my family’s future forward, maybe I should start allotting some time to reach out and be kind on an anonymous level again. Not necessarily to bring myself more happiness in my life (because the happiness I’ve found in the last couple years certainly hasn’t been easy by any means) but because I believe joy and love has to be perpetuated by everyone at all times on a grassroots level or it simply cannot exist. And to not work toward that is being extremely hypocritical of me, I think. Especially if I’m sitting around expecting other people to somehow do it for me.

It’s time to shake things up again, I think. I’m going to be brainstorming pronoiac mischief but I won’t be posting my actions… that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?

After mentioning the term “white trash” as a legitimate negative characterization in my previous blog entry, I had a reader challenge me with what she thought were opposing views and, when she realized that our arguments regarding our personal standards of “white trashery” were similar, she asked me to define what exactly classifies someone as “white trash” to me. Not a problem.

Simply put, to me the derogatory term “white trash” refers to a specific mindset and/or the motivations from which a type of person conducts his or her actions. That’s honestly, genuinely, really it.

Despite the social conditioning I acquired over time while being raised within my specific demographic, I strongly, vehemently, wholeheartedly disagree with the upper-class WASP conviction that the label “white trash” applies to factors regarding living situation (often the word “white” is interchangeable with “trailer”. This infuriates me.) social standing, annual income, dialect, career potential, academic achievements, to name a few. This long-seeded societal segregation, naturally, allows the bourgeois to exempt themselves from possibly being confused for one of these they call “white trash”. Basically, it allows them a sense of superiority from those in lower income brackets, even if they share the same trashy tendencies as those less monetarily successful as themselves.

This is not how I define the term. And I’m very proud to admit that it never has been. (My mother taught me better than that.)

So by what traits/standards do I keep my own trashiness in check and personally judge (oh yeah, I said “I judge”. I know. I’m flawed.) whether or not someone deserves such a harsh, belittling title as “white trash”? I have no problem answering that. But first, please do understand that just because someone makes a mistake or goes through a spell where they may display the habits or mentalities of a “white trash”er doesn’t mean that I lump them into that category. (Hell, if that was the case, I might be the forerunner. ‘Specially during those drinking years. Yikes.) We all have trashy, undignified moments. Such is human nature. I guess for me, it’s a sort of points system. Someone can do something that I personally find to be “trashy” but that doesn’t automatically make them “white trash”. But if someone lives their entire life repeating these trashy actions, then yeah, I’m most likely to consider them “white trash” (especially if they’re proud of these trashy actions… God, that’s the worst.)

Also, I use the term “white” trash not to segregate or hint that there’s any difference between white trashy people and trashy people of any other race, but because this is the demographic and racial culture that I best understand and can comfortably comment on. Plus, even if I did have something to say regarding racially-specific trashy folk (which, again, I really don’t as my perspective limits those sort of observations) I’m not really allowed to as a white, female, middle-class citizen of America. It’s un-PC.

Alright, enough disclaimers.

What are these trashy actions and/or mentalities that would cause someone to be considered “white trash”?

To me, a trashy person is anyone who goes through life with a sense of entitlement when they’ve done absolutely nothing to earn respect, privilege, status or even financial gains (to cover all the bases.) They are incredibly self-centered and self-servicing, often obsessed and fueled with the desire to obtain material possessions regardless of what realistic factors may be preventing that from happening. More times than not, these material possessions are items that these people may not genuinely enjoy at all, but have been recognized as important within the societal class to which the trashy person aspires. Although most of them have absolutely no idea who they are (which is why they try to define themselves in the “stuff” they can amass or the cosmetic procedures they can afford) and almost always have little to no self-esteem whatsoever, they are not content being anything but the center of attention. This constant need for ego-stroking drama often has a trickle down affect through a trashy person’s acquaintances and/or loved ones and, unfortunately, results in a lot of neglected children, job terminations and broken families as the trashy person grows older physically [as opposed to mentally... I'm sure you picked up on that.] And, most importantly, aaalll of these habits and characteristics are held together and driven with a great underlying ignorance that all trashy people are loudly, undeniably proud of. Trashy people love to “not care” about anyone else’s standpoint or feelings and are always assured of the superiority in the opinions and knowledge that they already have about the way the world/societies/people work, even if they’ve never even left the state where they were born. Buried within this mindset, they are perfectly happy practicing mental stagnation for their entire lives because they are able to mask it with the acquiring of more “stuff”. (”I have a bigger house/new boobs/new car! My life must be getting better! I must be improving as a person!”) Besides, if they became inquisitive, ever-learning people, they might run into their own flaws and then have to face the fact that they’re just trashy and that would just mess up all their plans…

Obviously, all these attributes are rooted in very deep psychological issues relevant to self-image, self-esteem, self-awareness, a sense of identity, a sense of worth (either social or to themselves), a fear of rejection, loneliness and being unloved or undesirable, but these types of trashy people are usually content to stay oblivious to any sort of inner turmoil and, instead, blame their vast wealth of unhappiness on everyone else in their lives. As with anyone, no person is beyond personal change but many times the wall of arrogance and inflated self-importance doesn’t make room for a trashy person to admit humility and many are content in the lifestyle they’re used to, so long as it’s not killing anyone. (And regardless of how it’s actually hurting anyone else, of course. That would require considering someone else before themselves, which, again, doesn’t usually happen.)

So, let’s discuss some examples of what I personally consider basic, trashy actions versus those that are not to better illustrate my point:

Little things that might allude to trashiness:

Fake nails/hair/boobs: Depends on the application, really.

Fake friends: Trashy

Parenting multiple children with multiple partners: Nah; the Virgin Mary did it.

Parenting multiple children with multiple partners and then ignoring everyone involved and your personal responsibility to them: Trashy trashy trashy

Calling your ex-boyfriend one evening: Nah.

Calling your ex-boyfriend repeatedly one evening: That’s pretty trashy. Especially if he’s not answering the phone. And especially especially if there’s alcohol involved on your end.

Calling your boyfriend’s ex: Unless you’re making arrangements to pick up their mutual children or something, it’s usually pretty trashy.

Calling your ex’s new girlfriend to tell her why he sucks and/or that she’s a whore. Super. Uber. Trashy. (Actually, calling anyone a whore/slut/strumpet/tramp/cum dumpster is pretty trashy to begin with, even if said whore did something trashy like moving in on your husband. It’s understandable, but it’s still kinda trashy.) 

Going commando: Not trashy

Letting everyone know you’re going commando: Trashy

Congratulating an unwed mother on not having an abortion: Classless, ignorant, and TRASHY. (This actually happened to me. At a picnic. In the suburbs. While I was pregnant.)

Congratulating an unwed friend on her unexpected pregnancy by sending her flowers immediately after learning the news: Super Classy. (This also happened to me. God, I do love my friends.)

Considering a child born out of wedlock “illegitimate” or born in sin: Good old-fashioned, ignorant, backwoods trashiness.

Smoking: Not trashy

Smoking around children: Uber-trashy

Pretending you don’t know who John Lennon is so you can weasel your way into his bed and then destroy his band: TRASHY

Talking your friend Rod Stewart out of taking the role as Pinball Wizard just so you can have it: Fabulous!

Wearing skanky outfits to the grocery store/church/playdates etc :Terrraaasshhyyyy

Wearing skanky outfits in the bedroom: That’s hot.

Singing karaoke at skeezy, hole-in-the-wall redneck bars: Necessary to your well-being. And so so much fun

Letting skeezy redneck guys buy you drinks and cheap roses at a karaoke bar and then not at least being nice to them or engaging in conversation: Trashy (I mean, don’t make out with anyone unless you really like them, but don’t laugh at a man or treat him like crap if he’s getting your drinks. Seriously.)

Piercing your ears with a needle and potato at home: Not trashy

Showing everyone your erotic piercings: Trashy

Using government programs to help pay for groceries/medicine: If you qualify, there’s nothing trashy about it.

Procreating just to receive a larger government stipend: Traaaashy.

DIY highlighting dye jobs in your bathroom: Not trashy.

Having nothing to talk about except the day you got $300 highlights: Trashy

Botox: I don’t care who it’s on, it ALWAYS looks trashy. (Especially in person.)

Botox before you’re 30: Just sad.

Carrying a little yappy dog around as nothing more than another accessory: Gross. (Trashy)

Having a little yappy dog that you take everywhere and run and play with and treat like a little buuuddy: M’aaawwww.

Flashing a giant canary diamond engagement ring to all your friends who just heard you considering leaving the guy a month prior: Trraaaashy. (This is a true story.)

Wearing a humble diamond bought by your boyfriend of 2 years at a local Wal-Mart and blushing with pride when some crazy friend of yours sees it from across the room and squeals in excitement: Definitely not trashy. (And yes, I was the crazy, screaming friend.)

Taking dance classes: Not trashy

Taking pole-dance classes: Also not trashy (It’s a great workout and confidence booster!)

Living a glamorous lifestyle because you worked your ass off for your success: Excessive greed and self-promotion is supertrashy (Oprah…) but earning comfort and luxury on your own is commendable and enjoying that in moderation is anything but trashy.

Living a glam lifestyle and expecting/having some sort of public clout just because your family made a lot of money before you were even conceived: Trashy. Not to mention shameless.

This list could literally go on forever, but I think that gives a general ideas of basic trashy actions.

But what are some major trashy actions or behaviors that possibly define a person’s whole identity?

Let’s debate!

(At the risk of hurting any of my friends or acquaintances by airing dirty laundry that may pertain to them in some way, I’m only going to discuss events and people who are directly related to and experienced by myself.)

(Also, these tend to highlight parents, but I think that’s when a trashy lifestyle really starts to become undeniable as it directly affects others.)

A single mother lives far beyond her means to get numerous plastic surgeries while she moves her children from apartment to apartment, not paying rent for any of them and leaving before she is evicted. Okay, I started with an easy one. That shit is trash-y.

A former teenage mother works at a liquor store by day and a gas station at night to pay her bills. She is away from her son most of the time but always takes off work to attend his important events. Again, this one is pretty easy, too. This girl is not living the high life by any means, but she’s got her priorities straight and that makes her quite respectable in my book.

A 14-year-old girl has atrociously-bleached blonde hair with dark roots and wears entirely too much black eyeliner. She sneaks cigarettes and her mom’s liquor into the girls’ bathroom at school and has a reputation for being easy with older guys. This is a tough one without an obvious answer. Naturally, all the other girls at her school are inevitably calling her “trashy” (among other things) but at this age this trashy behavior is almost always the direct result of trashy parents. This girl is probably acting this way with a sense of timidity that hasn’t yet grown into the brazen arrogance of white trash and, while her obvious rebellion and attempts at hurried maturity are not exactly the classiest of behaviors, her motivations are probably much different than the ones discussed above.

A family cannot afford counseling or a rehabilitation program for one of their relatives, a young man who struggles with alcoholism, so they agree to allow their story to be documented for the show “Intervention” in exchange for the services of a licensed interventionist and 3 free months at a rehab center for their son/brother. While parading one’s personal problems on national television often is very very trashy because it involves massive monetary benefits (like that woman who brought her son on Oprah a week after he’d returned from being missing for 7 years? That’s so trashy. And heartbreaking.) this was a sacrifice from the family to help out one of their own. They sacrificed a lot of privacy in putting their personal struggles and heartache into a public forum and it was done completely selflessly for the sake of their loved one. Definitely not trashy.

A single mother of an 8 year old boy works 4 nights a week as a stripper and spends 5 days a week getting her master’s degree in biology and student teaching for credits at a local university. (Yes, I really know this woman. She’s real.) It’s the oldest story in the book: a stripper just working her way through college… And nobody really believed it to begin with. Plus, with a young boy in the picture, it seems a rather indecent and possibly embarrassing career choice for this mother. HOWEVER, with an undergraduate degree, there’s no possible way this woman could be making enough to support herself and her child unless she had a full-time job. Because she obviously wants a better life for both of them she is working her ass off day and night at the one job that will bring in enough money for her to live and afford graduate school. Now, if she was a single mom stripping every night to feed an addiction of some sort and bringing a different guy home every weekend, that’s one thing. But this particular woman has nothing but respect from me.

A very successful businessman in his mid-30’s goes out drinking with his old high school buddies at least four nights out of the week. When his irritated wife blows up his phone begging him to come home and spend time with his kids, he justifies his actions by reminding her that he’s bringing in a six-digit quarterly income and then laughs about her nagging with his friends. I hate that this is a true story that I’ve personally witnessed from a distance because this man doesn’t have enough dignity to try to keep his dysfunctions a secret from those of us who are in no way involved…and yeah… That is one trashy S.O.B.

A young woman poses nude for $50 an hour at a prestigious, nationally acclaimed arts conservatory. Heh. Okay, that was me when I posed at the North Carolina School of the Arts for a few hours each week back in 2002. Even now, 7 years later, I don’t think it was trashy at all. Now, $15 an hour at CCU’s art classes? Yeah, that’s selling myself a little short.

A couple makes a homemade porno. No freaking way is this trashy. If the couple is unmarried then there’s a lot more at stake should they part ways under hostile conditions. But whether the couple is married or unmarried, as long as the film is made with the consent of both adult parties involved then there’s nothing trashy about it. However, if a woman makes a porno and sends it to a married man or vice versa or if a couple engaged in adultery were to make a porno then absolutely it’s trashy. (Classy women don’t settle for someone else’s man.)

A woman tells a man who’s dumped her that she’s pregnant with his child. She collects money intended for an abortion and takes her girlfriends on a weekend getaway. Alright, it’s kinda funny from a revenge standpoint but it’s still trashy as shit. (Same goes for keeping the keys to your ex’s car and peeing in it while he’s at work every day. Hilarious but trashy.) I’ve not always believed it but honestly the best, classiest revenge is always, without a doubt, living well. (For yourself, of course, but also so if you run into that bastard later on, you can make him drool and then kick himself.)

A young lady engages in safe but casual sex with numerous partners without expecting or pressuring any of them for emotional attachment. Say what you want about women with promiscuous lifestyles, I believe that if any person is safe and emotionally stable enough to have multiple lovers with whom she shares a mutual respect and agreements regarding their personal interactions, then I really genuinely don’t  consider that trashy at all. (I’ve seen it done healthily with everyone’s self-respect in check. For a brief while there I was able to do it myself, actually, so I know it’s possible) HOWEVER, it’s those girls who are constantly throwing themselves at any or every man who looks her way, clamoring to be the sexual center of attention in every scenario, or begging men for their affection after what was supposed to be a casual one-nighter by texting, calling, stalking, or other forms of general harassment that are the trashiest ones. There’s a difference in being comfortable with one’s own sexuality and being able to assert it confidently and maturely and then there’s just acting slutty to try to convince yourself that you’re sexually appealing. The latter are the trashy ones who don’t get taken home to Mom too often.

A Connecticut housewife hires a nanny to watch after her one child every single day so she can spend her days going to the gym, looking at Italian marble in which to retile her kitchen, getting a martini lunch with her old friends, etc. Yeah, I don’t care how much money you’ve got; wasting the luxury of having enough and not needing to work on frivolous, selfish things makes you trashy. Especially when you’re putting a kid on the backburner.

As their mother lies on her deathbed, her children spend her last weeks dividing her possessions among themselves and arguing over who gets to keep which valuable. Again, I wish this wasn’t a true story. White. Trash.

A father misses almost all of his children’s soccer games and performances for the entirety of their childhood because he drives a truck back and forth across the country for a major shipping company. Because I know that in this particular story, the father retired at 45, was able to pay for both his kids’ college educations, and would call his wife and kids every single night he was on the road then obviously, this ain’t trashy. However, if he’d opted to spend his evenings in strip clubs, wasting his money on booze or hookers or something then, of course my opinion’s going to be completely different. But it’s not. Anyone who sacrifices personal comfort or dignity to provide for their family is a class act. Period.

A Ph.D.-wielding university professor attends his fellow professor’s personal research presentations to criticize their work, ridicule and humiliate them around their peers. Doesn’t matter how high an office you hold or how much brains you got; if you’re arrogant and disrespectful to everyone around you, you’re trashy.

So there we are! A brief (heh.) exploration into my personal definition of what it means to be “trashy” or, racially speaking, “white trash.” If, for some reason, you as the reader have any pointed questions for me or desire clarification about what the hell I may be talking about in the above essay or retorts about my preposterously arrogant definition of others’ actions, then I cordially invite you to bring them on. No hurt feelings here.

Because it’s the dead middle of the week and my daughter is finally napping, I thought I’d take a moment to share some of my recent musings. Enjoy.

~ My favorite moments in “Fresh Prince” reruns are when they step outside the box and go all postmodern on us. For example, before a trip back to Philly, Will was talking about a certain former nemesis with whom he was fearing an encounter. When Jazz asked him who this specific guy was, Will responded, “He’s the dude twirling me over my head in the opening credits.” In one season premiere, Will comes out and asks, “Hey, who’s playing our mom this year?” (after the role had been handed off a couple times in the series.) Later in the episode, Will turns to Nicky, the “new baby” from the previous season (who is now speaking in full sentences, walking, and appears to be no younger than 3 years old.) and exclaims, “Whoa! Weren’t you born, like, a month ago?”

Love. It.

~ I used to think that “Eleanor Rigby” was a song about socially-inept loners who can’t connect with anyone else. And only recently did I realize that it’s about the sad, scared loner in all of us.

Yeah, I’m a little slow.

~My sister made me an incredible mix CD last summer that included N.E.R.D.’s “All the Girls Standing In the Line to the Bathroom”, which is a fabulous blend of ass-shaking beats and smooth Pharrellian lyrics. Anyway, after listening to it for months and singing along with it to my infant child, I stopped to reevaluate the lyrics.

A hundred-dollar bills? Look at’chu! Ah-choo!

I read on, appreciative of the mastery of such effectively moving language and the genius in which their deeply brooding undertones were incorporated into such a catchy, crowd-pleasing sound. 

But… um… See, with the excited beat and all I’d just kind of assumed that it was a commentary about the silly absurdities of the clubbing lifestyle. Turns out I’d been singing a song to my infant daughter about those superskinny girls with cocaine problems who waste their lives in posh nightclubs and parties and then are sad and empty during the day so they go back every night and do it all again.  

Oops.

~ Nothing really shocks me anymore and there are very few things that actually scandalize me, but, for some reason, when I saw an ad for the new Schick Quattro for Women Trim Style razor/trimmer combo, I had one of those lifted-eyebrow-tilted-head-”Barroo?!” moments.

The new razor is identical to the men’s version in that it has a basic straight razor on one end and a trimmer on the other (with adjustable combs! Assuming a man wants to put a fade into his goatee) Now, the general public can surely understand the immediate need for a hair trimmer on a men’s razor as men have to deal with, you know, facial hair and perhaps want a tool that will shave their stubble in addition to shaping their facial hair features as per their personal preferences.

However, being that we live in a society that is completely schizophrenic when it comes to sexuality, I was wondering how the company was going to address the need for a trimmer on a razor made for women. I mean, they couldn’t very well come out and say, “This part’s for your pubes, y’all.” but they had to somehow get the point across to sell a broad audience on the razor’s necessary functionality.

And ZOMG, you guys; I was NOT disappointed.  

As I’m watching, the camera wanders through scenes featuring tall, lithe, beautiful women with smooth hairless legs that would be too long for a giraffe. But, in every scenario, the camera pans past the women and focuses on a… ahem.. a bush. Yes. A bush that is.. oh, how do we say.. unkempt. And, with the buzzing sound of the trimmer, the extraneous leaves and branches magically fall away from the shrub to reveal a professionally pruned masterpiece. This alone was giggleworthy knowing the types of conservatives that dominate this part of the country who may be watching. However, what’s even more hilarious is that the bushes are pruned into very distinct vaginal shapes [although they look completely ridiculous on shrubbery] like a landing strip, or an inverted triangle. So any frigid woman who may have attempted denial as to the commercial’s allusions had her intentions completely thwarted in the strangely explicit analogy of the product’s purpose. 

Well played, Schick marketing department.

~WARNING: Unbelievably Judgmental Moment Ahead

(No, seriously, this is bad. Like, I’m probably going to Hell for this one. But I do have a point! And some musings that really aren’t rooted in evil and hatred! Just bear with me!)

Ever have a friend/colleague/lover/acquaintance who you liked for the most part but sensed that there was just something sucky and/or “off” about them? And you may have known this person your whole life, but one day you just suddenly realize that this person is certifiably white trash? Now, maybe you’d never noticed because said person didn’t immediately show symptoms that fit precisely within your personal stereotypes of this demographic (perhaps regarding location, social status, monetary history, sartorial/cosmetic implementation, education level, basic hygiene, political leaning, dietary habits, or whatever you personally typically consider a trait of white trashery… trashitude?… trashiness?) or maybe you’d just subconsciously ignored it out of personal motivations or maybe you just weren’t that invested or maybe it involved some other scenario to influence your personal perspective, but suddenly the basic characteristics are so obvious you kind of can’t understand how you couldn’t have seen it before now?

Man, talk about a total shift in dynamics and subconscious social agreements… not to mention daily perspective. Kinda makes you rethink all your relationships and if identifying objective societal labels within all your interactions might save you a lot of time and consternation, regardless of how terribly un-PC that might seem. Not that you should just stop loving your mom if you suddenly realize that the world views her as a drunken redneck and you kind of agree and also happen to despise drunken rednecks (that’s where learning to accept those we love for exactly who they are -warts and all - is put into play.) But maybe stepping back to objectively see the basic, surface-level, shallow label that someone we don’t necessarily love or cherish embodies would give us a better option as to whether or not we should spend our best energies on them. And, since that seems extremely intolerant (and I’m really just flinging out random ideas, here, people. I’m not committing to any of this so don’t take it as my absolute opinions or stances on human interaction.) and presupposing of diversities in people before you even get to know them on a deeper level, then maybe resorting to the labels and subsequent stereotypes associated with this person’s character would help us gain a better understanding on their juxtaposed perception.

For example, if, every day when you go to work you get into a heated argument with one of your colleagues because you bring a ham sandwich and she/he believes that meat is murder and screams at you about it and tapes pictures of slaughterhouses to your lunchbox and threatens to set your sandwiches on fire one day [when she can finally get office policy about that changed] and you find yourself dreading work [even more] and you feel like it’s your personal right to eat whatever the hell you want for lunch so you scream right back at her and then, over time, you begin feeling exhausted from such pointless daily emotional upheaval because of the actions and emotions of this one person who really does not matter in the general scheme of your life. Maybe maybe, if you’d just stopped after the first time she went ballistic on you to assume, “This woman is just another tree-hugging, vegan nutjob from some mountain town who feels validated and important when she continually pickets for her thousands of lifestyle beliefs in between bong hits. Apparently, she’s a little socially inept and stubborn and perhaps a little dumb. Those things aren’t going to make her a lot of friends… Poor girl. ” then maybe you wouldn’t have wasted so many of your lunch breaks yelling at her or car rides fuming because you think her actions are really attacks on your character (which is probably what she’s been working to make you think, really.) Maybe that’s your first step in learning to disengage from the dramas other people may try to bring to you and finding a steady sense of inner-peace. (At least toward the small things. The big things are another discussion altogether.)

The one problem with my potentially using this method one day is the fact that I don’t actually slap labels on my friends until long after they’re my friends, and usually only when I’m trying to describe them to someone else. (i.e. “My friend Blank is so rad! She’s this awesome clothing designer, nympho riot grrl and sometimes she’s a little flaky ’cause she’s a bit of a stoner and she listens to really terrible music, but I do love her.”) So, it’d be tough for me to start slapping labels on everyone that I meet in the off-chance that they might suck and I’d need to get away from them. 

Look, my beliefs in functioning from Love ultimately brings me back to learning to accept the flaws in other people without allowing ourselves to become personally affected by their actions. This, I feel, is the basis of happiness within ourselves and toward others. So, what I’m really saying here (finally, right?) is that perhaps flinging a basic, stereotypical label on people we find difficult from the very beginning of our interactions is a beginner’s step in learning how to recognize human differences, consider alternate perspectives or motivations, and mentally give other people permission to be exactly who they are (no matter how crappy a person may be) without allowing ourselves to waste too much energy arguing with them or taking their actions personally. Maybe that’s just how some of us have to bridge the gap between total judgment and human acceptance. 

Just a thought.

(I understand if you never respect me ever again for saying that in print, btw. I don’t harbor that many judgments or stereotypes, actually, and even when I do, I honestly have very very few prejudices toward entire groups of people. In fact, I can’t think of any sect of people I just flat-out loathe and/or whose members I wouldn’t give an honest chance in independent levels. I’m good about giving people a chance to prove themselves as likable before I fling them into one of the categories that I don’t like/can’t relate to.

But the aforementioned stereotype-in-stealth is the only one I’ve always wanted to comment on. So no, I’m not apologizing for it. )

(Here, look, I’ll show a little compassion in the next bulleted thought.) 

~ Whenever they discuss obesity on CNN, they always show stock footage of fatties walking around and I always feel so bad for those people. Because their faces aren’t exposed on camera, the network isn’t required to have these chubby pedestrians sign any form of model release. Can you imagine sitting at home (or at a friend’s home or at a bar or at the doctor’s office waiting room), watching Headline News and suddenly seeing a zoomed-in image of your ass/hips/stomach/thighs [perhaps in Hi-Def] while some nutrition expert prattles on about how we’re dying as a country because we can’t put down our McFlurrys (sp)?

Yes, okay, it’s a very important conversation to be having right now because we are a country with terrible eating habits and sedentary lifestyles that are driving us into early graves and mounds of debt in hospital bills and unnecessary health problems. But don’t we think making a public example of innocent people just out for a walk is a little “Mean Girls“-esque? Isn’t trying to get the general public to recoil and consider these specific people disgustingly unhealthy kind of perpetuating the body-image issues that usually cause obesity or starvation in the first place? Maybe instead we could show images of healthy people at the gym or those awesome old people who, due to a long-term healthy lifestyle, are still able to waterski and run marathons and all that?

Makes me thankful I’m not a morbidly obese resident of Atlanta.

~ On VH1 Classic’s series Heavy: A History of Heavy Metal, they considered KISS to be in that category. And they are NOT. (Dee Snyder and Alice Cooper agree with me.)

Any rock band who sells dolls of themselves (with 8 year olds in the commercials) among the hoards of other crap they manufactured with their faces on it and makes a rock/disco fusion album IS NOT METAL.

And anybody who says otherwise is crapping on all those guys who paved the way in metal and, really, the entire metal genre and it’s rich, colorful history. BOOOO VH1 and your ridiculous commentary!

:: Exhales ::

Thanks for letting me get that out. I feel much better now.

Behold, the semi-annual Unsent Letters entry. This year’s first entry seems to be a little angrier than normal, but not enough to actually warrant my sending any of these letters. Don’t worry; there are a few kinda funny ones in there, too. Short ones, too. 

To Whom it May Concern:

Of all the people I’ve known in my life, I am most surprised that you have turned into such a giant douchenozzle. 

See, you’re all arrogant in your cold, mindless convictions these days, so I know you won’t hear or respect any of this. But you used to be amazing, one of those beautiful, colorful people that other people stopped and listened to and respected and appreciated. You were literally outstanding in your gentle nature and free-thinking motives. We used to be great friends, remember? We drove hours to visit each other, you’d make me fantastic mix tapes of the latest dancehall reggae you were spinning, we’d talk about great thinkers and great ideas, you introduced me to The Prophet, you’d teach me how to play the jimbe, I took you to the Meher Baba Center, and we laughed and laughed at those arrogant, greed-driven bastards we’d grown up around who had missed the entire point of life and the incredible excitement of self-exploration and love and just being.

So that’s why, when I read the email you sent to KVP last year (she forwarded it because she was that appalled) I was floored at this cold, distant, calculated person you’ve become, one of the ones we used to laugh at and ridicule in their stubborn ignorance. Without any emotion, you bluntly stated that “the only person [you'd] honestly be able to say that [you] loved was the woman [you'd] one day call your wife.” Whoa. Really?  

Okay, I can sort of see it from your perspective. I mean, love is really a useless emotion when wasted on anyone you don’t plan to procreate with; that’s just science! So there’s really no need to share love with friends or family or anyone you hold close to you in your life because, really, these people are more disposable than your future, non-existent spouse. And, naturally, that rules out bothering to love anyone outside of your immediate acquaintances. Of course! Starving children? Helpless bystanders in war-torn countries? Our fellow man, fighting for the same rights and freedoms and life that we all dream of? Fuck ‘em! No love necessary there! Without having to waste your time on such trite things as compassion and genuine loving reciprocal relationships, you can really whittle down your interests to include only yours! Think of all the time you’ll save not having to listen, reach out, or relate to people! Think of all the personal accomplishments you’ll be able to collect without the utterly pointless element of love and human emotion complicating the progression of time! How incredibly liberating!

Oh, and lonely. Don’t forget lonely. 

I just cannot believe that you of all people could have changed so dramatically into something that really, genuinely sucks. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

There are a lot of us perched on the edge of our seats awaiting your inevitable mental collapse. We’re kind of looking forward to watching the realization that you are a completeandutter condescending bitch to everyone around you crash over your mind and you being tripped up by a great crap pile of humility. 

We’re assuming this will happen when your husband comes out of the closet. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

I’m done.

Not that it actually mattered to you one way or another, but the letter you received from me last August was the last one I will send in my attempts to find peace and understanding with whatever happened between us. 

I’m ashamed of it, but I literally just spent almost five years trying adamantly, humbly to make amends, wondering what I could have done differently, hurting because you never seemed capable of severing emotional ties so abruptly in all the years I knew you before we became romantically involved. (But then, for someone who actually reduces emotions down to chemical reactions necessary for procreation, I really shouldn’t have been so surprised.) I hurt so badly wondering what it was that made you not want me and why you wouldn’t give me a straight answer that I’ve sent you one of these biannual letters for close to five years, apologizing for actions and facets of myself that I can’t even identify. That’s right; I wanted a response from you so very badly that I became pathetic and self-loathing enough to grovel and beg for forgiveness for actions I didn’t even know about. 

So, I’m done. Oh, I’m still hurting and confused, but that’s no longer sitting in my consciousness even on a weekly basis. It took a while (and some news about you actually being a bit of a liar) but I’ve finally (finally) accepted that this is just how it is, there will be no answers, and nobody deserves this much of my time, especially when he has no intention of spending any of his on me in return. After a decade of my mother trying to convince me of this rule of maintaining self-dignity and respect, I finally get it. 

So thank you for being the courier for such a profound lesson. ‘Preciate it.

 

To Whom/That Which it May Concern:

One of the greatest blessings about my last nine months or so is that you have completely disappeared from my life. I don’t think about you, I never ever miss you and your absence has saved me a lot of money, energy, water, etc. 

And yeah, I understand that you have to stop in for a routine visit every so often. That’s fine; I lived with you nonstop for 13 years, so I think I can handle you dropping in for one week every year. 

But could we move this along a little? Seriously, I understand you have a lot of baggage to unload before you actually check in but two weeks is enough of a prelude. That’s right. You heard me. For a little over two weeks now I’ve been inhaling food, squeezing into usually-loose-fitting clothes, and sporting the pimpled face of a 14 year old. You’re making a bigger entrance than a drag queen and I’m really beginning to get apathetic to your theatrics.

Bring it on, already. And don’t worry about me being out of practice; I’ve got this. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

Hey, you know how you’re all full of yourself and assured in your superiority by your vast wealth of irrefutable knowledge and love to cram all that down anyone’s throat who may give you the chance [or not] and you may have passed this annoying character trait on to your family members?

Yeah, well, nobody cares. Not only that, but nobody actually likes you, which, I realize, is of no consequence to you as it probably only reaffirms your belief that you are unappreciated and misunderstood as your genius somehow triumphs over the weak minds of your colleagues and superiors. However - and this may be the most damaging to your incredible ego - nobody even respects you and your arrogant, stubborn, intolerant, unwavering attack on the world and our obvious ignorance. Our recognition of your disdain for our lifestyles and beliefs and your blatant lack of respect for our desires to share our thoughts with you has been sufficient enough to fuel many many years of disgust directed toward you. Even in mixed company, the mention of your name evokes eyerolls and sighs of exasperation from your subordinates, your colleagues, and your superiors. 

I’m not stupid enough to hope that my argument will budge you off your self-righteous pedestal and consider the perspectives of someone else for a change. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that at your age, your convictions aren’t going anywhere. So, really, this message is just a statement of fact, a revealing of the truth on behalf of the many many people you encounter. Solely for the purpose of knowing that someone out there has held a mirror up to your smug face for a change. 

Respect it or not. 

 

To Whom it May Concern:

I’m just going to state some facts here. You’re 43, unemployed, mostly drunk, and you live with your mother. You were in your last semester of college (after 20-some years of on-and-off attendance) and blew off one paper (One. It wasn’t even a thesis, for Christ’s sake!) so now you’re just kind of sitting around, playing with your dogs, going to the gym, hanging out with your mom… Explain to me again why you’re confused that she left you? Why, despite all these lovely conditions, you’re still considered one of the hottest bachelors in the city? I mean, sure, money talks and old, country-club money practically screams, but Jesus… 

You know I called your ex a few years ago when I was in town? I told her that, regardless of what your mother is telling everyone in town about her, there are many of us who don’t agree and still love and value her as a person and a longtime family member. And then I told her that, even though it was none of my damned business, I didn’t blame her for leaving and that I hope she finds a far far happier life, one she deserves for a change. 

 

To Whom it May Concern,

You are the epitome of the word “pathetic”. Every time you resurface (and you always do), all you successfully accomplish with me is affirming my knowledge that you are chronically pathetic in general and seem to be rather proud of this pathetic, grappling, self-loathing lifestyle. 

Don’t get me wrong; I realized this a long long time ago. What I’m still puzzled about is your strange fascination and desire to return to me (and, again, you always do), even after years of me telling you to get a life and go away (and actually sticking to that, which is new for me!)

 

To Whom it May Concern:

Oh, we’re going to play the “love” card now? Really? After two decades of complete dismissal, you’re suddenly alive with emotion that you just can’t hold back? What’s wrong; having one foot in the grave making you start regretting not accumulating more people to attend your funeral?

You know, in my many many years of pondering you two and the effects your actions have had on my life and the lives of people I genuinely, wholeheartedly love. For a long time I was really bitter and angry and planning wrathful, heartless acts of retaliation as I got older. And then someone who’s known you far longer than I sat down and explained to me that you weren’t cold-hearted; you were just stupid. You were both literally so vapid and incapable of accessing emotion or self-improvement that treating others this way was the only option you were capable of realizing. And, for a few years now, I’ve believed and accepted this.

But then, out of nowhere, you’re back out of the blue proclaiming your allegiance and love for me and I simply have no idea how to respond to that. I can’t love you from where I sit; I don’t even know you and what I do know has been rejection and disinterest. So, sweeping in and acting like none of it ever happened or was ever wrong or a real problem is easily the most frustrating case of mindfuckery I’ve ever encountered. This confused and angry reaction of mine seems to not matter to you at all, which is the one area of your psyche I at least recognize.

Sigh…

I honestly forgive you, if only for selfish reasons. I know that forgiveness liberates my mind and heart to love and understand others, even if they don’t deserve it. I know that forgiveness makes me a better, honest, ever-growing person. And I forgive you because I feel a tremendous amount of pity for your lives and the love and joy you’ve missed out on. 

But, honestly, it may be too late to create something real here. I admire your willingness to try, whatever the motives and even though the timing’s pretty terrible, but there are many years to catch up on, many growth in our personalities you’ve missed out on, many key components to our personal characters that would take you years to try to understand, appreciate, and even love. Simply put, you can’t possibly love me because you have no idea who I am at all. You love the role I fill, I’m sure, but it’s nothing personal in regards to me and my particular life. And, unfortunately, I don’t see you taking the initiative to change that, which still frustrates me and breaks my heart a little.

Just, you know, in case you were wondering what my personal take on the whole thing was.

To Whom it May Concern:

Please. Please stop whining. Please stop wasting my time by showing me all your trite television favorites and imperative internet experiences. See, my life is more exciting than the newest LOLcat post, so I really cannot relate to you, who whines about the stagnation in his life all the effing time and then seems so content with such a boring, nonproductive lifestyle. 

This wouldn’t ordinarily be any concern of mine (and really, I can’t imagine any other scenario in which our lives would have intersected at all… but here we are!) except that somehow I get dragged into listening to it and putting up with it when you’re around and it’s just exhausting. 

Grow the hell up, already.

 

And finally, 

To [Those] Whom it May Concern:

I honestly, really, genuinely could not possibly care less if I never hear from nor see you for the rest of my life. 

 

… Oh no. That’s all. We’re done here.

(See? I don’t always have to be long-winded.)

 

Most sincerely,

Castallare 

“Come on, girl. Let’s sneak out of this party; it’s getting boring. There’s more to life than this.”

Remember that summer just after high school when you were suddenly free? You wore snug-fitting halter tops and lacquered your legs with kelp, wore dazzling dangling earrings from foreign locales and painted with swooshing, sweeping watercolors every day. You let beautiful Irish immigrant boys take you dancing and you listened to Bjork’s ‘Debut’ album on repeat. You were free, if only for a moment. 

Yeah. Let’s do that again. 

“It’s still early morning. We could sneak down to the harbour, and jump between the boats. And see the sun come up.”

The most incredible short story I ever read was an original piece by a young man in a writer’s workshop I attended many years ago. The story was nothing short of a phenomenon, moving in and out of metacognition and subreality with an ease only comparable to the lucidity of dreams. It powered itself forward and gently landed deep in my abdomen, resonating up my spinal column and shaking tears from my eyes. The young author was a beautiful black man (one of the four black people I encountered in my entire six months in Australia) from South Africa who, for some reason, I can only remember as being shirtless [but realize that this couldn't possibly have been the case as we were in a formal academic setting where such lack of attire might've have been appreciated by the female classmates but forbidden by the higher-ups.] With a humility that drained the breaths from his classmates, he quietly, confidently asserted his motivations for his writing and gave gratitude that we’d enjoyed it. He never took a moment to boast about such an obviously astounding work, nor did he ever hint at defending such an outrageous piece of literature, and in the stillness of his eyes it was apparent that he wasn’t entirely oblivious to the genius with which his work had conquered us. 

I don’t remember this young man’s name, nor do I remember the name of the short story. In my return back to the U.S. I misplaced the draft that would undoubtedly lead the way into a new movement of literature altogether. However, to this day I still remember sitting in the presence of certain greatness and the energy of being among the first to feel such powerful creativity finally released to the unworthy audience of his peers. I remember being stunned into silence by his words for a few days and lying awake for a few nights wondering how I could possibly acquire this sort of wisdom, talent, genius. 

There are very few things I wouldn’t relinquish to relive the moment of this nameless genius’s incredible debut. 

“I could nick a boat and sneak off to this island. I could bring my little ghettoblaster. There’s more to life than this.”

Waiting for an apology from a person who will never deliver one is exactly like dropping rose petals down a well and waiting to hear the splash.

“But then we’d have to rush back to the town’s best baker to taste the first bread of the morning. There’s more to life than this.”

The most excitement I’ve had all week was tonight, when my husband and I had one of our monthly “Junk Food Nights” and blew our diets on value meals and ice cream exhorbitancies from McDonald’s. 

Goddamn. 

Something has got to fucking give here. And I’m thinking that’s me.

“There’s more to life than this.”