‘Pronoia’ p.271 #1: Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

To whet you imagination, read an excert from the boast of Eric Baer, a participant in a Brag Therapy session hosted in Milwaukee. “I have opposable thumbs, ” Eric exulted. “I can read. I breathe all the way through the night even though I’m asleep. I have access to emporiums where I can choose from 25 different brands of toilet paper. I know how to turn food into energy. I live where knuckleheads run everything and yet nothing ever blows up.”

NOTE: I’ll be honest, it honestly took me a couple days to muster the gumption to do this exercise. But what the hell? You only live once. Here we go:

I sing rock songs done originally by men so well that I don’t have to pay a bar tab at most karaoke bars, and not just because I don’t drink alcohol. I put brown sugar in my tea which makes it more awesome than usual. I have the prettiest, healthiest, thickest hair of anyone I know - and the color is divine. I was curvy before it was trendy. I can say the alphabet backwards. I have hitchhiker’s thumbs. I have a soul and believe in helping people who can’t help themselves, which means that I may have to sacrifice some of my luxury to do so. Sometimes when I get on a roll I’m funny as shit. I can win debates with about 85% of people and I can level those people with calm, stealthy rhetoric. I’ve sampled more types of chocolate than most people my age. I have unbelievably dark and long lashes. I’ve rung up a $50 tab on sashimi all by myself. I can alternate reading the same 5 books and still remember where I was and what was happening in each of them. I believe in changing energies and the Law of Attraction and perform rituals to do so. I can do the best Ethel Merman impression you’ve ever heard. I can dance like a fiend. I only get about 4 zits every year. I can eat a whole gallon of chocolate ice cream in one sitting. I wrote my first piece of erotica at 12 years old. I can sing every song on Styx’s “Paradise Theatre” and “The Grand Illusion” albums by heart. I’m not allergic to ANYTHING. My child literally uses manners in her sleep because I rock at setting an example. I spoil my friends with presents, even when I can’t afford them. Actually, I love giving people things in general and have been known to make myself broke by making donations to charities, people, bums on the street, etc. I waited until I was totally ready to lose my virginity and, no, I don’t think I was too young and, no, I won’t be upset if my daughter loses hers at the same age. I’m more introspective and proactive about changing my dysfunctions than at least 70% of the rest of the people in the society in which I was raised. My nose piercing has looked the same since the minute it was done - no swelling, no infection, no redness, just adorableness. I’m the biggest ‘Sesame Street’ nerd I know. I have a fantastic alias/nom de plume. I totally pick up on social cues even though I choose to ignore a lot of them. I have five short stories I’ve been working on for a year now. My body magically knew to provide me with too much seratonin and dopamine during my pregnancy as a defense mechanism against my chronic depression. My eyes change color every day. I know how to spell. Every time that I’ve done something that someone else has perceived as psychotic, I’ve been fully aware that that was what was going to happen and I went ahead and did it anyway - sometimes just to freak people out. I’ve never ever cried to get myself out of a ticket. I look adorable in earmuffs, a furry hat, pincurls, dreadlocks, kitty-cat ears and 1950’s style A-line housedresses. I’ve had over 20 diaries and journals since I was 5 and I’ve kept all of them. I know exactly how to be annoying and I can cite the minute it happens with anyone I’m targeting. Oh yeah, and I annoy people I don’t like but have to be around because it’s totally fun and I’m thoroughly amused by it… and because I have to let my inner brat out from time to time. I pwned the 12 Steps and tools of therapy. I’m so irresistable I’ve had to put out not one but two restraining orders on people. I won a multiplication bee when I was in the 3rd grade and, because the teacher preemptively knew I’d win it, she bought me some Sherlock Holmes books ’cause she knew I loved reading them. I’m fully aware when I say things that make me look dysfunctional. I was the only one giggling when I saw both “Titanic” and “The Notebook” (I was dragged) in the theatre. Despite what my high school drama teacher (”facilitator”) said, I got my own paragraph-of-glowing-praise in the public reviews from the only two community theatre productions I’ve ever been in… and in one of those productions I didn’t even speak. I make ideal pancakes. I have over 40 mix tapes and CDs that were made by friends in the last ten years. Oh, and I make arguably better mix CD’s than most people. I saved at least $1,000 by buying all my textbooks from Amazon.com and teaching my family how to do the same. I work every day on self-betterment, even if I don’t have time for it. I didn’t marry an idiot. I have my own desk, my own computer, my own filing cabinet, my own Etsy store, my own three domains and my own two blogs. I get gifts from across the planet every year. I make the most artistically badass scrapbooks I’ve ever seen. I’ve played a 200 year old piano located at Juliette Gordon Low’s house after the tour guide said, “We only let one girl do this every year.” I’m so irresistable I’ve had not one, but three “stalkers” (crazy people who won’t leave me alone and keep calling/harassing me because they’re in love) and have had handfuls of people I’ve heard can’t/won’t/don’t stop talking about me even years after I’ve forgotten them. I live in North Carolina. I know a real enigma. I survived both jr. high and high school. I’m not a bigot. I’m a neo-feminist which means that I can enjoy baking, sewing, knitting, etc without feeling some sort of guilt that I’m backsliding or being a slave to societal patriarchy. I look awesome in red. I also look awesome with purple highlights in my hair. My guitar was given to me by a Grammy winner and Top 40 recording artist. My top half is two sizes smaller than my lower half. I can recite every line in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” The Movie. I’m no longer envious of, threatened by or hateful to beautiful women (and not just because I’ve embraced the fact that they turn me on.) I have a Pick of Destiny. I get more excited about autumn than most [Christian] kids do about Christmas. I’ve never seen an episode of “The Hills”, “Laguna Beach” or “Jersey Shore”. I won/earned a Girl Scout Silver Award before anyone else in my troop did and I earned every Try-It that Brownie Girl Scouts could in the early 90’s. I’ve traveled abroad and have been to all but 15 of the United States. I’ve learned how to cut needy idiots out of my life once they’ve screwed up too many times instead of staying emotionally invested and draining myself for no reason. I stopped biting my fingernails. I have the cutest child on the planet who also happens to be polite, selfless, sociable and giggly. After years of apologizing and making amends for all those years I was a terrible, awful person, I’m finally in the clear and don’t owe anyone anything [for the moment]!!! I had the best wedding I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.

The Bear has gotten to the age where she’s no longer speaking gibberish, which makes communicating with her a completely different experience. Now I actually have to listen to what it is that she’s saying, translate it into an entire sentence, and respond accordingly. (This is important if I want to encourage her language skills. Which, um, I definitely do.) Often, there are times that she’s been saying something for a very long time that I simply cannot understand until she has the opportunity to physically demonstrate it, which has the potential for hours of frustration when she wants so desperately to get her point across and cannot enunciate whatever it is she desires.

So anyway, I thought I’d include a short list of her most frequent vocabulary uses. Many of these she has been using for about 6 months, but about 60% of them were just developed in the last couple months. Also, when the definition has slashes, it means that this word has multiple definitions that are used contextually. Reeeally keeps me on my toes.

Here are the words that actually mean whole sentences:

“Dosdos” ~ I’d like to go upstairs/downstairs now.
“Ewwwwww!” ~ Someone pooted!/I just pooped!/One of the cats just barfed!
(My hubs had an incident where he was just out of the room a couple days ago and heard one of our cats making the “Guh, guh, guh” pre-vomiting noise. There was a moment of silence and then he heard, “EEEEwwwww!”)
“Sjoos?” ~ May I have some juice?
“Muck” ~ May I have some milk?
“Chose?” ~ May I have some Cheerios?
“Kek!” ~ Someone is having a birthday so there must be cake! (She says this during birthday parties even if there is no cake in view.)
“Tekyu!” ~ Thank you! (I have to brag about this one for a minute because she always says it anytime anyone gives her something. The other day I went in to check on her in bed and I pulled the covers up over her while she was sleeping. Barely conscious, she said, “Tekyuuu.” I was so proud.)
“Bye Bye!” ~ This one seems self-explanatory, but she says this when she wants someone to go away, like a needle-wielding nurse.
“Co! Co!” ~ It’s cold! (She always says this while wrapping her arms around herself and making her jaw chatter, even if she’s just describing ice cream. It’s hilarious.)
“Deddee buck!” ~ I want to look at the wedding-photos book you gave Daddy for your anniversary.
“Waigo?” ~ Where did it go? (This is almost always prefaced with a gasp and a palms-up shrug.)
“Cuws” ~ I want to color now.
“Seet seet!” ~ Have a seat next to me.
“Huuuuug.” ~ Pick me up and hold me. I don’t feel well or am tired but won’t admit that. I just want mommy. (Admittedly my favorite.)

Because we’ve been stuck in the house battling bronchitis and lethargy-inducing fevers for the last week, we’ve been subjecting ourselves to a lot of movies. She only has about five she wants to watch ::sigh:: ad naaauseum. Here’s the list:

“Teek!” ~ The Tinkerbell movie or its sequel. She MUST wear her wings (”Weegs!” or “Veegs!” or “Sfy”) and skirt every time we run these movies.
“Pooh” or “Piggit” or “Teega” or “Rabbie” ~ The Pooh Movie
“Doggies” ~ Lady and the Tramp
“Muwmuw” ~ The Little Mermaid (although this isn’t her favorite, much to my chagrin)
“RAAAR!” ~ Monsters, Inc.
“Sessie” ~ Sesame Street OR the “Bare Necessities” Sing Along Songs DVD
“Miggie” ~ The godawful “Disneyland Fun” Sing Along Songs DVD featuring Mickey Mouse
“Piggie” ~ The Muppet Show. I’ll discuss it more later, but “piggie” actually has multiple meanings, which I think is pretty cool.

And then here are just the basics:

“RAAR!” ~ Monster/dragon/dinosaur. (She’s not afraid of any of these. Also, when little boys have tried to jump out and scare her with roars on playdates she giggles at them and then runs after them, doing the same. Awe. Some.)
“Ticky ticky!” ~ Tickles
“Achoos” ~ Tissues (this is one we didn’t teach her but she just started identifying on her own.)
“Cowds” ~ Clouds. (Another we didn’t teach her.)
“Ah-pay” ~ Airplane
“Hawsie” ~ Horsie(s)
“Cows” ~ Cow(s)
“Buds” ~ Bird(s)
“Caw” ~ Car
“Tuck” ~ Truck
“Piggies” ~ Toes/Pigs/Miss Piggy.
“Toes” ~ Toes (she actually recognizes that there are two words for toes and that one is a colloquialism! Coool!)
“POOPP!” ~ Poop. (This is the one word she overenunciates every time. Loudly.)
“Cowck” ~ Clock. (It sounds filthy when she says it out loud. We must remedy this.)
“Cackee”/”Gaggee” ~ Cookie
“Schoo-choo” ~ train
“Kack! Kack!” or “Dack!” ~ duck/goose/swan
“Uggut” ~ yogurt
“Chickychicky”/”Bok!Bok!” ~ Chickens (this is always accompanied with bent-elbow flapping gestures)

I could ramble on for a while about basic vocab, but I think after a while it starts to get mundane (”Doew” = “door”, etc.) But that’s what I have for now. And that’s pretty much all the language I get on an average day. I wish there was a device that people could wear that would translate everything everyone else said into basic toddler language so I could see how they’d do after a week of that. I’m sure their nerves would be as frayed and their sanity as wrecked as mine after just a couple days.

For Christmas and her birthday, the Bear got a tiny tutu and toddler-sized fairy wings from different relatives that just happen to match. Because she’s been sick all week and the weather has been crappy, all she’s wanted to do is wear those two things over her clothes and watch “Tinkerbell” on repeat. Okay, granted it’s pretty adorable, especially when Selena Gomez kicks in with the theme song during the credits and I’m ordered to “Dance! Dance!” along with the tiny spinning blonde fairy in my den. It’s magical and cute and makes me gush over with happy feelings about being a mom and having a little girl and all that mushy gunk I’d hate on anyone else.

However, the cuteness of her attire is wreaking havoc on my already-weak disciplinary resolve. It’s hard enough for me to tell her “No” or to take her away from potentially hazardous things she desperately wants to be entangled in, but this week it’s been particularly difficult, especially when I try to turn off “Tink! Tink!” and get her to do something other than staying glued to the television.

And this week I learned that I’ve never felt like more of a monster than when I have to make a tiny baby fairy cry.

::sigh::

If it wasn’t so pitiful it’d be hilarious.

Dear Facebook Friends,

Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your profile or life in general, but I feel like there are a few social cues to which you’re just not savvy yet, that are really costing you some credibility points. And, since you’ve decided to make these sort of gestures in front of a rather large audience of people you actually know, I thought you may want to be made aware of what your actions are saying. Because I care about you and the public persona you seem to be unaware that you’re maintaining.

Just a couple things:

1) Changing your Relationship Status more than twice a month makes you look insane/unstable/desperate/sad.

We honestly don’t care what the reasoning is behind it, but if you go from “Married” to “Single” to “It’s Complicated” in the course of two weeks, you’re not only going to look unstable but increasingly desperate for attention with every status update. Why on earth would you want everyone you know that you and your significant other are in the middle of a love/hate battle that you can’t seem to walk away from long enough to catch your breath? The answer here is obvious with the amount of “Are you okaaaay?”s and “If you need to talk, I’m here”s that are routinely plastered all over your walls as you cycle through the relationship options. While these people may honestly care about you and your thread-dangling relationship, eventually they’re going to start seeing you as a clamoring charity case, if they haven’t already.

After a while, everyone’s going to start sympathizing with the other party, regardless of their relationship to you, much like if you’re the type to obsessively call an ex and then wonder why he/she’s not sprinting back to you. Dignity has a lot to do with attractiveness, you know. Unless you’re into dating people without standards.

Maybe you should consider saving yourself a little public humiliation for a change. Seriously. Breaking up with someone is hard enough (not to mention doing it three times a month) but broadcasting it to the world isn’t going to make it any better on your self-esteem. It’s really, truly not going to hurt any of us if we don’t know that you and this demon/saint you’re remaining in the vicinity of are taking yet another break for whatever reason. And maybe not announcing to the world that your relationship is in turmoil over and over would give you the self-respect to look at the whole thing objectively for a change.

If this applies to you, perhaps you should consider not publicly mentioning your relationship status unless there’s legal documentation to validate your claim. It’s really for your own good.

2) “It’s Complicated” doesn’t mean anything other than “Bad”*

I’m going to be frank here. Nobody, except for the very close friends that you’d still have if Facebook never existed, cares about your relationship’s backstory. Not anyone. And, again, why would you want to publicly advertise that shit’s going down in whatever makeshift relationship you have? All the options are pretty cut-and-dry, but if there’s not one that fits your immediate case YOU DO HAVE THE OPTION OF LEAVING IT BLANK.

This just goes back to self-respect, folks. The thing about “It’s Complicated” is that it really leaves the door wide open for assumptions. For example, if you’ve been married for a few years and now you’re suddenly in “It’s Complicated”ville, guess what? Now we’re all sitting around going, “Affair? Separation? Murder? Bestial Love Triangle?” which is honestly none of our business in the first place. HOWEVER, by you putting it out there, you’re inviting us to make it our business, get it? And, really, when it comes to people going a-Facebooking, there’s nothing but time for judgment and assumptions. I’d venture to say that’s about 65% of what makes it so much fun. (And if you’re of the “I don’t care what people think” variety, then why are you posting something so private as your relationship status at all?)

All we want, as friends-who-are-good-enough-for-Facebook-but-not-enough-to-confide-in-via-phone-or-email-or-actual-interaction, is for you to tell us when you’re “In a Relationship” and then give us a link to that person’s profile so we can immediately go over and judge them based on their appearance and Interests. That cannot be too much to ask.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Gleefully “Married”,
Castallare

* Sincere thanks to the lovely and brilliant Ms. Jennifer Beane for mentioning this obvious truth and causing me to snort Juicy Juice through my nose while we were texting gossip back and forth for an hour.

Behold, a cautionary tale of the most genuine sort about how faith and visualization sometimes aren’t enough, especially when inexpensive hair dye and inexperience are involved.

Last year, I got a wild hare in my ass after the high of my sudden domesticity came down and I dyed a bright purple streak in my bangs in a sad attempt to save myself from Boringstonville. I adored it, but after six months of fortnightly bleaching and weekly color touch-ups I had to resign myself to the fact that if I did anything else to this small plot of follicles, I would only succeed in enlongating my forehead.

So, I took myself to a real live professional (a rare, raaare occurence for me) who spent TWO HOURS putting stripping treatment on this 6″sq to no avail. She then dyed everything all one color in hopes to obscure the remaining color - again, to no avail.

Six months later, my hair has grown out significantly and it has become apparent that the color it was dyed is notably lighter than my actual hair color. In an[other] attempt to remedy this once and for all, I go for a hair dye in “Dark Chocolate” because it best matches my roots and it’s one of those things I love sporting just as the leaves start to change.

When I am dyeing my hair, I visualize, long, shining, luxurious locks of dark, flowing tresses that mesmerize and seduce. I hope to channel something Megan Fox-y or Catherine Zeta-Jones-y or [perhaps more realistic, if only a little] Kim Kardashian-y.

I am sorely mistaken.

When I was whining about my misfortune to a friend, she asked, “Okay, seriously. How bad is it?” I then relayed to her the story of a visit to a local convenience mart mere hours earlier during which the gum-chewing, brace-laced, dead-eyed minor behind the counter had [relatively] excitedly exclaimed, “Oh, wow! Has anyone told you that you, like, look exactly like Amy Lee? Like, identical.”

My friend didn’t stop laughing for a whole three minutes.

I would vow to remain in seclusion until I can afford another hair treatment (physically or financially) but that would only further the image that I am now one of the pale, mopey, anti-social Goth chick that I loathe so very. very. very much.

At least Halloween is next month.

It’s one of those Fridays where I’m going to share random thoughts. And I’m not in the mood to argue about any of them.

~ I’m going to visit my Gran next weekend. I’m unbelievably excited about this and the chance to watch her interact with Chloe on a one-on-one basis.

Gran’s amazing. She’s one of those women who used to be a beauty queen and still adheres to those standards of beauty, always going to the gym, always worried about her weight (and everyone else’s), never leaving the house without makeup. I kind of hate that trait in anyone else but in Gran it’s so endearing. When we go to the country club, she’s the kind of woman who’ll see her peers (or even women 15 years younger) hunch-backed in 30-years-outdated housedresses and pincurl perms and lean over to slyly state, “I hope I never look like that.” And really, she’s a remarkably beautiful woman, even at 85. She has Christopher-Lloyd-white hair that comes down to her shoulders in soft waves and these bright blue eyes that have slowly lost most of their twinkle in the 9 years since my grandfather died (the man was a dream husband, which is why I get so touched when my Gran tells me my own husband reminds her of him) and the most beautiful, unrestrained laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s totally a pistol but she never diverges from her Southern, dignity-always mentality.

Alright, here’s a ridiculously cool testament as to how remarkably rad Gran has been her whole life: When she met my grandfather, she was engaged to this big Texas oil tycoon and had a rock the size of my face to prove it. Anyway, she was in the beauty pageant for the Greensboro May Day Queen and her escort was a no-show. One of her friends ran over to this group of soldiers in uniform and asked, “Hey, will one of you guys escort my friend?” When she pointed over to Gran, apparently the group was slack-jawed until one little guy from a poor little town in the mountains of NC offered to do it. That was my granddad. Like something out of a movie, she won the pageant (of course) and had Grandaddy walk her home, during which she asked him to take her to dinner (pretty forward for the early 1940’s) When he came back to pick her up that night, he was a little early and she answered the door apologizing for not being ready yet. My cousin did this amazing interview with my grandfather before he passed and recorded the whole thing that he gave to us on CD. On it my grandfather talks about that evening and he closes the story by saying, “When I got to the door, she was wearing her engagement ring, but when she came back downstairs she wasn’t. I remember thinking, ‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

So yes, they were married a year or so later (she wore the dress she wore for the May Day pageant) and they had five kids and he was a wildly successful man who was loved by everyone in his county and they were at the top of their social ladder for manymany years and it was all just splendid and perfect.

But hold on. It TOTALLY gets better. After my grandfather died in 2000, we were kind of worried about Gran but knew she’d busy herself with meeting old friends (she’s been in the same bridge club for 50 years) and going to the gym, etc. In 2005 I was in Australia and was talking to my dad about how Gran was doing and he kind of got this amused tone in his voice and said, “Well, she’s kind of seeing someone.” and went on to tell me about this guy who had been sending her flowers and talking to her on the phone for hours a few times a week and was flying in on his private jet to visit her.

Yeah. That Texan she broke up with 60+ years ago to marry my grandfather called her a few years ago and is still trying to win her over. I hope to God I have game like that when I’m 85. (Although I still wouldn’t date most of my exes even then. This is not up for debate.)

Anyway, that’s Gran. She’s the kind of woman who told me to walk 2 miles and drink one cup of black coffee and one glass of wine for every day I was pregnant. (She also told me that if I gained more than 20 lbs. during my pregnancy, my doc wouldn’t deliver my child. Heh… Old people and their crazy ideas.) She offers beer to everyone who visits, unless it’s still morning and then she’ll offer a Bloody Mary or a Screwdriver.

A few years ago we had this family reunion and before she went on her walk one day, she found me and showed me this headband I’d made for her when I was in the 1st grade. (It was made out of Hot Loops. Remember those things?! And you wove them together using this weird finger-weaving method?) She mentioned that she’d always used it to work out for the last 20-ish years and always thought of me when she did. I was touched.

Later that evening, she and I sat out on the porch talking and watching the ocean. Before she turned in for the night, she mentioned how much she loved talking to me and how she always felt we were kindred spirits. I reciprocated the sentiment and told her how much it meant to me to have a grandmother who loved me so much. To which she replied (and I may never ever forget this as long as I live), “Of course I love you honey. Why else would I have kept that tacky headband all these years?”

Awesome.

~ The fact that Cathy Guisewite still has an active career with national syndication crushes my optimism for the modern human spirit more than anything else in pop culture. At least reality television is deliberately idiotic. Nobody cites the “Cathy” comic as one of their guilty pleasures.
And I’ve never been one of those angry feminists who gets mad about stupid shit. I really only get passionate about important causes like the government getting out of our bodies/relationships and women getting paid the same as men, etc. But why in hell isn’t she receiving hate mail every single day for actively perpetuating these abysmal stereotypes about the overweight, ever-”victimized”, middle-aged woman who’s adept to society and malleable to public influence? Personally, I think it’s worse than anything Hefner of Flint has ever done.

~ You know, I used to think that Peter Dinklage had to be the bravest man in Hollywood. Here’s a man who is incredibly talented and went to the most superficial place on the planet to pursue a career in which he doesn’t use his size as a gimmick. Okay, sure he’s been given roles that were written for midgets but he’s never resorted to stereotypes and cheap sellouts in those roles; he’s always portrayed as a normal person with real emotions and intelligence (Like the literary genius he played in ‘Elf‘ or the Liz Lemon suitor on ‘30 Rock‘.) However, he’s also been given roles in which his size had absolutely nothing to do with the part. For one extremely impressive example, in 2006 he portrayed a lawyer in the true story of Jackie DiNorscio (Find Me Guilty) who, in reality wasn’t/isn’t a small person at all. That, to me, is pretty incredible. So, I’ve been a fan because of his incredible talent, integrity… and smoldering eyes… and deep, authoritative voice… ::shudders with arousal:::

But then I realized that if I was to name the Bravest Actor in Hollywood (and I’m not even going to get into the absurdity of the notion that people “take risks” in roles that require them to be “brave.” Give me an effing break. Yeah, I get the concept behind that, that a poor portrayal might destroy someone’s career or the director’s vision but please… Don’t flatter yourself by acting like you conjured up some deep, ancient courage to play a public figure.) it’d be Steve Buscemi. Hands down. Think about it. That guy looked in the mirror and said, “Yeah, dammit. I’m going to be in films.” And he never got any plastic surgery, he never fixed those crowded teeth, he didn’t change a thing to try to fit into any of the aesthetic requirements of modern cinema. And now look at him! He’s, like, constantly employed and he’s practically a household name. Sure, his roles are limited to the “skeezy” category, but he’s been given the chance to move around in that field during his career. There was “skeezy renegade hero” in the dreadful ‘Armageddon’, there was “skeezy psychopathic killer” in ‘Con Air’, “skeezy drunken black sheep/broken spirited brother” in ‘The Wedding Singer’ and then there was “sensitive skeezy older-man love interest” in ‘Ghost Town’. You really have to admire the versatility there.

So, bravo Buscemi. You’ve shown us that in life you can chase and obtain your dreams if you really honestly believe in yourself. The message isn’t lost on me.

~ The knowledge that people are arguing about health care changes based on the singular fact that they’re too greedy and too selfish to help people who can’t help themselves is disgusting and heartbreaking to me. Alright, I don’t necessarily agree with the health care plans in question at the moment and I know that there are going to be people who take advantage of any system, but the idea that so so many people really believe that poor people or people with disabilities who have no way of improving their situation actually enjoy taking government handouts and being powerless over their lives is just ridiculous. Again, I know those people exist but can’t we give the majority the benefit of the doubt?
(And yes, the knowledge that all these people whining about not sharing and acting like uneducated morons in courthouses are primarily upper-middle class, white, privileged citizens is somewhat embarrassing.)

~ I’ve just sort of gotten into Hunter S. Thompson (I is a late bloomer) and, while I get that the man was a genius and a literary revolutionary and had that sort of Crazy where his thoughts were “out there” but somehow made a lot of sense, but mostly I think he was just an asshole.

The thing is, while I think everyone admires/envies the type of person who says “Fuck society!” and lives by their own agendas and sticks strongly to his convictions of idealism, when it comes down to someone who lives a life proud of his substance addictions and constantly in a state of inebriation (admittedly pretty appealing to some people), no matter how functional he’s able to be in his professional life, he’s still going to carry all the classic traits of an addict. And that’s how it was with this guy. He was unbelievably selfish and manipulative, he had nothing but abusive relationships, he treated his friends and coworkers like shit… it’s really a wonder anyone hung out with him at all after a while. Sure he was revolutionizing the media and I get that guys like Jann Wenner had him around to sell magazines, but I’m kind of astounded that there were enough people who loved him to have written an entire biography constructed exclusively of personal anecdotes from friends. (‘Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson’ if you’re interested)

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

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

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

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

That’s not me, either.

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

Not me.

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

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

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

Again, none of these are my type of awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Table of Contents

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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