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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AND THEN THE EFFING BOTTOM FELL OUT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Last night something really really weird happened and scared the bejesus out of me. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to the sound of a plastic bag rustling somewhere in the house. It was the kind of rustling where you can tell there’s something heavy landing on top of it, so I just assumed it was the cat. And then I noticed the cat was at the foot of the bed. When I leapt up in terror, I woke Greg up, and I quickly convinced him to check out the house while I grabbed the phone and the rubber door wedge and ran into Chloe’s room just in case some shit went down suddenly. (I love my husband, but he’s got a better chance at defending himself against someone big and scary than the Bear does. Don’t judge; it’s first instincts, people!) After ten minutes of exhaustive searching, Greg declared there was nothing to be afraid of and came back to bed. Just after we turned off the light and had laid back down, a bright light permeated the room for a second. I happened to be looking at the window at that moment and noticed that it wasn’t the kind of light associated with lightning or headlights; it was from a close, direct source, almost like a camera’s flash. Greg saw it too and wasn’t fazed, but it was enough to keep me up until sunlight lifted the veil over our little house.

Which is really unfortunate because I have a superimportant interview today with one of the guys that owns like, half of Myrtle Beach to help me get some information for this large project Greg and I are working on (again, check the personal, hidden blog for info on that, if you’re that curious/bored.) and, even though I had to pull some strings to get it, I really want to create the impression that I’m an up-and-comer, confident, independent, intelligent, and able to get shit done without having to ride on coattails. I don’t want him to feel like he’s just having to see me as a personal favor to my dad, I guess is what I’m trying to say and, even though I hate that the world is like this, in the “Good Ole Boy” system of the South, I know I have to work my ass off to get him to take notice more than I would if I was, say, my brother. Needless to say, I’ve worked for the last week researching the shit out of this guy’s EXTENSIVE history with the area, which dates back to the 1950’s when his dad came to town and basically turned it into the massive, sprawling tourist trap you see today. (For the record, this empire owns the classier hotels, restaurants, golf courses in town. Not the crappy neon-clad ones.) So I want to talk to him for the purpose of learning more about marketing to the tourist industry since he obviously knows way more about what visitors to the Strand really want than I do, but I also want to get a little more information about the state of Myrtle Beach’s tourist industry, who the leaders are in it’s development, and what sort of improvement or growth he sees or hopes to see in the future, either through the Chamber (which he’s been on the board of for 25 years) or through the efforts of independent businesses. I feel like this is all valuable info in general. However, he did make mention that he needed a couple new writers for his businesses’ websites so there’s an opportunity for that to be mentioned BUT I don’t want to even hint that I’m there seeking a job. (Although, truthfully, it’s really not important to me one way or another.) So my purpose is to “Wow!” him enough that he’s inspired to offer that sort of leg-up [and any other help] out of his own volition under the impression that I’m “one to watch” and “hold a lot of potential and promise” and worth supporting and all that. Plus, nobody likes a beggar/charity case. Anyway, because I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m afraid that my thoughts aren’t as clear as usual and the luggage racks under my eyes make me look like a meth addict. So there’s that.

In related news, I used to work for this really talented, driven company last year who was all about supporting independent restaurants and delivering daily culinary news to the area without selling out. Although my services as a writer/reporter were no longer needed after September-ish due to economic circumstances, I was still asked to be a sales representative. I spent about three months really working hard on distributing sales packets and following up with potential clients but in January, when my massive wave of depression hit, I dropped everything in my life for about a month, including this deadline-and commission-driven side gig. After a month of not communicating with my editor/boss, I was too embarrassed and too ashamed of my unprofessionalism to check my emails from her, let alone to pick up the phone and face the music by making pathetic, sanity-related excuses. So, instead of acting like an adult, I treated my unprofessionalism with even more unprofessionalism and sufficiently burned a local bridge for no good reason. ::: sigh ::: One would think that, after a few years working the 12 Steps I’d be a little better at facing my major fuck-ups, but this time I retreated back into cowardice and made an ass of myself to one person who really believed in my potential and gave me a start into the professional writing industry. Way to freaking go.

ANYWAY, after sitting around kicking myself for it, I decided not to spend another day perpetuating this Fear and immaturity and so I sat down and wrote her a hand-written letter of apology with sincerity and nothing more. (I never expect this woman to ever trust me with any sort of job again and, frankly, I don’t blame her at ALL. I’m positive I’d do the same thing.) I extended to her an offer to get involved with the project Greg and I are in the midst of [risk and cost-free] on a totally third-party perspective where we basically feature and promote her website as a local perk without her having to do anything in return. (I thought asking permission to use her name would be better than asking for forgiveness in a few months should she find it and decide she doesn’t want to put her name on anything related to me or my work, should I make her efforts look trite and unprofessional by association. Again, I get this mentality given my previous/recent behavior.) I’m still pretty ashamed, to be honest and I’m sure I will be for a while, but at least I’ve done my best with what I could at this point and, according to the Four Agreements, that’s all I can do.

Man. When am I going to learn not to piss on great opportunities? One of these days I’m not going to be blessed with so many second chances and I’ll have nobody to blame but myself and nothing left but regret. I don’t do it nearly as often as I used to (I have a long history of blowing things… um… that sounded wrong…) but still, I do it enough to let it interfere with my life, growth, and general attainment of goals. And that’s not fair to anyone. ‘Specially me.

There’s a lot of fending off Fear in parenting, I’ve found. There’s the fear that they’re going to get sick or very very sick and there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s the fear that they’re going to hurt themselves beyond repair. There’s the fear that they’re going to leave too many stains on the rug of your rental house to get the deposit back…

But, strangely, the biggest fear I’ve dealt with recently is the horror of trying to find a playgroup to join. It’s far past time for Chloe to start socializing and every time she’s been around other kids, I’ve been so proud of her. She’s gentle and generous, she always gives toys to others instead of being That Brat who snatches them away, and she’s always giggling and friendly without invading anyone’s personal space. It’s been great and I’m the idiot beaming with pride and gushing about it later to anyone who will listen. (Like you, dear reader.)

So what’s all the noise about? I don’t know, I’m usually a pretty sociable person, but this whole socializing thing freaks me out on a couple levels.

 1) Leaving my daughter in a Mother’s Morning Out program for three hours with a bunch of strangers makes my heart hurt a little. What if she gets scared? What if she gets ignored? What if some stupid little brat hits her and she just wants her mommy to hold her for a second and let her know it’s okay? Even now when I think about it, my eyes are welling up with tears like I’m some sort of codependent mother with nothing else going on in her world but her baby… But maybe that’s who I am these days… Anyway, identity crisis aside, I’m just nervous and I’m sure I’ll spend the first few MMO’s sitting outside the building watching through the window the whole time like some creepy mommy-stalker.

2) Every group of moms I’ve come across have been a little too Stepford-Wife-y for my taste. (I’m sorry but I’m just not going to wear a sweater set and pearls to a playdate on a playground and I’m definitely not going to fork out $50 at Baby Gap so my kid can ruin it in 10 minutes, just so she doesn’t look like a vagrant in comparison to the other kids.) All superficiality aside, however, I’ve noticed that a lot of women go to two extremes.

First, there are the moms who have dropped everysinglething in their life to devote all their time and energy to their children. Now, while I respect this a lot and hope to do a little of that myself (selflessness is something I aspire to daily), I find it’s hard to build a real connection with these types of moms because they seem so insipid and devoid of any real personality at all. Plus, there’s the absurd parenting notions I’ve run across and the whole judgment thing when I disagree with a method someone else is trying to push on me. Ugh…

Then there is the other end of the spectrum with the moms who treat their kids like accessories. This is incredibly judgmental of me but I think I have a valid reason so just hear me out. These are the parents I hate most of all. It’s one thing to have to work and not be around your children every second of the day, but those parents who don’t have to work and leave their kids with a nanny all day every day just so they can go get their nails done or meet up with friends every day for lunch make me sick. (I do know some of these.) And then there are those parents who work all the time but, instead of spending their off time with the kids, they’re going out every night or having other adults without kids over for dinner to flaunt their progeny like little trophies of accomplishment. The REASON I can’t stand these parents is because I’ve found that, when I talk to them, they kind of look down on my lifestyle of, y’know, getting to know my child on a personal level and being an active part of her early growth and development. They act like this is a foolish or unimportant way to spend my life and I often walk away feeling like I should be ashamed because I don’t put all my energy into my career or having a social life or other upward mobility. (Which I’m not. At all.) It’s more than a bit defeating to be around that sort of eliticism and those undertones of negativity. I don’t want to be around people who act like it’s the norm to treat other humans like side projects or hobbies and expect me to do the same.

So yeah, I have a couple concerns and reasons for trepidation but I know that if I want a kid with personality and the ability to stand her ground, I’m in for a lifetime of exposing her to all the assholes and bitches of the world and I’m just going to have to learn how to deal with their parents as well.

I’m not totally pessimistic though. I have a lot of friends who are really good parents, who have real personalities and are proud of their family-oriented lifestyle. However, most of these friends live too far for regular get-togethers or their kids are not of the age where they would enjoy being around a 17-month old. So, except for the occasional visit, I’m back at square one where flinging myself into what feels like the deep end [but is really the kiddie pool] is an imperative step to take. Soon.

And next I get to worry about her starting playschool in the fall. Jesus, I’m going to have to start asking for Xanax…

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.

*Don’t get scared; it’s just the title to a Smiths song.

My best friend gets sick a lot. And not just little, insignificant sick. And not sick in a series of relapses of one Great Sick that will stick with her forever. Just a lot of various shit comes and wreaks havoc on her body. About once a year, actually. To an outsider, you’d think she was some sort of hypochondriac but the truth is that each health problem she has is actually real. And relatively major.

(I hope she doesn’t mind me talking about this but I think I’m safe considering I’m keeping her name anonymous. This entry may disappear in the future, though, if it causes problems.)

When I first met her some 7 years ago, she had some sort of growth (it has an actual medical name but I can’t remember it right now) on her vocal cord that had to be removed and then the vacant spot had to be filled with a littleteenytiny bit of fat from her tummy. A year later she had a lump in one of her breasts that had to be removed and was tested as just a benign cyst. And then after that she was given an antidepressant that reacted really really badly with her system (trembling, borderline seizures, etc.) so she was hospitalized briefly so they could keep an eye on her while they tweaked medications. Two Christmases ago some drunken bodybuilder gave her a hug at a party and fucked her back up so bad she was confined to bed for a week and had to go to physical therapy. And then some masseuse gave her some sort of new, crazy hippie massage that literally made her knees unusable for a while and she had to go back to physical therapy. She’s also had a handful of other serious problems, but those are of a more private nature, so I won’t go into detail. Suffice to say she’s had a time of things.

It’d be different if she lived a crappy, unhealthy lifestyle, but that’s just not the case. She’s health conscious with what she eats (she was vegetarian for a couple years but had to start supplementing protein because of migraines or something… I can’t remember. Anyway, now she basically just eats fish and veggies and fruit.), she’s into supplements and homeopathic remedies, she sees a therapist and an acupuncturist, she exercises, she doesn’t smoke, she drinks sparingly… these things just kind of come out of nowhere and attack her and it really blows, to be honest.

And every time one of these things happens I’m always at the ready. I’ve called her in the hospital and sent her things to entertain her and I even moved everything out of her apartment at college and transferred it to her parents’ house a couple hours away when a hospital trip ensured that she’d be staying at home for a semester. I don’t immediately retreat into Holy Freakout Mode, but I do tend to worry a great deal and have spent more than one night worried about the outcome of her various illnesses and mishaps.

I got a call from her today as I was coming home from a playdate and was told that she was back in the hospital. After a few days of deafening migraines, she’d gone to the ER to find that she has spinal/viral meningitis. Unfortunately, at the moment she doesn’t know much about her treatment or her prognosis as they’re running a bunch of tests. In the meantime, however, I’m trying not to freak out about the long list of bullshit that meningitis is capable of causing to the 50,000 cases of it treated every year in the US. (Yeah, the girl’s got great odds.) Of course, I’m not freaking out to her and fueling any anxiety she may already be having and I’ve agreed to stay in town and not immediately drive up there until we learn a little bit more about her specific condition. And I’m sending out good, loving vibes and trying to stay positive but, goddamn it. When is she going to get a fucking break?

I don’t know; maybe God’s trying to toughen her up for something major in the future. Or maybe she’s just getting it all out of her system now. Or maybe her [un-freaking-believable] gifts with metaphysics are causing her to be somewhat of an amplified empath.

And, whatever the case, it won’t help anything for me to sit around churning out anger and frustration toward her rotten health-related luck, but I needed a second to just sit around and be pissy and whiny about it. Mostly because I’m worried and I hate this powerless feeling that I feel like I’m getting used to because of the frequency of her health problems. And then I’m pissed because I’m getting used to the powerless feeling and that that means that this is happening way more frequently than even reasonable. I’m not saying it would be better if she had something like cancer that kept coming back over and over, but it would at least be something she could watch out for and have consistent expectations of. It just seems like the Universe is flinging her a bunch of physical wild cards that she has to struggle to even make sense of before she can begin treatments. It seems a little cruel, to be honest. And that, too, pisses me off.

So yes. I’m pissy. And that’s what this entry is all about. And I’m sorry if reading this was a total waste of time.

But mostly I’m just really really worried. I’m worried about this particular diagnosis, sure. But I’m also worried about whatever’s inevitably coming for her next and how long she’s going to be able to jump all these annual hurdles. I don’t want to see her get worn down and start losing momentum when she has to duke it out with her health complications. That - aside from the unmentionably-bad worst outcome to health problems, of course - is what I’m worried about the most.

I just want my friend to be okay. And stay that way for a while. I don’t think that’s too tremendous of a wish.

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.

(Note: This entry is explicitly graphic and disturbing. The names and identities of those involved have been obscured but the events described are unfortunately very real. If you want to avoid unbelievably heartbreaking emotion that has potential to ruin your mood and outlook on humanity, I’d advise against reading any further.)

I shouldn’t have looked for answers. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.

I’ve written to a woman in prison for a while. This troubles my husband because he feels it puts our lives in danger somehow, even though I’m writing to her under a penname. I’ve assured him that the woman isn’t looking for monetary donations (one of the only reasons I chose to correspond with her versus other inmate applicants), she is in custody miles and miles from here, and, besides, she is sentenced to life in prison without a chance for parole.

I enjoy speaking with her for a number of reasons. She is engaging and optimistic and brilliant. She loves to talk about literature and philosophy and I always enjoy hearing her perspectives on hope and optimism, given the circumstances of her life. She is by no means a hero to me but, for someone who has a tendency toward contemplating giving up in her darkest moments, it is helpful for me to hear what inspires people to keep going when, to an outside observer, it would seem that she would have nothing left to live for. She loves to talk about her children and has illustrated to me the various hardships in her life that contributed to her enormous pile of mental anguish and regrets. As I promised in my first letter, I have never discussed with her the conditions of her incarceration or the cause for such an extreme sentencing.

I sensed that this was a horrible idea when the Google bar filled in the rest of her name before I’d even finished typing. Clearly what this woman had committed had not gone unnoticed by the media. In shock, I read dozens of the stories printed years ago regarding her crime and sentencing, hoping they weren’t true but realizing that everything lined up her descriptions and the facts described by the press. I had hoped that this woman had committed something that I could at least understand, something I could possibly sympathize with if only from a very far distance. I knew that a woman who was sentenced to life in prison indicated that she had done something very very bad, I just did not see this one coming.

She has told me about her first marriage to an older, wealthier man and how this ex-husband was abusive toward her and her two children. What she did not tell me was that, when he was awarded sole custody of their third child, a 3-year-old boy, she took a .12 guage rifle and shot the toddler in the head while he was watching television.

I couldn’t stop sobbing. Immediately I ran to where my daughter was playing on the living room floor and cradled her in my arms, whispering, “I love you. I will never let anyone hurt you.” while she struggled to return to her toys. I tried to explain to my husband why I was so heartbroken, I found I was unable to say the words out loud to tell him what this woman I was in correspondence with had done to her own child.

According to police accounts, she had called the paramedics immediately after it had happened and, after sobbing in hysterics for hours, had gone into complete shock after the incident. A modern day Medea, she was unable to talk about what she had done but nodded her head as a formal confession in the interrogation room. She sat through trial and went to prison without speaking a single word other than to answer the questions of her prosecutor. She never resisted her arrest, her sentencing, her fate.

Now comes the part where I am torn and at an obvious moral empass. My immediate reaction is to cease communications with this woman altogether, horrified and heartbroken at the actions she was capable of in her past. My first instinct is always to recoil from those whose actions I find unforgivable and disgusting, to judge them as a person unfit for any hope or compassion from anyone, whose life is not worth living.

However, all the great leaders that I claim to admire so adamantly advocated and practiced a lifestyle that was completely different. Jesus proudly walked with prostitutes, thieves, drunks and other sinners that society shunned and had no value for. The Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, and Gandhi spoke about forgiveness and compassion toward every living thing, no matter their evil intentions or actions. In one of my favorite quotes, Mother Teresa proclaimed, “”People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Love them anyway.” These are all people whose lives and actions I admire and hope to emulate. I recognize that they acted from Love and not Fear, something I constantly talk about practicing every day. What sort of giant hypocrite would I be if I blatantly, consciously made the decision to act in opposition of this mentality? I realize that I am not Jesus or the Dalai Lama or any of these other earth-moving humanitarians; I may never have the inner peace, strength and faith that they stand for and I probably will never change and influence the world as much as any of them. But I cannot feel anger and despair toward the Fear-based habits of society and people as a whole if I am only perpetuating these actions. This is the one aspect of humanity that I do have control over, that I can change and push things forward with. I would be betraying my beliefs entirely and working against the progress I wholeheartedly desire if I was to deny the responsibility and privilege I have of contributing to forward motion and progression.

This, of course, comes as the Universe’s immediate retaliation for the smug judgment I admitted to in my previous blog entry. Although I consciously knew it at the time and had even admitted to my flinging humility by the wayside to feel superior to women whose Crazy was ruining their lives, I knew, also, that I am not ever the ultimate Judge of any one person’s life or worth. Today’s new information was the grounding smack in the face I needed. No matter the level of Crazy that someone else is capable of, no matter how horrible and unfathomable their actions may be, no person is any less deserving of Love and compassion than I. If I believe that every human has the potential to be a tool and messenger for God, then I have to allow myself to share that with people, too. I don’t believe that I as a person have the ability to save anyone’s soul or change anyone at all, nor do I have the capacity to ultimately forgive someone for their actions or lifestyle. But, because I recognize Spirit as a Higher Power who works through everything he’s created, I have a responsibility to practice Love as a representative of His power and creation. This, I believe, is our role as people in accordance with the world and its inhabitants.

So, fighting this horrified Fear that consumes me, I will continue to write this woman who is a brutal murderer of her own child. Her actions terrify and repulse me and fill my heart with grief and fear, but I am not the Judge of her worth and I owe it to myself and everyone around me to suck up some humility and realize that. I will continue to treat her like a person who deserves hope and optimism, whose life is worthwhile and capable of rehabilitation, who is loved and valued by a Higher Power. I will work to speak with her as I’ve always done and find positive, redeemable potential characteristics in her and I will work every day not to recoil and misrepresent my core beliefs because of my own selfish Fear and desire for judgment.

But Jesus… When the Universe has a hard lesson for me/my growth, it pulls out every fucking stop to knock me on my ass. I don’t know if I can deal with much worse just yet. It’ll make me think twice about opening my big mouth so brazenly.

There is something very wrong with my baby today.

Usually, she is awake before us, playfully singing and babbling to her stuffed animals. When I enter her room she is standing at the edge of her crib and greets me with a jubilant “AAAAHHH!!” She is immediately energized and excited to greet the world, screaming gleeful greetings to her father, the cat, her breakfast, the ducks outside our window. She dances at the theme songs to reruns while I catch up on email or start on a load of laundry and she runs around the house creating excited chaos until she crashes for a nap, anywhere between 11 am and 2 pm. This is how I’ve seen her every day since she was about three months old. 

Today, however, she is eerily different. I went in to wake her at 8:30 and she looked at me lazily, turned back over and attempted to go back to sleep. When I picked her up, her little body collapsed against mine and any time she tried to move her little limbs trembled as if she was cold. I took her temperature, changed her diaper and took her into my bedroom where she curled up next to me on the bed and slept until about 10:45, when my patience gave out and I decided I had to do something. 

We turned on “Elmo’s World” (the sacrilegious last 20 minutes of “Sesame Street” that are now monopolized by the overrated red monster) which usually ignites her enthusiasm and pushes it into a complete frenzy of excitement but, today, only saw her staring at the television as if in a state of lethargy. She managed to take two whole bottles, but refused food and is now laying back in her high chair, staring blankly at the television with her head slumped over to the side. She doesn’t reach for the Cheerios on her tray, she doesn’t acknowledge the curious invasion of the cat within her personal space, she doesn’t respond to any of my smiles or attempts for conversation (which we do have, actually.)

A part of me is terrified that she’s somehow suffering from a bout of infant depression, which I realize sounds ridiculous except that her actions are so similar to mine when my mental illness is going full force. 

I’ve been chased by a wild animal down a mountain of a national park. I’ve been in social situations where I was more than positive that I was going to be very harmed or worse. I’ve experienced dark paranormal activity. I’ve been dangerously close to death (although this was of my own volition at the time.) And yet I’ve never experienced terror as severely as I do when there’s something wrong with my daughter. 

Once, when she was about eight weeks old, she woke up in the night panicking and struggling to breathe. I leapt to my feet from a deep…

A half hour later.

Holy shit. As I was typing, Chloe suddenly pushed herself to a sitting position and forcefully vomited across the kitchen floor. She immediately collapsed back onto herself and looked as though she was going to pass out. She is resting now in her crib (I’m checking on her maniacally) as I’m scouring WedMD and sitting on hold with the doctor. While she may just have a stomach bug,  I’m terrified she’s going to become dehydrated. 

Fuck. I’m scared.