As aforementioned, I’d have a problem making money off my friends over something like silly guerrilla art, so I’m selling the not-really-infamous “This Is Ugly” stickers at wholesale prices for anybody who wanders onto this link. (I can’t actually afford to just give them away yet. Sorry.)

Speaks for itself, really.

I’ve even set up a little PayPal store to make life easy on you. (Prices include shipping, which is why the math is all weird.)

It’s right here!

AND REMEMBER!!! These stickers are NOT to be placed on any person or animal. Everything else is fair game. Everything. Anything.

Dear Allison,
At church today, an elderly woman stood during the “Joys and Sorrows”-sharing part of the service to tell the community about her sorrow, which was that she was unable to be by her “best friend in the world’s” side as her friend’s life was coming to a close on the other side of the country. She told us this, then took a moment to look to the side before blurting, “…I don’t know what I can do… or what I’m going to do…” and then turning to light a candle. Meanwhile, I buried my face in my hands to hide my now-convulsive sobs; I wanted nothing more than to intercept the woman with an embrace as she made her way, deflated and burdened, to her seat. Without thinking it, I realized that that woman may one day be me and I may be talking about you.
And then I thought, “God, I hope I die before Allison does so I never have to live without her.”
And then I remembered how much you fucking loathe that Winnie the Pooh quote about him wanting his friend to die a day after him so he doesn’t have to live without him and what a selfish douchenozzle move that is to wish on a friend – that they’d spend their last day in total misery because their BFF just died AND they’re slowly dying. And then I started giggling about how that sort of thing pisses you off enough to make one of your rare rants about it.

We met ten years ago to this week, by the way.

I’m sure you’ve realized in retrospect that you met me at the exact moment I reached the precipice of my freefall into unfuckingimaginable insanity/destruction after years of a slow-but-consistent descent in prologue. Really, the fact that we were still friends within a year of meeting each other is miraculous in itself because HolyLordballs, was I busy losing my damned mind.

I have a confession I never actually verbalized to you: you were my Bright Spot then. I remember meeting you and going to your dorm room and seeing this art that you’d created just because you wanted to make a prettier space for yourself (wha?! I didn’t know people did that! I thought people made art to show it off to each other or because their art teacher assigned it or because they wanted to submit it to something and get “famous”) and you sang songs that you’d written for your own amusement and you were this completely self-actualized, energetic being in a world of idiots (read: me) who were flailing around trying to leech energy off anything they thought was “cool” or “important” at the time and it was an unbelievable state of mind to encounter from where I was. Because, most of the time, when there’s someone who is somehow “above” the mentality of their peers, he or she has to have some sort of following or need to declare their mental/spiritual/artistic superiority to everyone else – especially if that person has been recently liberated from the confines of high school. But not you, dude. You just sort of did what you did and you liked what you liked and you were completely oblivious to the fact that you weren’t just “different”, but really, genuinely, special. (And not “special” like our generation’s everybody’s-special-in-their-own-snowflake-way “special”, but special like holy-shit-she’s-going-to-change-lives-and-do-shit-that-bends-reality special.) I’m not saying that either one of us knew what, exactly, you were supposed to do with all that “special”-ness at that point in the game and, you know, you’ve had a bit of a learning process with it, but I still knew then. Even though at the time, I was busy being either a)completely obliterated or b)completely absorbed in that disgustingly destructive relationship I was enamored with, I still recognized the energy we had together, even when people around us did not. (And still don’t, I think. I’m okay in the idea that we confuse people, though.)

ANYWAY. I don’t wanna bore you with a wordy scrapbook of memories ’cause, you know, we’ve talked about them to a masturbatory degree. (The only people who love talking about how awesome their situation is more than we do are Burning Man attendees…)
But, after a decade, I’m convinced that there has to be something Bigger going on here than two weirdos having befriended each other in a bullshit theater class. (Seriously. That class was buuuulllshiiiit. “Constructive Rest Position”? Learning to tremble? Bite my ass, Jermaine.)

You loved me when I hated myself so much I literally tried to murder myself. You have loved me when I let my demons reject you from my life. You have had that same delusional faith in me even when my life was nothing more than rolling out of my bed at my parents’ house and driving to the technical college up the road in my pajamas day after day because I’d failed at literally everything else. When I told you I was pregnant by some dude I’d been dating for 3 months, (less than a year after my second mental hospitalization, ohbytheway) your immediate response was to exclaim “CONGRATULATIONS!” and send me a bouquet of my favorite flower (lilies) the next morning, even though everyone else around me provided me with silence and fear for the next month. You have cheered me on from the sidelines, even when you were literally my only enthusiastic fan and you have never once shown any doubt that I wasn’t the person you’ve been trying to convince me that I am, even though I’ve done things to contradict that hypothesis many, many times.

Even though the noises in my mind sometimes get too loud for me to focus, I want you to know that I have never stopped loving you just as much. I cried every night you slept in the hospital and, aching with powerlessness, leapt at the chance to cram all your necessities (read: record player, paints) into my Jeep from Greensboro to Charlotte. I blew all my money from that coffee-shop job of mine for those monthly (sometimes fortnightly) treks up to Asheville to see you and I never once hesitated to plaster your art all over my dwelling space the minute it was given, in any form. I made sure to practice singing along to the more obscure PJ songs so I’d know all the words for the “next time” we got to see them perform (it totally worked!) I have always continued to talk to Chloe about you and show her pictures so she wouldn’t forget her godmother between the times she got to see you.

But I am, by no means, unaware that I’ve dropped the ball a lot and, when looking at this friendship and identifying its role within my life from this vantage point, I can’t help but feel the deepest regrets for the times I’ve let you down – you more than with anyone else I’ve ever disappointed. (Don’t tell my mom.) Dismissing your declining health and its symptoms (and understandable insecurity of those symptoms that compounded them) as “selfishness”, I pulled myself away from you and cut you off completely, in the name of “self-preservation”, instead of bothering to find out what, exactly, was at the root of your uncharacteristic actions. In my heart, I knew better, Allison; I know you better than to assume you’re just another brainless, unaware victim of self-absorbed-twentysomething-ism… why didn’t I do more? Why didn’t I stop to look deeper? Why didn’t I at least recognize that you weren’t being yourself – that something was obviously hurting you? I don’t know, Allison. I’ve spent hours of time wondering to myself what the hell kind of mental state I could’ve let myself get to in which I would completely ignore the “you” I inherently know and then regard your disease as your Self so much that I’d turn my back on you entirely. This time spent has only caused me insufferable pain – pain that worsens when I contrast my actions with the ones you’ve made when the roles have been reversed. As a friend, by comparison, I have been a selfish coward whose actions haven’t supported all those rambling speeches about your greatness I’ve made over the years. I don’t know why I have ever betrayed your trust or love when you have never once been disloyal to me, but I do know that I may never forgive myself for it. It’s just another testament to your wonderfulness that you somehow have, as always, seen that these actions aren’t indicative of my real Self and have forgiven me. Additionally, you have never once held me hostage for my shortcomings… Don’t think I don’t always carry those truths with me.

I always say that Chloe was The Thing That Saved My Life, but you need to know that YOU have constantly been The Thing That Makes Me Better. You bring out something in me that makes me a totally different person than the one I always thought I was; the energy I get when you’re around makes me love being alive and love being present and love being creative and fucking LOVE being myself. That sounds inane and melodramatic and really, really adolescent, but it’s true; you make me really happy to love the things I love. (“I JUST LOVE THE STUFF I LOVE!!!”) Just like I’d always kept my burning passion for Pearl Jam stuck in my pocket until I met you and let it reignite like crazy ever since, you’ve been the one to give me permission to really hurl myself at my loves, regardless of how idiotic they look to everyone else. You’re the one who lets me ramble for hours about Jim Henson/“Sesame Street” and who wants to watch “Tommy” 4,000 times to blabber about its nuances with me and you’re the one who will introduce me to new stand-up comedians or let me subject you to them and then dissect their genius for years upon years and you’re totally okay with spending Bear’s naptime just hanging out, smoking a hookah, drinking a shitload of Cheerwine, watching/running commentary during “Gia” and giggling about how fabulous it all is after making freshly-picked-strawberry-jam and you’re the one who gives me confidence to submit my writing to other people when I think it’s not terrible and you’re the one who gave me the balls to actually put that first stencil to use tagging various landmarks by immediately shouting “YES! LET’S DO IT!” and you’re the one who fucking laughs her ass off when I make a joke that I think is pretty good. You’re the one (many times the only one) who encourages me to not only figure out exactly what it is that I am, but to get really good at being that thing and then showing it to other people, when you will cheer loudly about it. Jesus Christ! Just writing that makes me feel unworthy.
Oh, but oh yeah! AND you’re able to do all of this cheerleading while also going out and seeking your own identity and truth and rocking at that, too.
DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THAT IS!? Do you have any idea how fucking lucky I am to have found the aforementioned person AND that that person hasn’t totally given up on me yet AT ALL EVER (maybe because she’s insane, but I’m okay with that)!?!?!?! Because I don’t. I literally cannot conceive the odds of finding someone as special as you, having you come into and stay in my life for this long, and giving me all the gifts you have (and not just because I’m terrible at math…)

So, yeah. I just wanted you to know that I thought about all this today in church and realized that I’ll be talking about you still if I make it to 70 years old. And I realized that I would literally peel the skin off my back and sew it into a greasy, bloody skin-shirt for you if you absolutely needed it [in some post-apocalyptic, dystopian reality where that would somehow be crucial for survival.] (That sort of plot-hole is why I don’t write sci-fi.)
And I hope you know that everything I’ve ever said about your energy and vibrancy and incredible talent is the truth and is one of the rare, few things I Definitely Believe In. And I hope you know that I love you and have loved you no matter what my slow-to-adapt mind has convinced me of. I feel like you know these things, but I also felt like I needed to state them plainly and in print, where they could be cited and referenced.
More than anything, though, I’m so grateful that you’ve been such a definitive part of my last ten years. I don’t want to say anything hokey or forecasting about the future because that always seems to backfire for morons (ex: “Hope I die before I get old” – P.T.), but do know that these last ten years have been wonderful (even when they were fuckinggoddamnawfully terrible) because you have been in them.

Thank you so very much, Allison. Even if all our inside jokes and all our co-creations and all our memories and all our shared loves were suddenly stripped away from my conscious mind, I would still love you and everything you inherently are. I promise.

Right behind you,
L P-S

I’ve started penning my own eulogy. And I genuinely enjoy it.

Okay, right there I’ve come across like some zitfaced emo kid who’s obsessed with death and crying out for attention because all the girls just want to be friends and his dad is never home to play catch with him but I swear that’s not even close to where this is going. Just hear me out. I’m not dying, I’m not planning on dying, I don’t have a feeling like I’m going to be dying soon and I honestly don’t even think about death that often at all. I’m not going through another depression, either. I promise. In fact, everything is really wonderful right now.

But, since I’ve had my daughter, I’ve had to start taking into consideration that I’m probably not going to be on this physical plane forever and I’ve had to make arrangements to accommodate her needs once I’m no longer around – something that I really hope doesn’t happen until I’ve had a chance to travel the world with her and my husband. (Being a “grown up” means having crappy responsibilities like making game plans for after your demise. Gross.) Since I have nothing but a guitar given to me by a Grammy award winner/Broadway star and some jewelry to leave to her, my legal list of post-mortem gifts is pretty short. My list of demands for my carcass’s maintenance is equally short, merely requesting that it be cremated and disposed of somewhere pretty and non-urban. (And if anyone spends money on a piece of furniture and a hole to plant me in, I will haunt them in the most annoying ways possible, every day of their remaining lives. The same goes for anyone who puts an “In Memory Of” sticker on their car for me or puts flowers on the place where I bit it – roadside accident locations, etc. – or posts their sentiments on my Facebook wall instead of sending my family a note or pairs my name with the abbreviation “RIP” in any forum. I’m not even kidding. I’ll go through poltergeist training and wreak some Spielberg-quality havoc.)

And then I started thinking about funerals and getting weirded out. The whole idea of everyone getting together and crying over my remains (hopefully ashes at that point) and saying nothing but great things about me and acting way more reverent than they ever would in my presence just seems so incredibly pretentious and phony. Not to mention a total drag.

But what I hated the most about the idea of my own funeral/memorial service is the idea that I wouldn’t actually have any active part in the affair and, to be blunt, I’m not cool with that. If we’re going to sit around and talk about my life, I wanna be able to chip in a couple sentiments, too. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

Now, a while ago I penned a letter to the Bear to tell her everything I want her to know in case I don’t get a chance. I’ve also written one to each of her potential caregivers, to relay a couple principles I desperately want my child to grow up with. I also rarely go a year without telling everyone in my life how I feel about them and I’m just one of those bothersome people who always has to come right out and say whatever it is that needs to be said so I never have to say “I should’ve told them when I had the chance.” (This makes me look unbelievably creepy and socially inept at times, by the way, as I’m often one who confronts old classmates with weird things like “Hey, remember that time you stood up for me in the 7th grade? I still remember that. It meant a lot. Thanks.” See? Creepy.) So, in writing my own eulogy, I’m not going to make it a big production of public gratitude like I’ve won an award or something – I’m dead, not taking home the SAG statuette for Best Supporting Actress.

I just want to be part of the party. I want to share memories and laugh about times I royally screwed things up and relate insane adventures I found myself a part of and talk frankly about my life, hopefully as a means to invite others to do the same. I’m not going to make it very long; I’m not about to make people sit through what I should’ve made a memoir, if I was really so intent on rambling about myself for long stretches. But I do want to have fun with it – I might make stuff up, just to see if anyone catches on and giggles – and I want it to make those who cared enough to congregate glad they did.

Actually, I’d really like the whole event – no matter the size – to be a celebration. I want one of my friends to sing Tenacious D’s “Dude, I Totally Miss You” and I want a New Orleans jazz band to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” at the end and I want everyone to wear anything but black and bring a covered dish for a potluck picnic afterward. (Ideally, I’d have enough money to leave behind to throw an actual bash with an ice cream bar and sushi and elephant rides and an 80′s cover band and bellydancers and hoopers and karaoke and a screening of “Amelie” and a bluegrass jam session, but I don’t want my family to have to deal with caterers and party prep, so I’ll just leave behind those four initial wishes and let them go from there.) I want it to be irreverent and I want people to talk about me realistically and I don’t want people to waste money sending me flowers (because I’m freaking dead. Hello? No olfactory senses in the afterlife.)

But, mostly, I just want to be able to share one last event with my loved ones and to be able to candidly reflect on my life and who I was as a person, since we’re already having a party all about me anyway. And, honestly, I’m not sure why more people don’t do that. I mean, I know it sounds a little conceited to want to be one of the ones that heaps praise on yourself but, if the topic of conversation is YOUR life, why shouldn’t you be allowed to give your $.02? And isn’t it a little conceited to want to sit back and let loved ones (and sometimes a preacher/rabbi they’ve never even met) stand in front of a crowd and tearfully glorify you as a flawless human being? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want people getting up and bringing up every single one of my faults and saying I was a horrible person (why would you go to a horrible person’s funeral anyway?) but I don’t want people who knew me painting me to be some perfect saint that I just wasn’t; that’s kind of gross, actually… and disrespectful as that sort of artificiality is something my whole life/self is opposed to. So, in writing my own eulogy, I’ll be able to set the tone of conversation and loosen people’s reservations (and make those who are obligated to be there and lean on the more reverent-and-conservative side reeeeally uncomfortable, which will also be entertaining.)

For me, writing my own eulogy isn’t about trying to take over the reins or clamor for power over a situation in which I ultimately have no control. It isn’t going to be a means of making a mockery of death or the traditions of memoriam, nor will it be about undermining or belittling the ways my family chooses to deal with my passing. I’m not doing it to rebel or buck tradition or make people uncomfortable.

Writing my eulogy is not only an attempt to act as a welcoming hostess/emcee for the gathering and to put at ease the wonderful people who were kind enough to come; it’s mostly a way for me to be a part of the conversations that will verbally sum up my time here on Earth and, frankly, I think it’s my responsibility to define my life, instead of leaving it up to someone else. Obviously, I can’t control how I’m remembered or what people think of me, but I owe it to myself (at least) to state and rejoice in my reality and identity, no matter how minuscule they may be in the grand scheme of things. Those are the only things I can ever truly call my own and I feel that the only person who can genuinely memorialize them is me. I can’t say what my life was or wasn’t to anyone else, but I don’t think it’s crossing any lines to proclaim what it was to me, for myself. In fact, I think it’s necessary.

Obviously, I’ll have to update this eulogy every so often, as it will have a bit of a shelf life and my perspective will hopefully continue to grow and shift as I age but, even then, I think summing up one’s own existence from time to time might be an incredibly healthy practice. Stepping into the role of “objective third party” and taking a look at my life as though the story is complete has been an amazing way to take personal inventory. If I’m disappointed with the storyline, I realize the need for change. If I’m happy with parts of the story, I’m reminded to take some time to express gratitude for all of it. I know it may sound sick and twisted but writing my own eulogy is a mental exercise I really benefit from, so long as I do it every few years and not obsessively. (Although I can’t imagine being obsessive enough about my life that I’d want to write a new one every week.) It gives me a chance to step back and look at the Big Picture and what’s really important versus what really isn’t going to matter in the end.

So, yeah, it sounds a little Emily Dickinson and it really freaked my husband out when I told him about it, but it’s something that seems a little common sense-y to me, now that I’ve had time to think about it. Why wouldn’t everyone want to be part of the greatest, most definitive celebration of their own lives, even if only through shared words and memories? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

“I feel like there’s something wrong with you.” One of my dearest of friends started one of our quarterly conversations with this sentiment.

I was quick to assure her that I was fine, if not wonderful. Really. “No! We’re great! I just spent a month vacationing with friends and family and we’re getting ready for Burning Man and the Bear is at a really fun age and we’re good. Seriously, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well, I hope you don’t get mad at me but I really think you need to hear this and I feel like you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed and I think being a good friend is telling someone the truth and I want to be a ‘good friend’ instead of just an acquaintance…”

Crap.

“Every time I see a picture of you or visit you, you’re wearing the same outfit and it’s starting to make me sad.”

It was true. I’ve always been one of those people who finds something she likes and just clings to it. Usually said article is extremely comfortable and somewhat flattering (although this wasn’t necessarily the case for the wood-and-leather clogs I wore every day in high school, but was certainly at least halfway true for the cargo pants I wore during that era…) This has gotten much worse in the last three years, however, as my life has become completely based on sitting around the house with a small child.

See, I have this great wrap skirt that I bought a few years ago at a hippie store called Loose Lucy’s. It’s lime green, flowy and doesn’t constrict when I’ve had a little too much to eat on vacation. I wore it through my pregnancy because of its expandability and will wear it around the house year-round because of its incredible comfort and versatility. Usually, I pair it with a light lavender t-shirt that’s fitted and comes down below my waist, giving me a fantastic hourglass shape while obscuring my little bit of loosened-by-pregnancy skin with a great big stencil-type graphic. This outfit is comfortable without being trashy, versatile and casual and cute and bright and easy. I love it. And, so, in my typical fashion, I wear it a lot.

But, unlike before, I can now get away with wearing clothes more than one day, so, I usually take advantage of that, safe in the knowledge that the only people who will see me are my husband, my daughter, and strangers in the grocery store. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, so who cares if I throw it on two days in a row; as long as it doesn’t smell, it’s fine, right?

At this point, the ensemble is loaded with holes. The skirt’s ties have had to be reattached at least twice. There are bleach stains from when I spilled cleaning solution one day while scrubbing the tub. I know, it looks rough but, again, I figure nobody’s going to see me in it so who cares? It’s really become more of a functional uniform than what one would call an “outfit”. And, really, I’m fine with that.

But my friend – the dear, wonderful one – recognized this as a cry for help. A mother of three, she told me about how, when her children were born, she would throw on a pair of black overalls over clean underwear and a fresh shirt every day, believing – like me – that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She told me about how, slowly, this subconscious idea that she wasn’t important [or doing anything important] enough to care for on a daily basis started to become a belief and how it moved her into a rut that affected her whole life, causing her to stop caring about things that really mattered and falling short of her personal standards. And she told me she was worried about me because she saw me slipping into that based on my self-maintenance and didn’t want me to have the same mental experience she did.

I was floored. First of all, I see this friend about once every two years and talk to her about 4-5 times a year, usually after months of “I swear we’ll catch up soon!” We’re the types of friends who can go for ages without talking but can pick right back up where we left off and know that, if something awful is happening, the other one is there. (Pretty good for a friend I made while exchanging sarcastic commentary from the back row of a Shakespeare class. We were like Statler and Waldorf with boobs.) So the fact that she was perceptive enough to observe this habit of mine over photos I posted on Facebook and stop to consider that this may be a sign of something deeper says a lot about how much she cares. My heart hurt with gratitude.

Still, she couldn’t stop apologizing and justifying this sartorial intervention. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch, Liz. I just hope to god that if I started dressing in the same thing every day like a crazy person, you’d tell me. You’re too pretty to do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

About a month ago, I had another one of my best friends call me and tell me we “needed to talk.” She was busy with other things all day so she couldn’t talk until 9 a.m. and I spent all day going nuts, trying to think of what it could possibly be that I’d done wrong. Later, on the phone, she gently explained to me that, for some reason, when we get out in public, I tend to get really judgmental and I cross the line with my jokes a lot. I also really hurt her feelings during these times.

I felt like shit. Not only did I have absolutely no idea that I was doing it at all but I had no idea where these sorts of things would even come from. This is one of those friends that I’m so nuts about that I constantly joke about how I sound like I have a fangirl crush on her and how I feel like she’s way out of my league as a friend. In my whole life, I’ve never had a friend who stuck with me and was so good to me as this one and I was sickened and heartbroken by the idea that some stupid, completely unconscious side comments would make her doubt her inherent awesomeness for even a second. (I know, I sound totally worship-y but she’s really, genuinely a great person. Ask anybody.) I was disgusted with myself on a really deep level.

The thing was, though, that this had apparently been going on for a really long time and, because she knew that I really do love her, she’d never said anything until now, figuring that I didn’t mean it (which is true, although that doesn’t make it acceptable.) And, instead of just saying, “You know what? You turn into a real bitch when we’re out in public and really suck as a friend. I’m done here.” she came to me and told me about it in a rational, straightforward tone and said, “I know you don’t mean it and I have faith that you’ll work to change it.”

I don’t mean to sound completely conceited or self-servicing but, frankly, that’s perhaps one of the greatest compliments a friend could give to another, I think. Valuing someone’s companionship enough to want to keep them around despite their shortcomings is one thing but believing in your friend’s ability to become a better person enough to point out a major character flaw? That shows an incredible amount of respect and faith in my rose-colored book. And, naturally, it makes me want to meet that set of standards for a friend who obviously cares a great deal about me. Those types are rare; I can’t afford to mess that up just from being a stubborn idiot.

I know looking at criticism as one of the greatest blessings in my life is a little weird and may make me sound like a glutton for punishment but I’m sure I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to keep friends around who are hypercritical and constantly tearing down my character or holding me hostage over my flaws, but having friends who believe that I deserve to be a better person than I am and gently demand that I try harder? I don’t think many people have that sort of luck.

So, yes, I’m throwing away the skirt and the shirt. Because someone loves me enough to tell me not to dress like a crazy hobo.

And that fills my heart with happiness.

Recently, I gathered all the mix CD’s and tapes I’d been given since 1999-ish just to see what sort of crazy compilation I could throw together from them. Standing in mesmerized awe, I realized that I own more than 40 customized mixes, not even including the dozen-or-so I’ve collected from significant others. (I’ve tossed most of them but still have a few CD’s I keep meaning to transfer to MP3′s so I can be rid of the tangible reminder.) That’s roughly four every year! For a decade!

A little less recently, I whittled down my Facebook Friends List from 900-ish “friends” to [an ever-increasing] 350-ish friends I find worthwhile enough to keep up with. (Once I achieved my petty quota of validation from learning that the douchenozzles who tormented me in jr. high grew up to be bloated, drunken, bigoted trust-fund kids, there was really no need to keep them anywhere close to my present life.) I took that time to look at the people I’ve been lucky enough to know personally and then back up and look at the whole motley crew objectively. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurd joy of my life as evidenced solely in the company I keep.

One of my friends is a singer/songwriter/siren who dominates rooms, disables jawhinges and makes people feel validated as humans simply by looking in their general direction. I have a friend who is an artist/performer/genius who lives in an old post office that he’s converted into a palace where he throws lavish, bohemian parties and plays his musical suitcase. One of my friends is an international celebrity who’s televised in dozens of countries on a daily basis to the amusement of 3-6 year-olds who cheer wildly as he steps off private planes. Two of my friends are writers who legitimately have the potential to revolutionize modern literature. One of my oldest friends is a gorgeous chemical engineer who listens to punk rock and plays alongside guys in male-dominated sports. A friend I’m sure I’ve known for a couple lives is an empath/healer with a cutting, brash tongue, a vast, uncompromising soul and a giggling mischief that pulls the disguise off his undeniable compassion.

Ooo! And I know an enigma! A real one! She’s beautiful beyond reason and quirky and complicated and when she laughs she opens the soul of the room she’s in and turns it over in her palms and hands it back to us. And she’s wild with passion and love that’s infectious and controversial and makes people love her emphatically [unless they’re scared of that sort of person and then they often choose to hate her for no reason.] I can remember a point in my life when she had three suitors who were all close friends and who lived for her every word and she knew it but she didn’t realize it and she held it all in a way that you couldn’t really envy her as much as share in her giddy, confused, confident laughter. And for God-only-knows what reason, she loves me and when she goes out of her way to let me know it I smile for weeks and feel unique and safe and special, unlike with anyone else.

I have an ever-self-sufficient friend who is a Republican bellydancer with a laugh that’s infectious and a rapid wit that is hilarious to watch [but hell to suffer] when in “Attack Mode.” (Despite her political leanings, we have yet to have a conversation where we don’t agree with 90% of what the other is saying… so she still has a perfectly-intact soul.) I have a wildly-creative, artist friend who is an effortless medium and who was everywhere that was awesome in the 1960′s (except Woodstock; she was in Daytona that weekend) and loves and knows me better than I know myself most of the time. I have three friends who look like tall, curvy, dark, bold-faced goddesses and would be terrifyingly powerful/dangerous to men and women alike should they ever meet. (Two of them live in NYC and I’m positive they should become besties, like, immediately.) I know world-travelers and political aides and a pure-hearted genius/prodigy who cleaned dishes with me with the same intensity that he implemented while working in international think tanks.

I know brilliant musicians and gorgeous models and driven geniuses (with souls! Those are the best kind of geniuses!) and revolutionary comics/playwrights and refreshingly unique entertainers and groundbreaking visionaries and neo-feminist SAHmothers and fucking phenomenal chefs (two are quite successful and both are female! score!) and recovering addicts/alcoholics with the craziest stories I’ve ever heard and bohemian artists who’ll never be understood but don’t seem to mind and incarcerated convicts who send me the condescending Christmas cards their relatives send them every year, marked with hilarious commentary and a stripper who is now teaching home ec in a schwanky jr. high and daring, colorful Burners (oh, how I long to be one of those) and crossdressers of both genders (both non-professional and professional) and founders of incredible non-profit movements and Broadway singer/dancer/actors and farmers/hardcore gardeners who make me want to sell everything and live off the grid starting tomorrow and the male, punk rock version of Mama Cass and feminista bloggers and quite possibly one of the greatest actors on the planet at the moment and two aerialists and a documentarian (who’s putting together a project that’s just going to be epic once released internationally) and the guy who was ranked one of the top trumpet players in the nation and a female bodybuilder and a powerhouse editor who fights for small businesses with a daily news syndication she runs by herself and young, rad, relatable missionaries who are going to revolutionize how the world sees American Christians and DIY crafters who are going to clothe the world, one hand-knit sweater at a time and people with the balls to immigrate to where they dream of living and a sweet Muslim model who very patiently answers all my idiotic questions about Islamic holidays and schoolteachers who are going out of their way to challenge the status quo (and call attention to the rampant apathy that rules our public school system) and freaking triathlon addicts and a designer whose stuff is now sold at Nordstrom and opera singers and a gorgeous, free-spirited woman who has been inadvertently and gradually coaxing me out of my shell by her inspirational lifestyle and mindset and…

And I get to be in the middle of it.

I honestly always thought that I’d have to be wildly famous or insanely wealthy to know as many uniquely radiant people as I do. And if I were ever to be surrounded by so many unnaturally dazzling characters I would never have assumed that they’d be the types to call themselves my friends.

And I’m not saying all the above-mentioned are in the “Nearest and Dearest Pile”. In fact, only about 3/4 of those could be considered “friends closer than acquaintances”, but I’m glad to be important enough to these busy people to have garnered at least one greeting in the last year from each of them.

However, I’m still unbelievably humbled when I review the list and realize how many I can call honest-to-God “close friends”. (You know. The ones who don’t ever judge and will take a phonecall from me at 2 a.m. and will blatantly tell me when I’m being an a-hole but don’t use that as a means of flat-out rejection and who’re happy for me and my little accomplishments.) So, it looks like my mom was wrong about that whole “You’ll only be able to count your close friends on one hand.” by at least a couple hands.

Anyway, To Whom It Concerns: Thank you so so very much. I hope I’ve let you know how much I appreciate you being in my life.

Freshly heartbroken (and, incidentally, spiraling into a belligerent insanity in response) and struggling with typical early-20′s wanderlust, I went to Australia with the mentality that this would be a semester of reckless abandon. Flinging my inherent self-consciousness by the wayside, I plunged into the wild, adventurous [often foolish and some potentially dangerous] indulgences of hedonism I’d only previously fantasized about, free from the confines of social accountability. Don’t get me wrong, I spent a few days nerding out and visiting historic sites by my own volition but mostly I was interested in freeing some part of me that I thought – at the time – might have been the “real” me who’d been hidden under general insecurity. (Oh, to be in late-adolescence and to so believe in the pretentious myth of oneself…)

This whole mentality put a strange damper on the relationships I encountered, as I sort of convinced myself that all these temporary acquaintances were somehow not legitimate. I had no trouble making a general ass of myself in front of these people as they were only surface-level, stand-in friends with whom I would enjoy my time but never really forge any sort of bond with. This even included the small group of people I was working with as part of a sketch comedy troupe; while they were all amazing, colorful people, I was assured that there was nothing “real” going on, that we were all just working together for a common cause and any interest in each other was superficial for the sake of a productive work environment. While I felt a real fondness for many of them, I had already designated myself as an outsider who was easily replaceable and meant to portray only a caricature of a certain widely-mocked nationality. I assumed everyone else was doing the same. Perhaps my subconscious knew better because, after a while, I found myself becoming crippled with panic attacks before attending rehearsals, sitting on the staircase around the corner from our rehearsal theatre and trying desperately to convince myself that I was worthwhile, bright, humorous, and deserving of their company. Often I would wildly overcompensate by putting on a brash, arrogant, faux-wordliness air in which I would conduct my every maneuver, hoping this would throw everyone off the scent of my complete insecurity.

The weird thing about all of this is that, while this was most definitely the most mentally unstable, tragically misguided and destructive part of my many attempts at recovery since 2003, somehow some of these amazing people saw right through all of it and proudly called themselves my friend. While I was out making the greatest ass of myself imaginable, there were genuinely wonderful people who not only weren’t totally disgusted by my flagrant hypocrisy, my wild grandeur and my general self-centeredness, but actually invited me to be in their company. By the time I left the country that summer (or late-autumn, depending on which continent you’re on) I had acquired a handful of some of the best friends I have ever had (even now!) and was aching with the amount of time I’d wasted trying to keep their lifestyles and reality some sort of parallel universe or mere colorful backdrop to be used at my disposal.

It has been four years since I have seen most of them. I was scheduled to go back to Melbourne in late 2006 but, due to the general disorganization of the Australian Immigrations gang, I was stopped at LAX and sent back home. (Although I did have a lovely impromptu visit to Berkeley where I crashed with a never-before-met-in-person friend for a couple days and fell in love with the Bay area.) Shortly afterward, I became pregnant and was unable to use my plane ticket, much to my utter heartbreak.

Still, these people have continued to stay a part of my life and have shown more devotion and love to me than most of the friends I’ve had in my short life. One came to stay with me and my family over the holidays, a few keep in touch via email, Facebook and the occasional phone call, and a couple of my dearest girlfriends sent a fantastic care package when they found out I was expecting my daughter. One came to Canada with her band last summer but, gas prices being what they were, I simply could not afford to go up and see her. I still hear from many of them at least once monthly and they have become one of the aspects of my recovery that I am most grateful for. I’m not sure where I did something so right as to acquire these sorts of people into my life but I’m more than ecstatic that I did.

My heart hurts this time of year as it was during late June that I left Melbourne and saw this handful of dear friends last. (This pain only intensified after my failed attempt to return.) At least once every month I have a dream in which I am riding around Melbourne, on my way to visit friends, seeing places and the sorts of creative, artistic people I fell in love with while I was there. There’s still the wild dream that we’ll somehow be able to move there and build a life in a culture so much more laid-back than our own and even though my husband has expressed an interest in pursuing this dream, there simply hasn’t been an opportunity for us to make it a reality. (I have a feeling this dream won’t dissipate anytime soon.) My heart is always elated with the blessing of this present friendship but aching with the knowledge that it can’t be revisited on a personal basis any time soon. I hate that I can’t show these people the selfless love from me that they deserved when I was abroad and I loathe that there may never be a time in the next decade that I can afford to travel back and enjoy a leisurely, festive visit of “just hanging out.” The harsh reality of this set in a while ago, but it hasn’t started to weaken just yet.

Whatever the case, that place and these people are still with me and this is more than I’d hoped for when I first landed in Australia. Just little artifacts and this tiny bit of memory and joy are what I have for now, but that’s enough to make me more grateful than I am about almost everything I’ve ever experienced. And, of course, the hope of returning to all of it again.

*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’m not trying to brag when I say repeatedly that I have some amazing friends. Just today, in fact, I received in the mail two beautiful handmade Kermit The Frog pillowcases from the dear N.Lempart (who is busy chasing around an INFANT for Chrissakes!) and then this evening I arrived at my metaphysical meditation group meeting for the first time in a month to find that one of the healers who was part of my personal cleansing a while ago went home and painted me a picture based on messages she received from Spirit about me. (It sounds kind of dorky, but it’s really staggeringly beautiful.) Photos of both of these unbelievably touching handmade gifts are forthcoming, of course, but I felt the immediate need to share my astonishment and gratitude at such amazing unsolicited generosity toward me.

It feels nice to be randomly shown love from people who have to go out of their way to think about me. Makes me happy.

Aaanyway, a while ago I was working on developing a personal goddess/warrior who would act as an alter-ego when my Demons decide to rear their ugly heads. The Goddess Warrior Castallare would thunder in on her trusty elephant guardian (Sheba) who would roar with preemptive victory against the slimy persistent demons who call themselves Fear, Shame, Regret, Depression, and Hate. Muahahahahahaha!

Problem is, I’m not much of an artist and I work best with meditative visualization and imagery when I can, you know, see what I’m trying to mentally summon. So I called upon the creative genius of my friend Rowena Zane (not her real name) to help me make sense of my mental notes and render an image or two and loooook at what she maaade for meeee!!!

Castallare and Sheba

Goddess Warrior Castallare and her bewitching smirk

I just think they’re spectacularly beautiful and perfect in their simplicity and feminine power and emotion. Now I really have one hell of an standard to live up to if I’m going to put this personal warrior’s powers to use. (I’d be kind of afraid of the repercussions should I let her down…)

Also, I kind of hope to work on more variations of this character and see how much more I can develop her both aesthetically and literally. Could be interesting, if from a merely self-serving standpoint. I’d like to see her evolve as I grow older.

I hope to incorporate these images into the new blogface we come up with… should that ever get around to happening…

And then…

:::: ssiiiiiiiggghhh:::::

…because a few readers who may or may not have access to my Facebook profile have been bothering and pestering me to post these next few photos I’ll oblige… I just will, okay? Gah…

Greg’s been diligently learning about this awesome new camera we got for Christmas and has moved on to acquiring and learning about professional studio lighting. This, of course, results in him taking countless photos of countless things around the house, including myself. Glamorous though it may sound to be someone’s personal model there’s a lot more “Hang on a second while I set this up” and “Can you hold that pose for another 5 minutes or so? I wanna try different angles!” than the clicky-flashy “Work it! Work it!” photographer/model dynamic that usually comes to mind. And then I have to do my own makeup, of course.

Alright, fine, I’ll admit it: I freaking love it. I love when he comes in from a long hard day of work and can’t wait for the baby to go to bed so we can spend quality time together in a photo shoot. I love when he has an idea or new concept that he’s been mulling over all day and when he directs me around his “set”. I like the idea that someone sees art in me and deems me worthy of acting as a medium for his artistic visions. It’s a pretty cool compliment, especially from someone who loves me.

All my gushy blathering aside, these were my top few favorites from the shoot the other week. Greg wanted me in a wife beater, corduroys and dark eye makeup. (He started me out in an open green flannel button-down, but it just weighed the images down too much so we went without.) I was happy to comply and mostly just proud that my grunge-era obsession was finally wearing off on him.

Craned neck? Check

Now channeling Kim Deal...

One B'dass Mother

Oh, look at me. I'm a musician. I'm all brooding and complex. I must hate my parents. Waaaahh...

"I like to play" - Garth Algar

There might be more but these are the only ones he’s color-corrected and “finished”, so I told him I wouldn’t unveil any more of his work until he’s ready. Because I’m an obedient student.

My parents always told me that in life, I’d only be able to count my real friends on one hand. They lied.

Somehow, I’ve been blessed with two handfuls of friends who have stuck with me through all the utter insanities of my recovery and still arrive on my doorstep, undefeated and unflinchingly optimistic about me, my potential, and my life. A few of these friends have called me “friend” since I was an early adolescent, a few have known me for the better part of a decade, and a few have only been on board for a few years, but many have seen me at my lowest and most destructive points and still have the audacity to argue that I’m worth sticking around for.

Being that I don’t enjoy the company of idiots or apathetic losers, I have always had friends for whom I keep a slight envy in their beauty, talent, wit, character, charm, intellect, or style. I have many friends that I often consider to be too rad to be hanging out with the likes of me and I’ve found myself questioning their judgment in keeping me in their social circle. This being said, I’m always amazed and floored when these people continually rush to my side, offer me forgiveness, cheer for my successes, and send me expressions of their love. For some reason, these two-handfuls of friends seek to sap none of my energy, ask for none of my possessions, fuel none of my drama, and honestly want nothing from me except my happiness and company. When I’m not sitting around feeling unworthy and scared of ruining everything, I realize that I am tremendously, unbelievably blessed.

It’s not as if I’ve sat around collecting friends during my life, either. From the time I could speak, I’ve slapped the “best friend” label on a series of close female figures in hopes of finding that one, ideal companion. I can name at least two people I called my “BFF” for every year I was in grade school, in fact. (Sadly, because these relationships were based in my inherent fear of loneliness, they crumbled and were swept away, and to this day, I only correspond with two of the many that I hoped would fill this role. I’ve had countless friends that I’ve broken ties with in the notion that their appeal wasn’t so much real as it was fabricated by my own insecurities and I spent a lot of time in my early stages of recovery sure that I wasn’t going to resonate with anyone ever… I know, waahh…) I’m not one of those people who has pictures of her best friends throughout our various growth stages scattered throughout the house, and most of my very dearest friends don’t even know the others (although the ones that do get along smashingly.)

But when I look back on my life, there are always those faces that stick out in the crowd. Even if our relationship has been based on annual visits and/or emails and phone calls, these are the people that have rushed to my side when I was sickest or sent their love and support when I announced my pregnancy. These are the people I’m not afraid to call at 2 a.m. when my mind is threatening me again and the ones I expect 2 a.m. phone calls from when they’re standing 10 feet away from David Bowie at the Tower Records in Dublin. These are the ones I would have taken out a loan for to fly them from Australia to be bridesmaids in my wedding (had we taken that route in our nuptial celebrations) and the ones who bring me tabloids and Milanos when I’m still at the hospital, agonizing over an abrupt C-section and dying to show off my new daughter. (Or text me while I’m getting an epidural with messages of hope and “I TOLD you that shit hurts!”)

Although I have family and my dear husband and my daughter around me daily, bolstering my confidence and guiding me through the nitty-gritty steps of this perpetual daily recovery, I cannot help but feel overwhelming joy at the notion that I have at least two handfuls of friends who, out of no obligation whatsoever, are choosing to continue standing right behind me.*

*You know if I’m talking about you. Thank you.

Dear Kathleen, Haylee, Vee, Grim, Shannon, Hayley, Caroline, Brody, Debra, Abby, Becky B., CV/Mary, Blair, Martha, Rob, Daisy and, of course, Allison and Greg,

I know this may seem a bit random, but sometime in my life you, in some form, sent me a piece of encouragement and love that not only resonated with me, but stuck with me until now. Perhaps it was something specific that you said or wrote to me, or maybe it was a small gift or something else tangible, but whatever the case, this tiny token of love was saved in a small box that I keep in my home.

Recently, I’ve been having more than a little trouble with my head and the medications I’ve been prescribed to try to fix whatever’s been going on up there. Late at night, when I’m feeling hollow and scared and lonely, I’ve been retreating to this box to reread your words of encouragement, listen to your mix tapes, laugh over our shared jokes, look at pictures of your art, and experience your ever-present support and kindness. This has become a once-or-twice-weekly ritual and it has settled my racing heart and been an ideal remedy to help me get to sleep on these seemingly chaotic nights. Additionally, it has, actually, been the most effective method I’ve ever found at calming myself down, streamlining my scattered focus, and getting back to my normal self. No matter what despairing, hopeless hole my subconscious tries to bury my consciousness in, I am always able to pull myself out with the love and encouraging sentiments I’ve collected over the years.

Thank you sincerely. I do so hope to have the opportunity to repay this tremendous gift to each of you sometime in my life.

Castallare