The Starbucks Reaper and; Kimye Logic

Yesterday morning I was reminded just how much I loathe Starbucks bathrooms. Nay: the toilet paper holder in Starbucks bathrooms. I don't know if it's a corporation-wide conspiracy or what. But the shear volume at which toilet paper is dispensed in a Starbucks bathroom is so LOUD, so RATTLY, so PERVASIVE, it simply must be a ploy to dissuade customers from using more than their fair share. Certainly, I would rather the entire store not know that I am currently dropping the kids off in their midst. Let's save that information for the select few necessitating a bladder tap after me. And hope that I am far, far away by then.

This is how the Reaper sounds when he's breathing on your neck.

 

In other news on Things I'd Rather Not Share, I recently spent an entire evening obsessing on the personal life of one fellow blogger; albeit a far more influential -- and thus, equally as abhorred -- one. If only I had the techno-savvy to screen shot my history for that day. It would read, in varying search terms, somewhat like this:

• "dooce divorce"
• "dooce reasons for divorce"
• "dooce cheating?"
• "dooce monetize the hate"
• "dooce Today show interview"
• etc.

 

Yes, I am aware that Kimye recently named their child North. I'd like to ask Sir Kanye if he considered his hometown in this decision. You guys, we have a tiny baby with a future giant ass and probable droopy eyes named after our relative geography. SUCCESS.

Maybe not. No fair, Portland gets all the cool shit.

But while the rest of the world sinks its claws in either baby Middleton or baby West, I am still trying to remove the couch-wedgie sustained by vested research into Heather B. Hamilton's sordid affairs. No, I do not care that someone renowned for parental guidance via her "mommyblog" is getting divorced. Of course I'd like to know who is getting lazy in bed. Or maybe who spent the night in another. Because I'm a nosy motherfucker.

 

What really cracked the door to Crazytown was search column #4. Props to doocey for banking on the horrid things people say -- of which they are many and variously crazy. Basically she's created a separate blog chronolicling the most awful of the awful comments that people have made on her blog, in her email, and various forums. It is plastered with ads. Thus, big bucks for every nasty word. A personal favorite:

 

um….the hair. really? you look like a white lesbian version of rhianna-but she is actually attractive and you look like a banana head with a chin. some people can pull it off (michelle williams) but honey you are not one of them. yikes. you were cute for a while, but what the hell are you thinking? that heather can look good no matter what?

why would you do that to yourself. why don’t you just shave it next?

 

And it goes on. For pages and pages and pages. Some of it I can get behind -- the comments on narcissistic tendencies and a predisposition to whininess. But most of it is just concentrated cruelty. And grammatically poor, I might add.

 

But when, WHEN did we decide that by the simple guise of a computer screen, we're allowed to let hate reign? When did having an anonymous IP address give us the juevos to criticize some far-away person's lady locks? Why does anyone care that Kim Kardashian has an ordinal direction for an offspring? Why did I tell you that I sometimes poop where I get my coffee (sorry again, barista friends)?

 

Because look, here's the thing:

 

We can't deny that we live in a culture saturated in information -- most of it with as intellectually stimulating as squashing celebrities names together. We must be getting bored, if criticizing the entertainment has become the entertainment.

There are several variables to the whole TMI or Overshare way of life or; How We Live. For starters, those that choose to share do so at their own discretion. And you read/watch/listen at your own. This is a mutually participatory act. You may remove yourself from the share/care cycle at any time. And for those whose argument might follow a "they put themselves out there and they know the consequences" trajectory, I would direct you to my rather large collection of SVU episodes in which NO MEANS NO.

 

Regarding the matter of necessary criticism: we have people for that. They're called critics.

 

It's simple, really. We share to connect, to find our similar beating hearts. And if you don't like it? Stop reading. Stop watching. Stop listening. Yelling at the dragon is never going to make him go away. So just shut up, already. I am.

 

 

 

 

 

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Mechanical Soft

So my downstairs neighbor texts me:

 

"Hey Molly you hungry? Just made dinner and we've got some leftovers."

 

To which I respond:

 

"Haha" (<--where did the nervous text-laughter come from? Somebody punch me.) "No I'm good thanks, I just had some frozen pizza."

 

This is one of the many reasons why I love my neighbors. Along with their adorable daughters that give me Girl Scout cookies, their shoveling of my sidewalk, providing free internet access and not making snide remarks about "making music" like SOME of my previous shelter-acquaintances, I'd say we're perfect for one another. And after subsequent bashings of my frozen dietary lifestyle, I had no choice but to acquiesce to the free home-made goodness courtesy of my favorite dwelling-companions. TO MY CREDIT, HOWEVER, it was not frozen pizza. It was refrigerated Dominos.

 

Why the uncharacteristic ordering of overly-priced pizza at 10:30 on a previous weeknight -- sober, no less -- you ask? It was the first thing I could summon the energy to virtually order and shove down my gullet after coming out of a two-day food poisoning or stomach flu-like episode. One of which had kept me up for an entire Saturday evening and in bed the following two days. I still feel puke-drunk.

 

But bedtime marathons and Fifty Shades Freed (speaking of, we need to have a conversation about that) aside, I'm reminded of the few years my brother spent working at a retirement home in High School. Not because of my lack of control over my bodily functions or irrational tirades on the weather, but because of the running joke my family adopted over his role in the kitchen. It was my brother's job as a dutiful Servant of Elders to provide a few resident's meals Mechanical Soft.

 

For those of you not in the know, mechanical soft is a handy term used to describe one's entire meal being tenderly placed inside a blender and then mashed into a pulp-like substance, easily consumed by those without convenience of teeth. It's days like I've had this week I really wish I had someone around to liquify my food for me.

 

But then again, isn't that the very place at which I'm feeling stuck? Wanting someone to take care of me, but forget taking care of myself in the run-up? Trying to find this juncture of complete freedom and total dependence? Wanting all of what I want without compromise, but none of the consequences? Because as much as I hate to admit it, there's a whiny teenager lodged somewhere in my abdomen, screaming for the car keys but holding her hand out for gas money. I want to stay up all night working on my plans to rule the world, but I just don't want to clean up the puke when lack of sleep explodes in my face. And just like those retirees who must love being taken care of after so long doing nothing but the opposite, we all know it's no picnic being wheeled to the bathroom everyday.

 

My spiritual teacher once told me that power and responsibility should not be two words -- in essence, they work so closely together that they are the same. Peter Parker's uncle was right. With great power comes great responsibility, and every time I make the choice to treat my body as if it's the energizer bunny capable of great feats in sleeplessness, it will be my responsibility to deal with the aftermath. And in this particular case, the puke.

 

My mechanical soft diet has near about run its course. And I'm going to bed, because I have shit to do and not near enough rechargeable batteries in this lifetime to do it without a nap. And since I've missed you so much in the last few weeks...goodnight, my friends.

 

 

 

 

 

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Playing With Fire

Last night, swaddled in the enveloping warmth of a tightly-wrapped blanket, perched on the topmost step, staring into the vast white beauty of a winter's night as the stars twinkled above and calm settled over the earth; I clicked my lighter and let the flame tease my fingertips. The flakes of tobacco began to glow in the flame as its heat accelerated upward through the tunnel of my cupped hands, like a gust of wind over a mountain highway. At the peak of contact between ignitor and ignited, I gasped suddenly at the overwhelming heat rising from within its confined space. Breathing once more, I relished the rest of my evening ritual and returned inside. Gazing into the mirror as later I scoured the surfaces of my teeth, I noticed something:

I BURNED MY FUCKING EYELASHES OFF.

 

 

 

What the fuck, element of fire? After all that we've been through -- all that preparing of food, all those quiet reveries during a smoke break, all those THOUSANDS OF YEARS surviving as a species -- this is how you're going to repay me?

 

Granted, it's not so bad as to be immediately noticeable -- Laura only noticed this morning when I pointed it out -- but the difference in length from one set to the other is definitely there. Before mascara, the singed tips on my right eye curl under like a used-up newspaper. Devastating, some might say. My abnormally long eyelashes are a genetic gift from my father; one that attempts to make up for the round face and large backside they also bestow. No matter how much pizza-weight my face gains, my eyes will always be shaded in their heavy black curtains (hopefully, IN MY OLD AGE), keeping the attention away from less desirable attributes. They're the kind of things girls that grew up chubby and still haven't accepted their new bodies cling to.

 

It should be said that immediately after noticing my current situation of Eyelash Cyclops-ery, I considered taking needed money out of my non-budget to have fake ones installed. I continued considering it until thoughts of the falling-off moment overwhelmed all desire to synthetically modify my appearance. Because those things might eventually fall off into your morning coffee or something. And that's fucking disgusting.

 

The kicker in the end was the money, though. Non-budget or otherwise, I can't very much afford to go dropping 40 bucks on new eyelashes (because I killed mine), brow shaping (because once I'm there I might as well), and upper-lip threading (because shhhhhhhh...).

 

But seriously? Someone please come examine my closet and slap me for the above statement. How much time, energy and money do I spend consuming appearance-altering cloth ware that, even if I managed to burn holes in half of it over the same process, I would not need? How any times have I obsessed over a new pair of shoes, only to find them growing roots at the back of my closet months later? How many of us -- men and women alike -- worry more about the way we look than the substance beneath the Mac and H&M?

 

I'm guilty of all the above in varying degrees. On one side, I've been using lipstick as blush for a week simply to avoid having to go to the store. On the other, I spent grocery-money on thrifted dressed the other day. For what? To have that many more ways of looking like a walking cupcake?

 

I remember when looking good meant graphic t-shirts from Kohl's. I remember my first hooded sweatshirt when $50 Billabong from Pac-Sun was practically mandatory (I lost that one in a bathroom shortly after purchasing it). I also remember tying a red shoelace around my wrist, wearing Converse sneakers when girls didn't do that kind of thing yet, thinking black eyeliner could never be heavy enough and that my ass looked really good in smiley-faced pajama bottoms. I may look back at photos of these occasions with an expression similar to The Scream, but I remember them well enough to know that at the time I felt like The Shit.

 

But look, here's the thing: at this point in my life I do spend more time than I ever have on how I look. I believe firmly that to take time and care on yourself means you value yourself -- or if nothing else that what you present on the outside reflects how you feel on the inside. I dress well because I feel well, and if maybe sometimes I don't feel all that well I can draw on the exterior to enhance the interior. We're not all perfect beings. We're going to be superficial sometimes.

 

Most mornings I wake up with approximately half the amount of time I actually need to get ready. My hair usually makes its way to the top of my head because for fuck's sake it's easy, and I tend to think it brings some of the roundness out of my face. Sometimes I wear a dress and sometimes I wear jeans. Sometimes Buddy Holly exasperates on the couch when I get ready and sometimes I don't shower for a week. Either way, I usually feel pretty good about myself. I do believe that our outsides should be a reflection of our insides. But I assert that when the outsides detract from what's going on inside, it's time to take a breather for a minute. Far too often we let everything that's outside of us take over -- the accumulation of stuff and things and more and more and more -- and no matter what you want to call it, it's essentially just a distraction. A distraction from everything we don't want to feel or admit to that is suffocated by as much stuff as we can cram into our tiny, individual spheres.

 

It's a toss-up. I know where my simple desire to look nice ends and obsession begins. I toe the line frequently enough to warrant a good eyelash-singeing reminder. I count it as making up for all those years spent in unflattering jeans and graphic t-shirts. Today boiled down to priorities. My eyelashes will grow back. And if anyone notices in the interim? Hell, I'm all about a good story.

 

Happy Friday, folks!

 

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Fourth Boobs and The Middle

Considering I stayed up until 2 AM two nights ago watching the entire second season of New Girl, it's safe to say that I thoroughly miss having roommates. Except when I remember the pink hair dye in my sink, mountains of unwashed dishes, creepy Skype-relationships and that none of them were awkwardly endearing men with janky plumbing skills. Also when I remember that time I lived with my ex-boyfriend and the toilet didn't flush for two weeks and we almost tore each other's throats out and then we broke up.

 

I watched the epic Poignant Moment between Jess and Nick approximately five times that day, in exactly the way I watched the Poignant Moment with Pam and Jim repeatedly seven years ago; and the Poignant Moment with Allie and Noah two years before that. Oh, and let's not forget when Nichola and I were lusting after Ashton Kutcher's Poignant Crying Scene in Just Married -- in eighth grade. Who else thinks that hot men crying is the hottest thing ever, ever? And that watching hot men cry and then carry their woman up a flight of stairs while simultaneously ripping of their clothes makes you want to reenact that very scene in the very near future? And maybe if you've got someone to reenact it with, you feel kind of warm and fuzzy about them in the climax of said Poignant Moment?

 

That's how I was feeling all day, until I went to grab my headphones for a nighttime stroll and found them Not Where I Left Them. After a search of any other possible resting place, I found them Nowhere. Why? Because Buddy Holly.

 

It took me about two seconds to envision a scene in which said boyfriend wakes up late for his train, frantically makes the bed (APARTMENT RULE), STEALS my headphones and dashes out the door. This highly accurate summation owes credit to the absence of one ipod. One that had been resting on my entertainment center for approximately one month before -- and in conjunction with -- it and my headphones suddenly went missing. Even Michael Phelps could put it together.

 

Luckily for him and his manhood, we were meeting for dinner and I was only conscious of this Great Piss-Off for about ten minutes before being reunited. But please ask him about my face when he pulled them out of his pocket. Please, just ask. I'd like to see you shaking in your boots, too.

 

This is the difference between all the Epic Poignant Moments we're fed through our eyes and the actual heart-singing, heart-pulling, heartbreaking Loves we feel as human beings drawn to other human beings. It is what ignites my weekly lady-wine nights, allows for political conversations with my father, fuels posts like this about my mother, and keeps all of us coming back to those same moments of impracticality on the screen. It is the difference between two people separated from each other by a mother's fear and two people separated by a grudge over a pair of headphones.

 

Because look, here's the thing: love is neither as great nor as trivial as anything you've witnessed. Simply, because you must feel it to understand it. No one can tell you the power of a first kiss, nor the death -- and I mean that literally -- in true heartbreak.

 

CLICHE, cliche. Sure. But in the middle of the excitement in the beginning and all the disappointment at the end is everything in the middle -- the meat that takes so much effort and care to chew through. The middle is everything, in exactly the way a McDonald's bun has no nutritional value. It's no secret that Buddy Holly and I have been through our fair share of Middle lately. I know you remember that melodramatic post I wrote about us breaking up, and then getting back together, and then breaking up again...we're better now. I owe that to the great effort we both put forward in being the best filet mignon we can be. It's not easy, and anyone that tells you it is is full of shit. And you can tell them I said so.

 

One night very early into our relationship, Buddy and I were engaged in...things. Unbeknownst to me he mistook my abnormally protruding ribs for their fleshy northern neighbors. A few weeks later, he actually told me about it. I knew then that he was someone I wanted to share a lot more awkward moments with. This evening he made me dinner and we shared a Poignant Moment of our own. We've created a relationship out of the middle, one from which I don't see myself emerging for a long time. And you know what else is a middle? Ice cream. In ice cream sandwiches. So like, Suck It, Nicholas Sparks.

 

 

 

 

***In other news...if anyone else is interested in knowing more about how to overcome a partner mistaking their Fourth Boobs for Real Boobs, I'm considering adding a relationship + advice column to the blog. Any takers? Any masochists? Just kidding, we all are!***

 

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5 AM

As I ventured to my corner 7-Eleven at 5 AM yesterday morning, to seek treatment for unforeseen and/or unappreciated complications of monthly feminine physical discomfort, from somewhere within the fog of pain I was struck by the amount of headlights following me in the disarming dark -- not to mention the handful of others sharing a check-out line at the aforementioned establishment.

Now. One could assume, given the lack of light not fed by metal strings woven across the Earth's skin and the fact that the only other creatures stirring are those whose heads see a full rotation on their tiny, feathery bodies (seriously, who was the avid Owl Enthusiast responsible for the Exorcist?); that maybe human beings are not meant to be properly caffeinated and chemically infused long before the sun extends a few conciliatory rays in our direction. Personally I was damn well prepared to pop a few of those magical pills and pass out for a few more light-free permitting hours.

I'm being kind of an asshole. I know my fellows joining me in line next to the Big Gulps and ribbed condoms are only doing their American-blessed duty as providers, bread-winners and caretakers. They wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to make the money that feeds their families and themselves. I am blessed enough to have a vocation that allows me such luxuries as sleep, paid lunch breaks and discounted anti-anxiety remedies. It comes with its share of crazy-makers and the obsessively compulsive, but I enjoy it and the fellowship I find there gives me the freedom to do what I'm doing right now. And the two minute walk down the block doesn't hurt, either (even if I am still late every single day).

But look, here's the thing: I don't buy it. I still don't buy the adage that tells us we begin at life and end well, at the end -- with a span of toiling labor strung in between. I will never surrender to the mentality that to live is to work is to die; and joy is found in the few moments of acceptance along the way. Or maybe it's in the Big Gulp in the morning. Probably more likely those ribbed condoms.

If we really do live in the land of possibility, why do I still encounter a string of bright lights following me like a search party on a very undesirable trip the drugstore at 5 AM on a Wednesday morning? Perhaps these people, so not unlike me, enjoy their 4-hour daily commute. Maybe the job at the end of the line is the one they dreamt of when pretending to comprehend algebra some twenty years before. Maybe I am judgmental and biased from a life of being told that what you want you can actually have, even if it comes with the crazy-makers and obsessive-compulsives scattered in the mix.

I was raised being told that I could be whatever I wanted to be. And when I dropped out of college the first time to find out what that might be, it was not so much of my own conviction but more at the insistence of those rearing me. I thank The Mother for always goading me towards a path uniquely mine, and thus uniquely fulfilling.

So I'm frustrated by the lights in the dark. I'm angered that we still live in a time with the lingering notion that to survive is to suffer; and that you should be lucky to do even that. I believe in a life that contains all of what I want and not a bit else, because the joy of finding your true path is in its simplicity. When your life is what you want it to be, the rest takes care of itself.

I've said it a million times but I don't think it can be said enough. For all of you searching for where your lives begin and end, it's right where you left it before you started chasing it. It's in what makes you happy for happiness sake. So stop being a light in the dark. You already have one.

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Conversation Piece

If we somehow miss each other in the next few days, and I somehow forget to call you back, or I randomly send you a text that contains

a) Little to no sense or;

b) A disturbingly convincing and/or confusingly probable meaning of life;

but fail to respond your subsequently-and-increasingly-over-time furious inquiries, it's probably because I'm here;

 

 

both staring into space, wondering if I could somehow turn this blank space into a time machine that will inevitably transport me into a reality from which I may deduce whether or not all this paint-slinging was ever worth it in the first place; AND painting myself naked to the chagrine and secret behind-the-hand judgements of everyone I know that won't admit it, while simultaneously doing the same of myself, for the five-hundred-thousandth time,

OR here;

 

(not much explanation necessary, but since I officially deem myself On The Spectrum Of Technology Incomprehension, you can click here for the linky-link)

 

or HERE;

 

 

wetting my proverbial Target Yoga pants awaiting your earth-shatteringly intimate and/or imperative questions on life, love, and what it's like to believe fiercly in aliens and vaguely that someday devising a way to wash your shirt's armpits in the sink will amount to something. Also, an invitation to talk about someone else's life and problems besides mine is always welcome. So like, stop being such an anonymous douche and talk to me, dammit.

 

Cheers to a heartbreakingly cold Monday in the Midwest, folks. Screw you, Florida.

 

 

 

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I Had A Really Great Title But I Forgot It

Thanksgiving day this year, it rained. Thanksgiving day this year, I ran out in the rain to shut the car window I'd left open earlier. Thanksgiving day I got in, turned the key in the ignition, rolled up the window, and spent some time in the middle distance before hauling ass out the door to protect any semblance of a hairdo I might have to rejoin to the festivities. Without the key.

 

And that's how Thanksgiving day ruined my following morning, when my car wouldn't start and my stepfather had to let me take his to work while he spent the day jumping a severely dead battery. And apparently Karen O. is still pissed at me for it, and is passive aggressively refusing to make her radio work. I am currently a Silent Driver. First World Problems.

 

All the silent driving to and from work has given me a little more brain space to think (though many would argue that I don't need it seeing as it drives me farther and farther into the maze of my cranium). When I'm not (somewhat manically) singing One Direction (because that's what would normally be playing) in my head or out loud on these rides, I'm usually (somewhat compulsively) stringing together sentences for blog posts.

 

(BY THE WAY...every time I get to that part where they sing "tonight let's get some" I inadvertently picture my 12-year old cousin singing these lyrics to her posters of the effeminate singers in her bedroom and cringe. WHAT HAVE WE DONE??)

 

Today on my way home in the crushing silence I was thinking about how drastically the look and feel of my life has changed in the last few years. Back when I was emerging from my depressio-coma, I (also somewhat compulsively) adhered to a fairly strict schedule of my own implementation. It looked kind of like this:

 

At that point I really needed it to give myself something to hold onto when there was so much I was working through. As I became more comfortable with myself and started expanding my wants and desires, it started shifting in and out of organization. The more I let myself become interested in different things, people and experiences the wavier it got. Fast forward to now, where it tends to look like this:

 

 

I think I need to chill out a little bit. The extreme shift reminds me a hell of a lot of this picture my therapist draws for me over and over again when I'm getting all WHAT'S GOING ON WITH ME:

 

The gist of it is this: whenever we enter into a period of change or consciousness of ourselves, there is a tendency to swing all the way in the opposite direction of where we had thus far been operating. And then there's the backswing, when you return to the other side. This continues back and forth and back and forth until some sort of equilibrium has been reached. It's like a life-and-behavior teeter-totter.

 

I've been on this ride a few times, with many different catalysts. And there are a few that I'm still waiting on reaching center with. I guess this is just one more to add to the list.



 

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(Un)politics

Today is that risky, emotional and politically tense day known in our country as "election day." Like I've said before, I am not here to delve into politics -- mainly because I have little patience in educating myself about their minutiae, and rich white men talking about my vagina makes me a little nauseous (oops). But I will let you know that I have a sticker to prove I braved the smell of my local VFW to blacken some ovals behind a big white screen. Oh no, did I just make a euphemism for the entire [political] race, there? I must be cleverer than I thought. I am America, and so can you!



Four years ago I voted for the first time. I also spent the evening of my first participating election in Grant Park with thousands of other voters, watching the giant screens set up outside the real rally -- seriously like, Oprah was so close to us -- awaiting the country's decision. It was one of the most emotionally charged things I've ever been a part of, because there were so many of us in such a large area. And when Ohio went blue? My god, I thought a hole had been torn in the sky. The feeling was just so big and so great and so hopeful. I will never forget that moment -- of thousands of people crying and holding each other; of cheering in unison over something we couldn't even grasp the magnitude yet.



The successive four years in our country's history is -- and will continue to be -- debatable. Everyone has something different to say about how Obama has affected our country, be it is positive or negative. I'm not really interested in that. What I'm interested in is the monumental shift that occurred that day and is still cascading through today. On November 4th, 2008, America chose to leave the past behind and elect its first black president. Ever. After centuries of persecution and a cultural mindset that has still not even fully healed, we chose to think differently. We chose to elect someone because of who they are as a person, and not the color of their skin.



Four years ago I was also going through my own internal shift. Remember how I told you about the time I was hibernating in my parent's home, afraid to leave for fear of sunlight, and miserably depressed? Yeah, that was then. On the day of the 2008 election, all my screws were still loose and I was staring at my insides as if they were a million-piece jigsaw puzzle that would never get put back together. I was in the middle of personal crisis and I had no idea which way was up or where left met right. I was still broken.



But as if our country were some strung-out crack addict that ODed mere days before the election, on that day it chose to be and do something different than it was used to. In the parting clouds of my own rock bottom, I also had a choice to make. Keep doing what I had been and stay miserable, or do something different. Thankfully, I chose the upward path. I chose to be and do something different.



I won't lie, it's a long road back to the top. But when faced with yourself, where would you say you are failing? Where would you admit your unhappiness? When it comes to your life, what would you say you wish were different? And how many times have you done the same thing over and over again, waiting for the magical day when it changes?



Folks, I'll let you in on a little secret: it was Einstein who told us a long time ago that the definition of insanity is exactly the formerly described. We all have choices to make in life, from the trivial to the serious. From the color of our hair to the personality of our spouse. But what we have to start realizing is that we are not the victims of our lives. Just as our country chose to do something different four years ago you, too, can choose the very same. You are in control of your life. You have the power because it is happening to no one but you. So when the road gets rocky and you begin to see where you're lacking, learn from those around you. And make your choice.

Yeah, this kind of says it all.

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Detachment Is Not Just For Retinas

A random find-but worth checking out at this guy's snarky blog.

Look, Here's The Thing:


I've never been very good at the idea of "detachment." I am part of the world, and the world has problems. So that means the world's problems are my problems, right? When Lindsay Lohan gets sent to rehab for the gagillionth time, shouldn't I feel her angst? When my best friend can't figure out how to deal with her mother's crazy, I should be there for every step of her own madness and forget about sleeping for a month, don't you agree?



NO. I SHOULDN'T.



It's the thing about personality types like me and those that would be labeled "nurturers" (someday, my children will pay someone to help them get away from my invasive parenting). We feel so much for those around us it's hard not to get sucked in like a tampon illegally flushed down a public toilet (not that I'd ever do that, of course. I clog my own sewer ways). For anyone that's ever been in a relationship that reaches below the surface, it can get very difficult to distinguish between your dysfunction and theirs.



Enter the handy practice of detachment.



Detachment says that I am me, and here is my shit. Detachment says that I have these problems: trouble saying "no," difficulty articulating my feelings, chronic diarrhea. Detachment also says that your relationship woes, failure to pass chemistry and chronic yeast infections are NOT MY PROBLEM. I am dealing with my own dysfunction, and I hear your pain and I feel bad about it. But I can't take it for you.



Please understand me when I say that this doesn't mean a loss of empathy. To be empathetic means you are human -- that you feel for someone whose struggles could be your own at a different place and time. Of course you will lend advice. Of course you will comfort. Of course -- if you were me -- you would suggest a healthy round of probiotics and some cranberry juice for your troubles down under. We will always want to be there for those we care about when they are at a loss, because connection = tribe = survival.



But there's a different kind of survival that plays its part here. Detachment is all about recognizing what is yours and what is another's; because if we attempt to take it all on at once it's likely we won't be able to see out of the sea of problems crashing around us. The only person you can ever fully take care of is yourself. The only person you can act for is yourself. The only person you can see one hundred percent of the time is -- you guessed it -- yourself.



I have a tendency of getting lost in other people's toilet bowls. I want so badly for everyone around me to be happy and healthy that I lose sight of when that desire is affecting my own happiness and health. I love people unendingly so that they might love me back.



The problem is that when you take on someone's responsibility for taking care of themselves you take their power, too. Spiderman's uncle was totally not kidding: with great strength comes great responsibility. They work hand in hand, and when you take on anyone else's problems by talking about them over and over again -- by feeling for them at any given time -- you also take on their power to do something about it. When you obsess over how your partner feels inadequate at tennis, you are forgetting your own lopsided serve. And just like you can never coach anyone's atheltic prowess before you've gotten your own handle on the game, you will never help anyone with their emotional shortcomings before you've established your own.



So detachment is not about being jaded, cynical or unfeeling. It's about allowing others to feel and being a shoulder to lean on when it becomes too much to bear. And then it's about parting in order to deal with your own stuff on your own time, so that when you come together it is with the strength needed to create something even better.

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Day One or; Transmissions From CrazyTown

Look, Here's The Thing:

Today is Day One of NaBloPoMo and as promised, I will be sharing tidbits from Transmissions From CrazyTown (a.k.a: letters from you). I received this extra special audio message the other day from my letter-keeper friend, who is apparently in close contact with the one-and-only Bane. For those of you unfamiliar with the Dark Night Rises character, please google and prep yourself for the confusing mixture of terror and sexual attraction.

(It literally took me about two hours to figure out how to embed this file, so your undivided SHOCK AND UTTER AMAZEMENT is absolutely necessary. I even had a back-up plan, which included a series of Bane google-images and accompanying written transcription of the message. Tom Hardy now included as an eye-candy bonus. SUCK IT, TECHNOLOGY.)

You know you want to.

I guess it's time for me to buy an apron and move to China.

What gets me about this message is how long it took me to figure out if it was actually a joke, or if someone really meant it. Because sometimes that's exactly what I hear in my own head; as if there's a part of my brain that's been pummeled enough to think I deserve nothing more in life than an endless box of cookie recipes and ten kids to coddle until I die alone, covered in half-finished knitting projects. As if there's a piece of me that truly believes that what I do and say has no impact, no place, and no weight in this world. Apparently it also needs a janky face mask with which to rasp sweet nothings of despair in my ear all day long.

That's what they would call a "personal demon," right? Those fickle little thought patterns that don't seem to do much harm until much farther down the road, when they've grown enough to poke a hole in your tires. We all have them. The belief that "I'm not good enough" that you don't even realize you're whispering to yourself until someone shouts loud enough to hear over it. The way you've avoided getting too close to anyone your whole life because you're afraid of what they'll find out, only to realize it when suddenly you find yourself alone. An unhealthy attachment to anything that keeps you from feeling what you're really afraid of: yourself.

These patterns develop young and they develop fast. They are our coping mechanisms, from times when we knew of nothing else. But the longer we let them fester the deeper their roots grow; and the greater the axe needed to fell them.

I began realizing that I was telling myself I would never be good enough a long time ago. When I only spent two months in Europe instead of ten, I wondered why I couldn't get it together to be gone longer. When I began showing my work in galleries in Chicago, I told myself it should be New York. When I lost my apartment, I berated myself for not having the Next Big Plan waiting on standby. And every time I cling to those not at what I know my awareness and intelligence to be (in my head, at least), I am simply mirroring how I feel inside. As not worthy.

Personal demons are a goddam bitch, to be frank. Of course I know where they came from, now -- after years of examination, processing and patience with myself (I may be stretching on the patience part). But that doesn't mean it's not a daily practice of retraining my thought processes to believe otherwise. I'm proud to say that now I think I'm pretty fucking awesome...most of the time. 

Boundaries Part 3 or; Are We Fucking There Yet?

I'm thinking it's time to put on pants today. I've spent the last 36-odd hours wearing the same grubby leggings and old t-shirt and I think my self respect deserves a hot shower, some makeup and a nice dress. And maybe a bra, for old time's sake.

 

As I'm sitting here absentmindedly rifling through old posts and random computer-y things that need checking up on, I decide to check Pinterest; an exercise in time-wasting I haven't done in weeks. And of course, what is the bulk of my feed made up of? Engagement rings.

 

Pinterest: can you not see that I'm in the process of a probable break-up, here? WHY MUST YOU TAUNT ME, MOCKING DEVIL OF PRETTY THINGS?

 

But let's not get into dramatics. Let's take this nice little opening to segue into what I had been trying to dive right into at the beginning, before getting lost in the vast depths of the interwebs.

 

You know you've been dying to go over it again, right? You know you've waited for the clincher, for the final act of a never-ending story. You know what I'm talking about. BOUNDARIES, guys. Or as I'd like to scream to the rooftops right now, ARE WE FUCKING THERE YET?!

 

Here's the thing about boundaries: once you've admitted to yourself what they are, it's damn near impossible to comfortably proceed in any direction without their adherence. Hence the connection to the above, and the ever-present level of drama in my life over relationships and the difficulties thereof.

 

The easy part is deciding what makes you feel good and would like to keep; or what makes you uncomfortable and would prefer to change. The hard part is sticking to your guns. Once you've established what you want out of any interaction and have experienced the resistance (aka: change-back signals) that accompanies the change, the natural inclination is to run screaming from your boundary in search of the ease that once was a boundary-less existence. It may have felt shitty, but it was better than all this yelling and screaming, right?

 

But here's the truth: your boundaries are about no one but you. How you choose your life to look has nothing to do with anyone else. So the pot of gold at the end of the shit-rainbow is that no matter what happens with those putting up the big fight, when you stick and hold to your boundaries, you always win. Always. You may lose some people in the process, but that just means they didn't want to play your game. And that's ok. Better to live a life based in your personal truth then bend it for the sake of harmony. Denying yourself never did anyone any good -- that's why we have that handy thing called "mid-life crisis."

 

Don't wait until that moment to be true to yourself. Those that want to come with you, will. And those that don't will move on a different path. No one is any better than the other for that. It's just a difference of opinion.

 

So now as I exercise my puny boundary-setting muscles, I can feel them growing. I can feel my understanding of self getting clearer. I may not end up with the one I wanted to end up with. I may have to shift my life a little. But I may end up moving closer to who I am, too. And that is beautiful.

 

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The Ice Burg Effect

Like most of us that came of age in the 90's, I love the movie Titanic. Not just because Leonardo became our first sex symbol (still is) or that Kate showed us what it means to be a woman (still saving up for those implants). It's the metaphor. Yes, lots of people died and it was an awful tragedy. But for the sake of this post let's pretend it was just a movie -- and one that does a damn good job showing us what it's like to be human, if you know where to look. And I'm not just talking about that scene in the car, with the handprint -- get your mind out of the gutter.

 

The point where this incredible (if maybe not totally plausible -- since when does Hollywood validate our own love lives, anyway?) story of two people meets the path of that giant chunk of chemical composition is what I'm really interested in. Two people, with lives and dreams and well, baggage; floating along unbeknownst of the fatal ice cube waiting for them in the ocean's giant cocktail glass. They laugh, they dance. Leo shakes some hair out of his eyes. We all see Kate's boobs (unfortunately I was 12 and seeing this movie with my father -- one of my most vivid traumas). They fall in love. Then all of a sudden their lives are ripped wide open from underneath.

 

This becomes so fascinating when we acknowledge what human beings are really made of. We are a surface, which is not so hard to see. We are the chunk that sticks out of the water, visible to the world with maybe a little more that we understand ourselves. And then we are the dark, murky subsurface. Everything that keeps an ice burg rooted in the ocean is also within us. Every memory we keep and instance we've forgotten -- it is all stored in our flesh and our bones; our brains and our cells and the atoms they all float upon. Everything a human being experiences in his lifetime does not float away on the air he breathes, but remains in pieces hidden within the puzzle.

 

So that which we are made of is a culmination of all that we have experienced. Got it. But what does that have to do with anything? Did Leo care that Kate was a prima donna princess, probably ingrained with the notion that she should get everything she wanted? Did Kate give a shit that Leo lived a life of lying and cheating, because that's all he ever knew of survival? No? Well they probably should have. Because it would have come up sooner or later.

 

This is the poignant moment here. The intersection where these two people decide to dedicate their lives to each other and the collision with the ice burg is where all of one person's shit meets all of another's. Because human beings are ice burgs, and all of what I am on the surface and underneath is all that I bring to any relationship I will ever have. And it will always be the same in reverse.

 

The only way to find your car keys is to retrace your steps, right? Well the only way to understand these things we know of our surface-selves is to retrace them back to their beginnings; which is to investigate our individual ice burgs. And sometimes it takes the collision of someone else that denies all of what you are or understand to really crack you open.

 

So to be in relationship with someone -- friend, family, coworker, lover -- is to say, "I am this, and you are that. We are different but by being together I see myself in the interaction." To see your patterns when they are magnified by someone else calls them to attention. To fix a destructive pattern is to see it and then retrace it from whence it came; which is to dive into water.

 

Human beings may all be ice burgs but that is not a bad thing. Buddy Holly and I both remember this as being one of the most poignant conversations we first had: we drew a picture together of this concept and really discussed what it meant. It means that for anyone to authentically interact with another takes a willingness to understand the ice burg. That to love someone takes little effort, but to be in relationship with them takes understanding ourselves enough to bring it all to the table. With humility and grace and acceptance. The learning never ends, but to acknowledge its existence in a relationship is something worth holding on to.

 

So yeah, it didn't end so well for Jack and Rose. But the beauty in it is what they found in their brief time together. They saw the pickaxe to their ice burgs in each other, and they moved towards them in anticipation. I hope you find your pickaxe -- or several, -- too.

 

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That Time Judy Bloom Killed My Confidence

Chicagoans: is there anything more humiliating and degrading than waiting at the Clyborn station for a train? On the Clyborn platform there is no such thing as good weather. Which if I were self-deprecating enough I'd show you by the state of my hair and general she-looks-like-my-feral-cat-after-a-bath appearance right now. It is never too sunny for wind, nor too frigid for rain. The Clyborn platform is where all weather elements come to play American Gladiator for the title of Most Likely To Ruin Someone's First Date. I know the Clyborn platform all too well, and we are sworn enemies.



I know because this is what us Suburbanites (Suburban Power!) endure every time we trudge out of the cornfields for some "culture." And today, I embarked upon the walk-train-walk-bus-WALK IN THE DOWNPOUR WITH A SHITTY UMBRELLA trek to take part in my very first ever writing workshop.



(Right here is where what I assume is called a "transition" should be, but because we didn't get to that particular skill and I don't really have the give-a-shit to conjure one, I'm just going to skip ahead to the good stuff.)



The scene: after a lengthy orientation on the particulars of the course, we are asked to go around and introduce ourselves. Can I mention the guy that talked too much about the vast circle of friends he has urging him to "tell his stories," and the sheer magnitude of words he feels struggling to break free of his corporate mask if only he could hone his voice? We get it, dude, you think you're a closet genius. Though how you claim to be in the closet when you talk so damn much, I have no idea.



Skip to my personal intro. We all know I have no problem talking (I guess me and Chatty McChatterson aren't all that dissimilar) but whenever I have to speak to a bunch of people I don't know I tend to get a little red in the face and start conversing with my shoes. So after rehearsing what I was going to say the whole time I was pretending to listen to everyone else, I got my chance at eloquently yet humbly stating my purpose as a member of the human race.



I'd like everyone to access their inner art critic for this next part. Please, spare me no expense when I say you should be reading it in the most pompous, arrogant, that-skinny-food-critic-from-Ratattouille-before-he-got-nice-esque voice you can muster.



My Big Intro: "Well, I've spent the majority of my adult life as a painter. But every time I experienced a lull in that process, I found myself drawn to writing. I find a kinship in your wife (haughty nod to instructor) because like her profession as a therapist, I have often been sought after for advice, which has culminated in this little blog experiment I'm working on. So I'm here to expand upon that need I find within me."



Sweet baby jesus, it was like somebody shoved Roger Ebert right up my ass before I started talking. Did I really just say all that? Only to get hit on by the guy next to me in line for the bathroom later? Are people really asking me about how "I'm a painter" successively, though I can clearly hear the mockery in their voice as I play my own words back in my head? Let's not even mention how when said "guy" commented on my scarf and I told him I made it myself he said, "a painter, a writer and a craftsman? What an artist!"



Fuck. I'm that girl.



Skip again to the end of the class, in which we are to write for 30 minutes based on a prompt of our choosing. I know before I've even started that what I'm writing is complete and utter horseshit. I don't even stick it out for the full 30 minutes because a) I'm afraid I'll miss my train and b) I'm so unimpressed by my own lack of ingenuity as I scramble to get through it that I can't bear to watch myself dribble out one more word of my Judy Bloom-wannabe essay any longer.



So I took the free book and the cd, the handouts and the info on the payment plan. I said goodbye to the girl I halfheartedly befriended, peed for the like the hundredth time and hurried the tail between my legs out of there. I weathered the -- er -- weather and somehow made it onto this bullet of steel rocketing me home on time. And you know what's sitting next to me on the seat? BEER. Hello, shame-induced alcoholism, have we met yet?



But you all know how this is going to end. Of course I'll be going back. Because I'm a masochist? Because every tortured artist needs their place of suffering and pain so as to fuel their work? Because I think me and Chatty Guy had a moment there, and I'd love the chance for him to wine and dine me over the manic drone of his incessant stories? NO. Because I'm a pusher, goddammit. And because I'm so done with giving up on things just because they scare me or make me feel foolish. Because I finally realize that yeah, someone that's been around this particular block might know better than me sometimes. Because I want to improve and I know it takes making an ass of yourself a few dozen times to do so. Watch out, Judy Bloom: this drowned cat's in it to win it.

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The Enforcer

A while ago I gave a brief intro on the concept of boundaries. Alas, it's time to elaborate on that sticky, mucky, unfortunate topic again.

 

Got your fences up? Are they armed with poisonous dart-shooting frogs? Do you have your war cry ready? Yeah? LIAR!

 

Well, here's the thing. Just like twister, boundaries are a lot easier to set up than they are to hold in position when someone's tickling your foot in a downward dog. It's quite easy to decide what pisses you off and what you really just don't like invading your personal bubble than to figure out how to get people from poking that bubble with a skewer in the first place. Not to mention how to blow it back up when it's splattered all over your face.

 

But let's pretend that you've really done some soul-searching and you know what your boundaries are. You know that the time you use in the bathroom to investigate the contents of your nose is not to be interrupted. There's a gold mine waiting to be discovered. Personally, I DO LIKE being be disturbed when writing in a coffee shop. That's what headphones are for. But you know, there's always someone strolling around who's very interested in the type of mascara I use, or the incredibly awkward proportions of my hands and just cannot take a hint that I don't care about their theories on progressive hand-enlargement surgery. All I want is to be left alone to figure out how to navigate a keyboard with these tiny paws in peace.

 

Alright, so you've got it down. And maybe you've tested the waters, letting a few of your closest chums in on the fact that when you're mining for gold, you're really just contemplating what would happen if you really did get that job promotion, and you just need this time to swim in your own head. Good for you! But then, inevitably comes the day that your roommate/husband/dog doesn't CARE that you're solving the world's problems in the bathroom, they REALLY WANT TO TALK about that awesome scene on Dexter yesterday. Or maybe the slipper they're chewing on.

 

This testing of your personal boundaries is what I've been taught in my psychoanalytic life as change back messages. Every time someone does something that toes the line of your personal boundary, what they're really trying to get you to do is change back to the jellyfish you used to be. Get in a fight with your boyfriend because you decide you want to start going to bed earlier? Change back. Silent treatment when you tell your friends you're not interested in that third margarita though you've been drinking partners for years? Change back. Howling fits after you take your Chanel sweater away from the dog after it's become his favorite slobber receptacle? Change back. You get the picture.

 

Trust me friends, this part is not fun. It becomes more like the game of twister than you ever thought possible. All those pretty little lines you've drawn in your head suddenly become a scribbled mess fit for the door of a suburban fridge. This is why it's so great to write things down, so that when everything does become a scrambled mess in your own head, you can refer to the handy map you've drawn for yourself and follow it straight back to the truth.

 

The change back is the hardest part. But stick with it. Once everyone gets their undies untwisted, trust me when I say it will be the greatest reward of your life. Suddenly, you can go to bed in peace without having to fight for it. Suddenly, you're not hung over for every meeting because the girls got rambunctious last night. Suddenly, none of your clothes have suspiciously crusty drool stains in the morning.

 

And do not forget the power of consequences. Think of it like training that slobbery dog (but don't tell anyone that -- 'cuz nobody wants to feel like they're being treated like a bad canine). That's what those dagger-shooting frogs are for: they're your security. If you give the silent treatment right back it's likely your drunk friends will start getting the message pretty quick. You have become The Enforcer.

 

Boundaries are one of those things I've had the hardest time getting used to. I have always wanted to be liked and I've always wanted to make people happy. But you know what? The happiness that I get from a peaceful latte is better than any joy I could bestow someone else for listening to their 10-minute rant on jello. I'm sure there are other jello-lovers around.

 

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