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

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

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

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

or - A Postmature Striking-Out-On-One’s-Own from a Giant Dependent Wuss

Okay, here’s the thing. (“Get outta my waaay! You A-list bores. My Prada shoooes! Are as good as yours.”) I’m not a fan of Myrtle Beach. At all. When I first moved here in 1997 I was 15, so moving to a cool party town was rad and we had a lot of cool places to hang out on Friday nights (until someone’s mom came to pick us up.) And then the second year it all kind of soured for me. The overzealous neon, the realization that we’re the town blue-collar America comes to to get drunk, make bad decisions and leave, the scores of abandoned businesses and run down buildings (I used to joke that Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” must’ve been inspired by one of the band’s visits to Myrtle Beach and/or Ocean Boulevard. I even won an award for a piece about how it was a sick irony that this place is known as the Grand Strand) the canned tourist-centric entertainment that slides by as our only source of local “cultural arts.” (Except for the fine productions out of Coastal Carolina University, actually. They bring in some great acts and have a very talented theatre department for what they have to work with.) It all just got to be a little gross and sad. And then there was the whole “party town” mentality. While there are drugs and seedy areas of any town, only tourist towns have a guaranteed shipment of new drugs and fresh debauchery every single weekend. But really, just sitting in awful, poorly-planned traffic in sweltering heat on flat, tacky highways or flinching at the shamelessness of the bawdy advertising and outrageous gimmicks got to be more than I could handle.

But obviously, there are things unique to this area that I absolutely adore and will miss dearly. I love being near the beach. Sure, it’s crowded and tacky in places and our guests rarely clean up after themselves but there are stretches of beach in residential areas that everyone local knows about, where you’re likely to run into someone you know and you can spread out as much as you want any time of the year. There are beautiful waterways and rivers and marshes for kayaking, there are a few old buildings with rich historical value, there’s an element of small-town charm if you venture just past the city limits. There’s also been a small undercurrent of very cool artsy, “alternative” music and people that takes a little bit of searching and comes in waves but makes dealing with flashy, knockoff-Vegas-style shows a little bit bearable. (These movements come in spurts where there are a couplethree years of stuff happening and people creating and cool hangouts are thriving - anybody remember the Irish pub where Kono Asian Grill now is that was actually run by hip, Irish twentysomethings? or the Lazy i where everyone was friends somehow and we’d go and cheer for terrible screamo preteens just as loudly as we would for Against All Authority or any of the 20 bands Michael was in or when Garrett sang Queen covers on a mic plugged into a keyboard and called himself “Starchildren”? Or even the godawful open mics at Slacker 77? - but because the cool, hip scene here usually consists of poor poor hipsters, these businesses close, the artists move to other cities and the beautiful garage bands get married, have kids and move to the suburbs. There’s a new era of coolness picking back up with the opening of a few cool new spots and the new burlesque troupe and a few decent bands showing up. And I’m so so very proud of the Roundtable Art Group that was started by a few guys I went to art school with and is still thriving, showcasing young local artists in posh venues and events. It makes me hopeful!) There are people here I’ve called friends longer than any others before them that I am very lucky to have known and will miss for a very long time. So, like all places, there are things and people that I am lucky to have known.

The thing is, by 26, most people have successfully gotten away from home for a while and found themselves and, even if they’ve decided to come back to the physical Point A, they’re still rather in control of their lives and their location. Not me, man. And this is embarrassing. When I graduated high school in 2001 I was totally stoked to be going off to a great liberal arts university in a beautiful area of North Carolina where there was culture and life and ever-budding intellect and opportunity. However, due to an abusive relationship, a drinking problem, a suicide attempt, a stint in a mental hospital, and a GPA that doubled as a bargain gas price, I found myself planted back in my parents’ house in two short years, going to technical college and having a massive lesson about humility shoved down my throat. And I. Was. Miserable. (Mostly with myself but that would take a couple years of sobriety and therapy to uncover, wrestle with, and get over.) I wanted out so badly but had absolutely no drive to do anything productive so I kind of wallowed around in general academic progression. I transferred to an actual university in town that we’d always considered a glorified high school (but is really blowing that reputation out of the water these days) and planned to leave and transfer somewhere awesome once I got a couple years under my belt… then I planned to bolt after I got my undergrad degree… then we decided to leave after the baby came… and then we thought we should wait until Greg had been with his job for a year… and then we were waiting around for anyone to reply to our dozens of job applications… And then I looked up and realized that I’ve been here for six whole years wishing I was somewhere else.

The weirdest part about all of this is that, in the last 3-ish years, since I finally sobered up and finally started acting like I wanted to graduate and finally got rid of my high-school sweetheart/shitsack and finally started doing things that I’d always wanted to try (photography, journalism, bellydance, metaphysical meditation, kayaking) I’ve really created a comfortable niche here full of loving, cool, positive people who make me feel amazing about myself and don’t care that I tend to be completely self-indulgent and/or self-obsessed. Since early summer 2006, I’ve been really really happy where I am. (This was a lesson I recognized and accepted when Chloe arrived and God made it obvious that he wanted me to learn how to be happy anywhere I was… I’m not completely dim.)

So it all kind of feels like I’m doing a second take on this whole Having an Adult Life as I’m leaving town this time. It feels like the same sort of goodbyes and ambitious optimism most people feel when they graduate high school and while I realize that I absolutely needed to be home to get my mind together, I’m a little embarrassed to be doing this whole leaving thing so long after everyone else my age has.

And also, I - as well as my family - am more than a little nervous about having the safety net of nearby relatives taken out from under me, like I’m taking the training wheels off my Parenting bike. But even moreso, there’s the idea that I’ll have yet another mental collapse and come crawling back in shambles, doomed to live my entire life within 5 miles of my parents who will inevitably come in and make everything better. Granted, a LOT of things are different this time; I have a partner who loves and supports me, I have a child who’s dependent on my sanity, I have years of therapy and an obsessive tendency to keep tabs on my mental stability, I have a lot more drive and confidence in my life’s general direction, and I think it’s safe to say that the hand I’m playing is significantly more in my favor than last time.

So we’re both really optimistic. The town we’ll soon call home is about 20 minutes from where I grew up, which is kind of funny to me because I remember being 13, obligatorily miserable in my jr. high lifestyle and aching to get out to anywhere else. Now a small town just outside of a few exciting metropolitan areas that has it’s own little identity and humble culture and peacefulness sounds like a perfect first step for us out on our own.

This excitement will not enable any sort of logical sleep pattern for the next couple weeks, though. I’m accepting this now so I won’t be blindsided with exhausted delirium from lying awake all night pondering my current life’s ultimate status… Sometimes I feel a little too much like Angela Chase.

Still, more than nervous or in the throes of bittersweet sentiment, I’m excited. I’ve been waiting for this for a while and I’m glad the Universe has finally given us the green light for some definite forward movement.

~ If there’s anything I loathe more than negative, ungrateful people, it’s the fact that their shitty attitudes rub off on me and make me pissy for far longer than they deserve. Naturally, I know that I’m a classier, better person by not responding to it and physically taking myself out of their crappy, soggy energy, but I still fight the urge to sink down a level and tell them to shove it and then I get frustrated that I’ve been affected at all. Apparently, I have a LOT of years of patience and quiet-resistance training ahead of me.

However, I do wonder how excited Gandhi got when he royally pissed his opponents off with his totally chilled resistance. That guy was just awesome and easily had the biggest balls of any human being ever, simply because he never had to run around proclaiming it. I want to be him… sans male genitalia, of course.

~ If cat sneezes bring good luck then we must be awash in it because the Ben has had a cold since we got home. It’s equal parts adorable and worrisome.

~ I thought of a few more chapters for my Book of Unsent Letters. Enjoy:

XIII.
The Only Reason You Think College is a Useless Racket is Because You Were a Theatre Major
or - If Johnny Depp Can Drop Out of High School and be Wildly Successful, Maybe Formal Education Has Nothing to do With Talent… So What Does That Say About You?

XIV.
Just Because I Advocate Sex Before Marriage Doesn’t Mean I Want To Hear About You Quasi-Cheating On Your Spouse Every Time He’s Away
or - “Immorality” is Subjective; I don’t Appreciate Being Lumped into a Stereotype with Assumed Values

XV.
Talking About All the Cool Things Your Friends Are Doing Doesn’t Present the Illusion That You’re Interesting…
…Quite the Opposite, In Fact.

XVI.
By Running Back to Him and Bragging About Showing Strength When You’re Creating Your Own Hell, You’re Just Shooting Your Credibility in the Foot
or - How do You Plan to Lead People if you can’t even Lead Yourself?

XVII.
A Tip: If You Whine To Everyone All the Time But Do Nothing to Change the Life You Apparently Hate, You’re Just Making Yourself Look Like a Lazy Idiot

XVIII.
Please Don’t Tell People You Know Me: I Don’t Want Them to Think I Treat Diversities Like Radical Freak Show Exhibits… Like You Do

I don’t know; I’m starting to think this could actually happen. Like I don’t have enough projects underway.

~Chicago was amazing - not that I’m surprised. We did Taste of Chicago which was just bliss as it was alive with cool, colorful people and new tastes and culture and excitement and things happening like a real city! (God, I want to get out of SC so badly…) Also, might I mention that people in Chicago are remarkably more attractive than they are around here. I was amazed that I didn’t see one single underdressed tween girl while I was there. Amazing.
Greg and I got a much-needed evening alone out on the town, complete with an uproarious show at “Second City” and a nice, adult dinner. We even got to treat ourselves to about 15 different fireworks shows as we rode the train out to the distant suburbs of Chicagoland.

I had an incredibly nerdy music-related moment while out, though. We were walking around Millenium Park and I started singing to Greg (because he hates it)

“Saturday. In the Park. I think it was the Fourth of July.”

How fitting. And also, it was sung by Chicago. Weeeeird.
Christ, I’m nerdy.

I promised I’d finish this scrapbook, so I’m finally doing so.

Behold, the foyer and Chloe’s room:

I thought I’d include the foyer because I really like the cool faux-stain glass film thing Greg applied to the window alongside our front door:

And the totally awesome milagro sacred heart that my dear friend sent to me from the oldest street in Los Angeles. (It’s actually a mirror in the center but, when reflecting the opposing wall, it looks like it’s red. Cooool!)

And this is the Bear’s room. I’d explain where all the gifts came from but literally everything you’re looking at is a gift of some sort. The crib, the curtains, the shelves, the rocking chair, the changing table, the artwork. Again, literally everything. There is NO WAY we could’ve afforded a baby (let alone such a nice nursery) without the generosity of those around us. We’re unbelievably blessed… stop me if you’ve heard that one.

Another friend made this wall art out of “Ghetto Slang” flash cards she found at some novelty shop. I think they’re hilarious and quirky enough to fit our irreverent style:

My mom cranks out cross-stitchery and quilts like she’s getting paid for it:

And wouldn’t you know it - the pics of the International Gift Shelf and other stuffs are all blurry. ::sigh:: looks like I’m not totally done with this entry, either, but I think I’ve given enough of a general drift of the house.

Oh, and here’s a crappy picture of our back patio by night. See, by night you can’t see how gross the pond in the backyard really is. However, you also can’t see the swarms of mosquitos that limit outdoor meals to spring and fall. And yes, my mom not only bought and repainted the patio set, but she also made really chic/mod matching cushions, placemats, and napkins. We almost look like something out of a catalog. Almost.

I just learned that my brother reads my blog. This is touching to me on a number of levels, the first being the obvious realization that my sibling gives a crap about what I’m doing and will subject himself to reading my self-indulgent blatherings in order to keep up.

After the years of working to ostracize my family when I was stupid, adolescent, selfish and perpetually drunk, I’ve sort of settled into the belief that I’ll always sort of be the weird black sheep of the family. I completely understand why, in the years of aftermath since, their hesitation to bother with trying to be a part of my immediate life - let alone subjecting themselves to any more of my self-centered antics - has been palpable at best. The common (and often justified) belief that real change can’t happen in anyone is enough to keep most people at bay and, through the way I’m treated and perceived at family gatherings, I’ve sort of learned that this is the bed I’ve made for myself. I’m pleasantly surprised and touched to see that my past hasn’t permanently run off everyone who matters to me.

I guess what I’m saying is that while spoken forgiveness is wonderful, evidence of it is levity-inducing.

It’s 5:20 a.m. I have been awake for an hour. This has been happening for a while but it’s becoming increasingly worse as these early morning hours have started filling me with fear.

I’d like to think that every adult goes through something similar from time to time but recently I cannot seem to get my mind off being terrorized by an intruder to the house. It started before that creepy thing that happened a few days ago and comes to me nightly. It’s everything I can do to keep my mind from thinking about the worst stories of home invasion that I can. knowing that my thoughts and emotions can attract that sort of energy (as with all things, of course.) I haven’t become delusional but certainly paranoid as most mornings I’m unable to sleep and even unable to meditate or center myself as my fear just conquers me.

I have no idea what to do about this. And I’m sort of getting tired of taking everything to my therapist; shouldn’t I be working most of this stuff out on my own?

Also, please go easy on grading the coloring and brightness; I don’t have Photoshop on my new compy just yet so I had to make do with Photo Editor. Not great, but it works.

Also also, please keep in mind that before we moved in there were only bare, white walls and hideous, brass fixtures everywhere. Ergh. It felt nice to put a lot of work into making it a home that was personalized, even if we don’t own it.

We’ll start with the kitchen. It’s laid out weirdly but it’s easily four times larger than the one at the apartment we had before this, so I’m not complaining. There’s a lot you can’t see from the angle this is taken, but the spaces on the walls are decorated with vintage manifesto pubblictario, (better known as artsy painted Italian alcohol ads from the early 20th century that I adore) which I got for $1 each at Target about 5 years ago. Score! (There will be a lot of mention of bargains in this entry because I do like to brag about a good deal. If you’re a female, you may understand this, assuming you’ve ever lived outside of your parents’ house in your undergrad years.) You may notice the paint job in the breakfast nook that extends all the way into the dining area. This was a two-color job that my husband and my best friend did together using a rag to create a rough, Tuscan-stucco-wall effect. I LOVE IT.

Another shot of the breakfast nook. Please note up front that almost all the furniture in the house is on loan from my sister and mother, Greg’s parents, or was bought for us as gifts. This table and the chairs were part of a set that my sister had in her apartment in Charleston and is no longer using at the moment. Luckily, we had a place to store it for her and it matches the room like a dream. Also, the Mac wasn’t a purchase but a freebie that someone at Greg’s office just didn’t want anymore. I only use it for surfing the Net, but it’s great to have in here so I can keep an eye on the Bear without her getting into everything in the office while I answer emails.

And here is our lovely dining area. Okay, you probably noticed that the chairs don’t match the table and there’s a perfectly good reason for this. We bought this table with matching chairs at a place called The Junk Barn for $120 total. It was exactly what we needed but had this gross Golden-Girls-Miami-retiree-in-the-80’s finish on it (read: light light beige.) so Greg refinished it with this beautiful mahogany coat, which he’s currently doing with the matching chairs. This is something I’m very very proud of. Also, he installed the totally rad bar lighting suspended over the table, installed a dimmer switch to add to the ambience, and hung the floating shelf on the wall behind the table. All without me asking. This is not the only reason I love him, but it certainly helps. On an unrelated note, the spoons and salt shakers you can baaarely make out on the floating shelf were handmade gifts from my sister’s time in South Africa, although I think she got them in Namibia. (I think the shakers might be made of ivory but, knowing my undying allegiance to the pachyderm species, she opted not to disclose this information and I try not to think about it. Too often.)

Into the living room where we took a risk (and freaked out our landlord) by creating a giant accent wall, which we adore. Somehow, it makes the room seem like it’s in a different space entirely, disconnected from the dining room, even though they’re all in the same 40 ft. The couch was a gift from his parents, the entertainment center and ottoman are all from Target wedding gift cards and the little toy chest/bench was Greg’s when he was little. The art sitting on the DVD/CD shelves was done for me by my best friend many years ago when I was going through the darkest part of addiction, depression, and the beginning of recovery. I hope to have it framed one day but I’m saving up so I can get a bang-up job of it as it’ll best be served in a shadowbox. The giant poster on the white wall next to the couch is a real calendar of events for the Plaza del Toros in Valencia, Spain that Greg got after watching a bullfight while studying abroad. We splurged to have it framed but I thought it was well worth it being that we plan to keep it foreverandever. The floor lamp was one that I got from Wal-Mart my freshman year at college for $10 and looked like crap until Greg spray painted it with a textured finish that makes it look at least 5 times the price. Whee!

THIS IS MY NEW DESK!! (Again, please note that this, too, was a freebie inherited from Greg’s workplace.) Amazing, I’ve only had it a week and it’s already loaded with assorted paper-based crap that somehow spills out onto the kitchen table most of the time. Oh, and naturally, this is the rest of the office where we’ve crammed in a treadmill, a keyboard (I’m teaching Greg to play as an ongoing Christmas present,) an oversized beanbag chair, a bookshelf full of car models, racing trophies, software texbooks and ‘Alien’ action figures, a small chest of drawers, and a little workspace for Greg. (Being a graphic artist apparently doesn’t require so much bulk or need for storage in the workplace.) This is not to mention the cameras, cords, artwork, and other misc crap piled into the closet. Junk; we has it. Also, if you can see them, the pics on the wall are my favorites from my time in Australia. They’re perfect.

Guest bathroom. All the towels and the shower curtain are products of my mom’s end-of-the-semester dorm Dumpster diving, as are most of the towels in my house (Cleaned and used for utilitarian purposes only! We have nice linens for guests and ourselves! Just not for the cat or the car…)

And thiiiis is my little slice of heaven: The Master Bedroom (with live, sleeping Greg!) We just went for the color and have not regretted it for a second. I love the bay windows, I love the French doors going into the bathroom, I love the walk-in closet, I love the massive bathtub, I love the dual sinks, I love the little potty nook, I love the extra linen closet in the bathroom, I love everyeveryeverything about this room.

Little Altar

We went with a weird Pacifica theme that incorporates stuff from our Hawaiian wedding vacation (not really a honeymoon, except for the last three days, I guess) and some Asian touches that we just had lying around. The headboard was a $20 one my mom got from a Habitat for Humanity resale store and had refinished as a birthday present for me and the square lamp next to the hanging shelf was a product of her Dumpster diving as well (I think it’s RAD.) The suitcase is one we purchased on our honeymoon at this tiny old plantation house in Kauai that was renovated into the coolest antiques shop I’ve ever been in. It’s from the mid-1900’s and is covered with authentic, old college and travel stickers, some from transportation companies that haven’t existed in decades. The lei draped across it was handmade and given to Greg by our landlord/host when we first arrived at the bungalow in Kapa’a. Also, I spent a lot of time on the island trying to find an authentic original hula girl figurine that wasn’t $75+. On her last day there, the host’s visiting friend left one in our little apartment as a farewell/wedding gift.

I’m unable to get pics of the Bear’s room at the moment but I promise that’s up next as I love it, as well.

WHEW! If you’ve gotten this far, thank you so much for letting me be self-indulgent and a bit obnoxious in my boasting. I’ve never had a house before and I don’t get to show it off that much to other people, so it’s nice to get to play tour guide, if only through electronic devices. I love that Greg and I were able to collaborate on ideas and come up with decorations and design that we both love and are proud of. Even moreso, I’m so grateful and glowingly happy to have a home filled with love and (albeit superficial) tangible gifts to remind us that we are loved and remembered. I know it’s just a little neo-ranch house and it’s not anything unique or upscale or even bordering on the gauche style of the nouveau riche, but to me it’s an absolute palace that I wouldn’t mind occupying for many many years. In fact, I hope the next home we live in can compare to this one or I may spend a lot of time missing it. Anyway, I’m enjoying the freedom of one’s own space and the chance to express ourselves within it.

My blog entries in the last few weeks have been really boring. They’ve just seemed rambly, like I’m just pontificating to hear myself talk. I don’t know; maybe after the wave of depression recessed, I’m just having a subconscious mental break or trying to clear everything out of my mind before I start working on writings or thoughts that are worthwhile. (”The Etch-A-Sketch End of the World” as Eddie Izzard put it.)

I had a lot of things I thought I wanted to say today, that I was thinking, that I thought about expounding on. Like everything else I’ve written recently, none of it was moving or even consequential.

I sprawled across the living room floor for hours playing with Chloe, who is running around and babbling incessantly these days. After we laughed and chased each other for the entire afternoon, she walked over to where I was sitting, stepped up on my legs, wrapped her little arms around my neck, leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed. We sat like that for about an hour and, until her Daddy excitedly threw open the garage door and disturbed our reverie, I was still, smiling, and unable to think of any words perfect enough to describe today.

I didn’t waste too much time trying to think of any.

He’s been gone 9 years now.

I know everyone has a grandparent that they’ll love and miss for the rest of their lives and believe to be some great, outstanding person, so it seems trite to try to assert that my grandfather actually was one of those unbelievable characters that you only really encounter a few times in your life. It was one of those things I sort of always knew but only became really aware of as I grew older. In my youth I just sort of assumed everyone’s grandfather was as successful and publicly lauded as mine was, like it was just something that came with age. It was only when I squeezed my way to the front pew and looked back to see mourners spilling down mezzanine staircases and out the church’s back door at his funeral that I began to think otherwise.

The thing that stood out the very most about my grandfather, however, was his incredible humility. He always believed that “more gets done when nobody worries about taking the credit”, and this was the sort of mentality he lived within daily. He founded banks, he worked on the School Board to fund and build schools, he founded hospitals, he was literally the guy who organized and orchestrated the Japanese surrender ceremony aboard the U.S.S. Missouri when WWII ended (it’s true; we have pictures. And actually, he was awarded one of the pens used to sign the treaty, but my Gran threw it out in her penchant for keeping nothing unless it is immediately important during a move), he built YMCA centers, he funded scholarships and arts programs, he funded programs for the local Boy Scout chapters, he was on the board of directors at UNC, he started the most successful independent insurance agency (they’re brokers; not actual insurance companies) in the Southeast, and even in the midst of success and wealth and small-town notoriety, he never treated any two people differently, never wasted his money on frivolous things for himself, never needed any recognition or praise for doing what he thought he was supposed to do as a contributing member of society. He drove the same style of Jeep Grand Wagoneer around his horse farm for close to three decades, purchasing another of the exact same make and model when each one inevitably gave out. He wore the same LL Bean bucket hat in his leisure time and, when he died, I discovered that he had a closet shelf full of them, all identical. He let me use one of the trophies one of his racehorses won to use as a teapot when I wanted to put on impromptu tea parties as a child. According to my father, the only heated argument he ever had with my Gran was over whether or not to keep alcohol in the house. (He didn’t want to; she insisted that if they were expected to entertain, they should keep a little on hand.) He was one of the few gentlemen who still wore a suit when he boarded an airplane. And, even two months before he passed, he extended his elbow to escort me across a footpath in his backyard. That’s just the kind of man he was and I never once saw him break character… and neither did anyone else, apparently. Even before I was old enough to realize his societal station among the old-money elite of North Carolina’s Piedmont (which he’d worked his way into from being a poor country boy from the backwoods mountain town of Elkin), I knew he was a different sort of man. He was kind, fair, humble, generous, he didn’t waste time on such human pitfalls as greed or jealousy or malice, he was quiet but resolute in his spiritual faith and he always always took the time to show everyone he met genuine respect and appreciation. This is what everyone in the mile-long funeral procession remembered as we wormed our way through what my cousin stated was “the town that [our grandfather] built.”

Even now, I still miss him. I miss the way he smelled when he pulled my body to his in a warm embrace and I miss how he loved to spend hours with us in the wood workshop he started in his garage just a few years before he passed. (”The first rule of working in the shop, Lizzie,” He explained. “Is that there has to be jazz playing. Big band is okay, too.” He would smile at me with a subtle wink as he pushed Play on his ancient tape deck.) I miss the slow, deep, elegance of his gentile Southern dialect and I miss how he would sit, calmly, in his green chair just smiling and watching while his huge, boisterous family sang and laughed and flung tissue paper every Christmas. I miss how the whole household would pause for a moment when he laughed and I miss how, in all her insane, self-promoting grandeur my beauty-queen grandmother always gazed at him as though he was still a 20-something soldier, in uniform to take her out for a night of dancing.

About a year and a half ago he came to me vividly in a dream. I say “he came to me” instead of “I dreamed about him” because it was far more real than any dream I’d ever had (or ever have had since). I felt the bones in his frail body when I hugged him, I smelled him again, I felt my heart surge when he casually addressed me, “Hey, Lizzie…” I sat up, sweaty and pregnant at the time, and cried with gratitude at the visit, the comfort, and the feeling of having received his blessings for my life.

This is why, when my Gran met Greg two summers ago in Hilton Head, everyone stopped for a surprised moment when she casually mentioned, “He reminds me a lot of [your grandfather]. He’s kind, Lizzie. He’s a good man.” while looking out from the front porch over the ocean and up toward the stars. After she went to bed, we all sat for a moment before my much-older cousin broke the ice. “I don’t think she’s ever said that about anyone before.” My extended family solemnly shook their heads in agreement.

We never received a more perfect prenuptial blessing.

Due to the current age of my firstborn, I have suddenly found myself immersed in the colorful, Hensonian world of ‘Sesame Street’ for the first time in two decades. And, just like 20 years ago, I am mesmerized and delighted with the show on a level that cannot be described. Of course, these days, my awe is perched on a different level entirely.

The most remarkable thing about ‘Sesame Street’ is that the show bases itself around simple absurdist quasi-dramas amongst an intra-species cast of characters and has found success in this humble formula for almost four freaking decades. (That’s right; there are kids who were watching the show’s first season 38 years ago who are now going through their mid-life crises and perking up for retirement.) While the show has taken a few occasions over the years to acknowledge major life experiences (Luis and Maria’s Wedding, Gordon and Susan having baby Miles, the ballsy move of tackling death when Mr. Hooper passed away…) the show primarily focuses on basic discussions and conflicts usually requiring basic skills of deduction from audience members and/or the more childlike of characters (usually Elmo, Zoe, and the ever-annoying Telly.)

To say that ‘Sesame Street’ is among the ranks of any other children’s shows that have come and gone during its run is not only ludicrous, but is pretty ignorant and unbelievably disrespectful to the work of Jim Henson in general. Unlike such traditional children’s shows like ‘Mister Rogers’, ‘Captain Kangaroo’, and ‘Howdy Doody‘, ‘Sesame Street’ shook up the industry by taking a more interactive style to education and entertainment and thus, more successfully integrated itself into a long-term staple within the American childhood experience. And I’m not even going to begin to delve into the revolutionary effects Muppeteering had on the world of puppetry, both creatively and as an industry. (Seriously, folks, I could prattle about the genius of Henson for weeks if given a chance.) So yeah, comparing the “Street” to shows like “Yo Gabba Gabba” or “Barney” not only belittles the genius simplicity of such an effective educational technique, but refuses to acknowledge the incredible creative revolution that is realized within the show’s very existence. 

Or, to simplify, calling “Sesame Street” just a children’s television show is directly equivalent to shrugging off  The Beatles as just another pop culture trend. Gah-ross.

So yeah, there’s all that to think about during my daily excursions to ‘Sesame Street‘. And then there’s the cultural aspects of the legendary show to take into consideration. Over the years, the show has literally hosted over a thousand celebrity guest stars who don’t take any time to boast about their celebrity statuses to the oblivious children at home but who, instead, take a moment to perform in relative obscurity and really enjoy themselves. Just in the last week, I’ve watched Neil Patrick Harris discuss the word “curly”, Jenny McCarthy discuss the word “insects”, Jonah Hill talk about the magic of having a moustache, and the sexy sexy sexy Mike Rowe host an episode of “Dirty Jobs” right from Oscar’s trashcan. (This, of course, only added to his unrelenting, undeniable ruggedly-handsome sexiness. I believe this move was a shoutout to all the housewives who were watching. So, see? The Children’s Television Workshop is watching out for us, too.)

Regardless of the glitzy celebrity status of the show, millions upon millions of children across the globe tune in to watch “Sesame Street” every day. In fact, the show is so widely broadcast that additional characters have been integrated into other countries’ broadcasts to incorporate aspects of foreign cultures. For example, the South African broadcast of the “Street” routinely supplements sketches with a character named Kami, who is HIV-positive and educates children about this rampant disease and encourages acceptance of those who are infected. (Although she garnered massive protests from the shielded, xenophobic fearmongering stay-at-homers in America, she has been received with tremendous appreciation and critical acclaim for her success in reaching out to her international audiences. She even did a PSA with President Bill Clinton to discuss her disease with the children of America. Pretty cool.)

Now, naturally, the show isn’t all sunny days and weather-thwarting singing. Frankly, I think it’s an abomination that Kevin Clash has taken it upon himself to monopolize the last third of every single show with a segment called “Elmo’s World.” So, not only are we guaranteed at least 20 minutes of high-pitched incessant giggling from what used to be a sideline character, but, if Elmo is integrated into the daily plot of the episode, then we can look forward to a whole hour with this single 3-and-a-half-year-old character who really isn’t any more notable than any other character. And yeah, okay, I get that Tickle Me Elmo was a massive phenomenon that one Christmas where people were beating the everloving piss out of each other to get this vibrating plush doll, but you know what? That was 15 YEARS AGO. The youngest sect of kids who were privy to this consumerist event are now graduated from high school and classifying themselves as voting, smoking, porn-reading adults. So, I think it’s safe to say that they’re no longer a target audience. And if anyone’s been paying attention, it’s just common knowledge that Elmo marketing hasn’t seen nearly the amount of attention or success that it did in the mid-90’s. And still, because of this “Elmo’s World” noise (which my daughter happens to love) the show has sidelined dozens of classic, dynamic characters, including the incomparable Grover, who is imperative to the educational benefits of teaching humility. Cookie Monster is now just a passing nutritional spokesmonster (SACRILEGE!), Bert and Ernie are reduced to claymation figures who appear eeeevery so often, and nobody hears from Super Grover, Herry, Barkley, the Two-Headed Monster, Frazzle, or Reporter Kermit anymore. For shame. 

But, if I’ve learned anything in my years visiting the street, it’s that the show continues through the good and the bad. Perhaps the crap Elmo’s World years are just retribution for giving us a few years of a young-and-not-yet-famous Savion Glover to play with before he went off to making Broadway history. 

Still, though, there are a few visible cracks in the pavement that tend to tug at my heartstrings in every episode. I remember watching Maria and Luis fall in love, get married and have their daughter Gabrielle. Now they are two weathered actors whose lines and general fatigue seep through the genuine excitement they still bring to every performance. Seeing the actress who plays Gina as Steve Buscemi’s girlfriend on “The Sopranos” a few years ago and seeing the actor who’s portrayed Gordon as a tiny, voiceless character for four minutes on “Sex and the City” broke my heart in more ways than one. First, of course, because the illusion of these characters I’d watched since I was a child was finally, ultimately snatched away from me at the tender age of 23. Secondly because the budgetary cuts were forcing actors on the most beloved show on television to seek other work. These glaring realities were something I always assumed I was safe from through the ongoing magic of television and any Henson subreality. 

I don’t know; maybe that was “Sesame Street”s ultimate objective. The nurturing of children during their most formative years and then gently setting them afloat in the world with the harsh face of reality? 

Whatever the case, I will continue to watch, attentively, and create these same realities for my daughter where monsters are friends and one’s greatest problem lies in discovering the location of the Letter of the Day. It feels like the alliance I made with the late Jim Henson has now become a winking comraderie, in which I am responsible for continuing his great vision to generations after him. This is a duty I’m more than elated to carry out, no matter how foolish such an idealized reality may seem to my adult eyes.