Patience Is A FuckYou

 

This phrase litters my notebooks and journals. I'd hazard to guess it begins about half of those pages and can be found scattered in margins, in blocks in the middle, and as concluding sentences. I began writing it to myself when I was in Europe a few years ago. I think it was on the first day, when I missed the second of four modes of transportation I needed to reach my final destination -- in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, so getting to and fro is a hazardous experience -- and spent four hours at a coffee shop where no one spoke English and the toilet was a hole in the ground. The reason I even missed that train in the first place was because a) the ancient Italian guy who sold me my ticket didn't understand a word I was saying and b) because I had no idea how to navigate the platforms both marked and spoken on the loudspeakers in Italian (I got an Italian phrasebook and cd months before I left but didn't touch either until the plane departed New York for Milan. I didn't retain much over the screaming baby). Not to mention the fact that while they are marked and I eventually learned how to read which arrived where, the trains tended to change tracks at the last minute with the only indication being the previously mention loudspeaker announcement, unfortunately in rapid Italian. I missed a lot of trains that spring. I also peed on my legs a lot.

 

The thing about being in a foreign country, alone, with little to no understanding of how it operates or its proffered language is that when you get yourself in a bind, there's literally nothing you can do about it. You have to wait in a coffee shop, ignore your bowels because you can't figure out how to navigate the toilet situation and are simultaneously afraid of leaving your luggage unattended for more than 30 seconds and sit until you've developed a new plan. You have to risk making an ass of yourself running for a bus in a dress with a giant backpack and suitcase rolling after you, sometimes while frantically taking puffs on a cigarette or shoving a brioche down your gullet. But then again, I've never been good at simplifying a process.

 

Those two months were a strange cocktail of the slowest, most boring days I've ever experienced and the greatest, dizzying adrenaline rushes of my life. I tended to sleep an average of ten hours a night in the foothills, but then spent a week on less than 5 in Paris. The common denominator was that I never knew what would happen next. I got lost every single time I went to Milan, and once spectacularly in Turin -- YOU try going to a city that doesn't operate on a grid and tell me how you fair. Google maps, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Several times I would stop people on the train, point to or mime their cell phone, pull out the one contact phone number I had and somehow ask them to dial for me while I concocted a plan for if there was no answer, and pray to God she would -- because I really never created a new plan anyways.

 

In all of the confusion and uncertainty that I experienced in my time there, I learned two things that I will never forget:

 

1) That I am capable of a hell of a lot more than I ever thought possible, given situations that I could never have anticipated and the sheer need to just make it work, SOMEHOW, and;

2) Sometimes there is literally nothing you can do. Sometimes your only recourse is to just sit, feed the barista espresso money, doodle aimlessly, and be fucking patient.

Now, the first one I'm ok with. The first one I love -- that I found strength in myself when everything looked like it was hellbent against me. That one is bitchin. The second one? FUCK YOU, PATIENCE! You don't even have to ask The Mother and she'll tell you that my greatest fault is my lack of patience. She'll also probably tack on the story about how when I was three years old I hounded her for a month to take me to the Ice House Mall to get my ears pierced. And then how when she did, I screamed bloody murder and let them close up days later. I was a fun kid.

 

This phrase has been creeping back up on me lately, though. I've been wound so tight over everything I can't control and feel like I'm drowning in, that I've forgotten what I learned while I was getting fat on pizza and gelato. That was a brief and poignant moment in my life that I truly learned and understood the value of patience -- not because it's a virtue or other such phraseology -- but because literally, sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do but sit down, watch things unfold and wait for the right moment to jump back in. To push anything just pushes it past where it's supposed to go at that point, and you're probably going to break it (just ask my stomach circa The Pizza Era). There is a fine line between laziness and patience, and I know that I am indefinitely skewed towards the latter. It's my tendency.

 

And right now there is a lot I'm uncertain of. I'm having a hard time getting grounded in much and I'm beginning to push both myself and others around because of it. I've lost sight of what at one time I had gotten really good at. Which is why I'm trying to let that nugget of past learning work its way back into my life.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

 

 

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Hooray?

I paid off my car loan yesterday. I didn't even plan to -- I was assuming I'd continue my let's-just-squeak-by-unnoticed plan until the middle of next year, at which point I'd probably just keep the payments rolling with way over due car repairs and ten missed oil changes. But as I was driving to work yesterday morning and I began my daily ritual panic attack about all the things I'm unsure of currently, I started thinking about the money I have sitting in my account after the bank made me unceremoniously chuck my own ass out. And then I started thinking about all the money I owe, outside of those student loans that will haunt me of my failed scholarly attempts until the day I trip over a toe and die in a puddle of ice cream or something. Assuming my diet is purely mechanical soft, at that point.

 

Mid-Taylor Swift radio repeat I realized: money + debt = NOTHING. Or broke, whichever one is still Not Bill Gates (does Bill Gates have debt? If so, is that like the United States having debt? Like, we have debt, but we really have a shit ton of money in all the wrong places? Do I even know what I'm talking about here? Should I just stop making myself look like an easy target for telemarketers and door-to-door campaigners?).

 

Money is a big hot button for me. Growing up we were dirt poor, living around a bunch of people who were absolutely not dirt poor. Although I did learn that garbage picking furniture in a town whose welcome sign should read Welcome To White Upper-Middle Class really shows you the value of the curb. And dry couch cushions.

 

Growing up broke around people who vomit Jeep Grand Cherokees on their children's sixteenth birthdays makes for a pretty twisted material complex in a child. I always lusted after the best of everything but grew up believing I would never have it. Though I never wanted for anything, none of it was ever enough. And I never thought anything would ever be enough.

 

When I began making my own money, I started developing this love/terror relationship with it. The more I had, the harder to it I clung. The emptier my account, the more consumed I became with something I ABSOLUTELY NEEDED but could not afford. And the more elaborate the schemes I would come up with to just make enough money to afford ONE MORE Tamagotchi (to clarify...this was allowance money. I was not working at Dairy Queen at 15 just to buy Tamagotchi. Enter: Fall Out Boy).

 

Even today this come-closer-go-away relationship I have with the dolla dolla bills, y'all, persists. I had all this money just sitting there, for two months, knowing it was an opportunity to clear a large obstacle from my way. But I chose to just let it sit there, so I could obsess over whether or not to blow it on new tattoos or completely clear my debt slate as a Responsible Adult should.

 

Truth is that money came completely out of the blue. But as soon as I knew it was mine, I all of a sudden couldn't have survived without it. So I guess the cycle comes full circle, in a way: the money that I didn't know existed became imperative to pay for things I didn't know were possible until that point. Which leads me to wonder, what am I clinging to now that may not be necessary in my life, but seems so just because it's here? What about you? When was the last time you took stock of what you have -- things, experiences, people, etc. -- that you may not need anymore? Does anyone else have such a dysfunctional relationship with their wallet as me?

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I'm Coming Out or; (Channeling D.F.W.)

I'm coming out. No, not like that, guys. I still like me a nice side of man m--wait, no, I can't finish that sentence. My grandmother might be reading, and I need to maintain my perfect first-born status within the family. For the record, I NEVER have anything to do with man-ANYTHING. EVER.



No, I'm not coming out of the closet to answer all the chicks that have been hitting on me lately (if that were true, can you imagine the self confidence I'd be floating on right now?). But I bet you're all wondering what spurred my uncharacteristic, sappy and altogether BORING (come on admit it, I know everything you're thinking before you've even thought it) post yesterday. Truth is, I had my first ever verbal (I reiterate: what the hell do you say when it's a written-verbal; as in, via-the-interwebs-but-it's-like-I'm-talking, verbal? Someone educate me. Or make up a word) fistfight on facebook yesterday. And not just any old fisticuffs, no -- it was with a family member. Pause for your stunned silence.



(Can one have enough parenthesized sentences in a single paragraph? David Foster Wallace, come save me.)



This is how it went down: so I'm perusing the interwebs late Tuesday night -- early Thursday morning depending upon your affinity for cocaine -- and I come across something that gets my granny panties all in a twist. Something that I just find personally offensive, internationally prejudiced, and globally trivial. This facebook missile just happened to belong to a family member. And the longer I stared at it, the less I could convince my self of its overall unimportance to my well-being. I knew I should just look away and take my dignity with me, as if "taking the high road" ever helped anybody expel a little sexual frustration-based rage (sorry, Grandma). To wit: it really pissed me the fuck off.



So -- in the most tactful manner I could summon and using my largest big-girl words so as to appear "intelligent" -- I drafted a response. That then turned into two responses. And then three. And then I went to bed feeling a little less frustrated and a whole lot more SUCK IT.



But here's the thing, and the reason for my coming out party: I have never spoken any sort of self-truth to this side of my family. I've always been pretty mum about who I am as a person, aside from the shallow surface that I bring to Thanksgiving dinner. I keep the peace by avoiding controversial topics, my opinions regarding my belief system, or anything that even skims the surface of "who I really am." Maybe that's the reason I haven't been around to watch anybody fry a turkey, lately.



I have always known there was a rift between us -- as soon as I developed enough brain cells to form my own thoughts and ideas, I could feel the strain between "me" and "them" pulling more taught. I don't think it's a malicious thing, it's just that we're different. We all know that I'm different and that we don't really understand each other, though no one cares to say it out loud. And this is why I'm choosing to jump out of the closet. I MADE YOU A PAINTING. IT'S SEXUAL AND VIOLENT (please, someone call the reference so I don't look like a total whackadoo).



The first part of acceptance in any relationship is accepting yourself, first. It has taken me a long time to accept who I am. The second part is sharing it and coming to peace with the fact that even if the receiving party does not reciprocate the love you have for yourself, that's ok. Even if they don't agree or want any part in it, that acceptance you have of yourself is all that matters. You can still be cordial. You can still interact. You can understand that you are different but still spun from the sheep's wool. And you can move on.



Just like it has taken me a long time to come to terms with myself, it has taken me even longer to bring that out into the world. And for some reason, families make this trek even slipperier. That need to be accepted by your family will always be there (there's that tribe thing again). But the more I can learn to love myself, the less it matters in the long run.



I look forward to sharing more of myself to them. At least now when we feel the discomfort, we will know where it comes from. Maybe we can talk about it. And maybe -- just maybe -- someday it'll make things a little bit more interesting. One can only hope, right?

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Let Me Change Into Something A Little More Uncomfortable

Look, Here's The Thing:

 

I know I said I'd continue my story today but I'm having a hard time focusing on it (though I will share the photos soon -- those do not deserve to be kept in the closet). The reason I'm choosing to be so lame about the details is because I can't seem to get past a more overwhelming feeling; one that's making it hard to talk about anything more specific than its general unspecific-ness.

 

I think I'm starting to hit a wall. Like the day after Christmas, and the disappointment that all the waiting and hoping you did for months is gone; after everything new has become old again and you begin waiting for next year. The second I resigned myself to writing every day for an entire month, I knew I was in for some hard slaps in the face. Because I know myself -- that newness keeps me excited about what is constant, but every new thing will become that constant given enough time.


 

I know this cycle all too well. I've had both moments of other-worldly joy and complete and utter boredom in my painting. I've had days where I thought every mark was pure gold, and others where I was sure that I completely ruined something great. But you know what's interesting? Almost every time I thought I'd mined the prized nugget I found it dull upon revisitation. And whenever I left the studio in total despair I came back to see a brilliance I had missed.

 

It's as if the expectation creates the dysfunction. That whatever you assume will be is the exact opposite of what you get. So when do we stop expecting so much? When do we understand that it's all gravy, in the end?

 

I'm not really even sure where I'm going with this, today. All I know is what I felt I was getting myself into at the beginning of this process, rearing its ugly head: I'm making myself uncomfortable. I absolutely hate being held to guidelines in any creative process, and the guideline here that I do it every day without fail makes me want to punch that wall straight in the teeth. It's like, "don't tell me what to do, Mom! I make my own rules and I WILL WEAR NEON EYESHADOW IF I WANT TOO!"

 

What I do know but don't like to admit, though, is that making yourself uncomfortable sometimes brings out the best and most unexpected truths. It says, "I will face this fear, and I will rip its face off with my spiky heels. I will win." And the more you push the discomfort, the faster you get to the other side of it -- knowing a hell of a lot more than you did when you started. It's the reason my artistic process has evolved so much in the time I've been involved with it: because no matter how many times I never wanted to pick up a brush again, I always came back. There's a saying that when it comes to working in the studio: all you have to do is show up. So this is me showing up.

 

I was telling my therapist the other day how afraid I was of getting invested in this experiment only to fail. She reminded me that the only way I could fail was to stop being honest. Here's my honest moment of the day. I'm hoping that I come back to it tomorrow and find it a little brighter than how I left it.

 

 

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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. 

El Fin.

Look, Here's The Thing:

I FOUND A DOLLAR TODAY.

Not quite the million I'd be skipping town with, but it DID give me exact change with which to purchase this delicious soup I am currently noshing on. Life just has that funny way of giving you exactly what you need -- though I'd prefer to find a deluxe yacht cruise vacation voucher for the next oh, never-coming-back amount of time, waiting on my doorstep.

Also what I need right now is like ten solid hours in a movie theatre with which to expel all feelings of sorrow I have built up over the last few weeks (I told you I'd get back to it -- and you thought I'd forget). That's right guys, we've reached El Fin. I never thought it would take an entire month to end a relationship, but here I am spilling all my dirty laundry as if you were asking for it. As they say: you win some, you lose some. And sometimes you kick "some" in the balls.

But I'm not here to ruminate. Wait, no...that's exactly what I'm here to do. What I'm really not here to do is wallow. That's what the movies are for.

Every time I get the hankering to go see a movie by myself, I know I'm in for a great big sob session. I usually don't even have anything in particular to cry about, I just know I need some time alone in a dark theatre, surrounded by strangers and a bunch of really powerful emotions slapping me in the face. It always does the trick. And don't even talk to me about previews -- those things are so saturated with feeling (obviously, they are intended to suck you in so fast you never saw it coming. Which is why my life's dream is to become a professional trailer-watcher. Also massage-receiver.) that I usually don't even get to the feature presentation without soaking my sleeve.

A few weeks ago I spent an evening across the row from a happy couple enjoying "The Master." NOT ONLY were they obnoxiously oblivious to the black hole of despair seated mere paces from them, but they proceeded to mock the very serious and dramatically brilliant film throughout. Though I did learn the usefulness of giant scarves in muffling choking sobs and/or pathetically wet faces.  

This is why I stress the importance of feeling your feelings, though. Sometimes we store them up for so long that it takes longer to let them go -- the only way of which is to move through. I was surprised by a work acquaintance on the phone this morning who told me, after I confessed what I was going through (seriously, I have no filter) and that I'd probably be spending the weekend knitting by saying, "ah, well, we all have different ways of grieving."

Amen, brother. Grief is a constant in life, because we are always changing. It can come up for any reason -- the loss of a friend, relationship, living situation, favorite past time. To let go of that change in life takes a certain amount of courage and wherewithal, as well as the strength to admit it and let go. Crying is actually one of the most healing properties the human body experiences (trust the research -- though you'll have to find it on your own). My therapist told me yesterday that to adequately grieve an experience sometimes takes moving through each individual memory – and J.H.C. is she right. So give yourself some time and a box of tissues for the ride.

So that's why I go to the movies. That's why I knit through hours of Law & Order. That's why I call my friends and drink too much wine (er, don't do that last part). It's why I think about the future after the clouds part a bit. And that’s why I cry.

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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Mile Marker

Look, Here's The Thing:

I just happened to overhear a group of older gentlemen seated next to me refer to Mitt Romney as a "whore." I'm not here to delve into politics or my opinions considering, but I'd just like to note that that was...well...EPIC.

 

In other news, this little blog thing I'm barfing all my thoughts on hit a record of 1,000 page views yesterday. To clarify: that means total page views. Not daily, like the hundreds of other fashion bloggers that get like, 15,000 hits every two hours. Do I need to start showing you my failed attempts at doing my hair without burning several fingers in the process? Or how I hang all my clothes in the shower and leave it running all morning (I'm not even in the shower usually at this point -- because who needs to go through all that wet-hair-blow-drying shit at 7 AM anyways) in leu of the tedious process that is ironing?

 

BUT HEY, it's a milestone for me. I've been tenuously waiting for that moment so I could look at it and say, "YES, someone IS reading. I'm NOT just a crazy person living in her parent's basement talking to herself!" And in honor of it, I'd like to share something I wrote before the shit hit the fan and my life got turned upside down -- before I began hibernating in the bowels of my adolescent home:

 

Here's what we all know but no one wants to admit:

We're all searching. We're all grasping at straws, trying to find the one whose length matches that of our soul.

But what happens when they all seem to come back short? When we keep wading through the mud, looking for that platform to rescue us from the muck that keeps us stuck? When is the moment that we find that Oasis? How do we get out of our own way to stumble upon the thing that brings us peace, that pulls us along its path into the great plane where all things are possible?

It's that feeling, that feeling like flies circling, pinching at your skin, the feeling that with all the peace and joy and wonder at your fingertips, there is something entirely else clawing you from beneath to be set free.

I feel it, so much more often than not. This need to tear off layers of my skin because the subsequent material is so much more than what is at the fore.

Isn't that what art is supposed to do? Does this mean I am not an artist, that I can't tap into all that shit to bring it into the world? I guess I wouldn't be a very good mother.

But I'm drowning, choking on these things I use to keep myself busy, to appear useful. To appear together. To appear human and sane and worth it. There is so much more here, but I don't yet have the vocabulary for it. I don't have the tools-

The skills-

The courage-

To let out whatever animal is scratching at this cage of ribs.

When is it all released?

I could run for days.

 

...A little melodramatic, I admit. But I think this was the moment that I became totally honest with myself about how I was feeling at that time. There was just so much stuff I could feel within and around me, and I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground in how to deal with it.

 

So then I lost my apartment, my studio, and a portion of my drive to paint. Those pieces I was clinging to were systematically removed from my life. But like I've said before, that emptiness is where you find what has substance. In the vacuum I found writing. And for now, that's what I'll keep doing. Because the clawing from inside has subsided a bit. Because I'm moving in a different direction. Because we are always changing, always evolving, and always finding different paths to move along. And isn't that supposed to be the fun part?

 

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Zombie Promcalypse?

This incredibly flattering photo of a friend and I was taken this past weekend at was has been dubbed "First Possibly-Annual Zombie Prom 2012." Catchy title, no? Although I haven't done it much in the last few years, I actually do love dressing up for Halloween. Until I get to wherever I'm going and I'm like, somebody-take-my-face-for-a-second-so-I-don't-pick-it-off-trying-to-itch-my-nose-without-ruining-my-two-hour-makeup-job-thanks.

 

The last time I dressed up for Halloween, I thought it would be really cheeky to go as the cover character from Invisible Monsters. Too bad it just looked more like I got into some dirty business with Kirby. That same night, one of my friends arrived with eight tails pinned to her outfit and wearing cat ears. It took me about ten minutes to guess "octo-pus," and then another 30 seconds to internally shame myself for my lack of ingenuity with wordplay.

 

When I think back on the Halloweens of my childhood, I am reminded of my father. Dad hand-sewed Pocahontas for me when I was wee, as well as Belle the following year. What can I say, the dude is good with a pattern. Let's not even talk about the fact that he used to cross stitch, too. Who else can say they are that in touch with their feminine side (excluding you, Trent -- we all know you make a better woman than me any day. Can you teach me how to walk in heels without looking drunk yet?)?

 

Years after I stopped hunting for the perfect Jasmine costume (I spent an entire season hounding The Mother to find me the "red" Jasmine costume. Remember that? When Jaffar has her imprisoned and she must wear the clothes he chooses? Yeah, I wanted SLUTTY Jasmine. Psychoanalyze that, Freud.) and I began trick-or-treating without my parents, I remember my father's graduation to True Teen Embarrass-er. That year -- way before the Zombie Apocalypse became not just cool but totally plausible -- he painted his own face in the walking dead fashion, donned a ratty old sweatshirt with the hood drawn and ripped jeans, pulled a metal garden shovel out of the shed and proceeded to follow me and other young people around; dragging both one foot and the shovel behind him. I can still remember hearing the noise of the grinding metal from blocks away and his stories of scaring the shit out of teenage girls all night long.

 

Seriously, who does that? Until I remember that one time my friend and I got kicked out of the mall for walking around with a "free hugs" sign and accompanying, informative flyers. Yes, we were even followed by security. Leading me to question, what kind of world allows a grown man to follow young people around on Halloween while a pair of sweet, innocent teenagers get unceremoniously thrown out of the food court for wanting to spread some joy? I guess you could call it the difference between and pre- and post- 911 one. Let's not even go there.

 

But what I can really conclude through these musings is just how much clings to us that shapes who we are. I know that The Mother and I are like two branches on the same tree. I've come to terms with that (just kidding, mom). It's taken me a while to grip what I've gotten from the other half, just because I haven't been paying as much attention. I thought that was my brother's job. And at the same time, it takes that recognition to distinguish ourselves, too. To take and to give back. To see ourselves as the same but also vastly different.

 

So I guess I should just say, thanks for the lack of shame, Dad. I owe you.

 

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