Idiot Parade

Conversation re: the stupidity of ‘the game’.

Him: I’d love it if I could just tell this girl, “Hey. I’ve still got this crush on you. I think you’re fabulous. You’re what I’m looking for. A girl with her own friends. Her own passions. Her own career goals. You’re charming, you’re beautiful and you have a smile that knocks my socks off. I want to date you because you’re the most promising person to come along in a long while. So, come on. Coffee. Friday. 11. Whaddaya say?” but that’s coming on a bit strong and I know it’ll drive her away… which is, actually, my specialty.

Me: if a guy I was crushing on said that to me, I’d kiss him right there….why are we so much cooler than everyone else?

Him: well, baby, God only has so much cool to give out when he’s making people. some people get a light spreading. The usual amount. Some people get none. But now and then he says, “Empty the jar.” and you get us!

You know you’re doing well when being at work is the best part of your day.

I love everything about Gymboree. The parents have been very kind, and the small ones have become very comfortable around me. Some of them still eye me suspiciously, because that’s how they process new information, but most of them are more than happy to come play with me and tackle me with hugs.

Sometimes being there is a bit weird. I was a Gymboree kid. I remember the parachute and all the songs….even sang in the chorus on one of the Parachute Express cds. I can’t imagine ever being so small and so brand new. I love how they learn things…they touch and explore, and they let everyone know exactly how they are feeling at all times. It’s brilliant. I wish adults would do that more often. Touch me, hug me, let me in. We’re so guarded all of the time. It doesn’t make sense.

Oh, for my own amusement–

Gymboree sells Gymbo stick puppets. Currently, they look like this:

This is *my* Gymbo. I got him when I was about 6 months old.

Ah, nostalgia.

The gap between what other people see in me and what I see is continuously growing larger.

Was talking with a close friend a few days ago about the possibility of someday having a relationship. On paper, this sounds like a wonderful idea. I adore him, he treats me well, and I’d be well taken care of. But about halfway through our conversation, I realized that no matter how much I may want a partner, I just don’t have the energy for it. I’m tired. And I don’t like being this tired. I pride myself in always having a bit more to give. If you looked at me, you’d see a normal young woman. Mostly intact, only a couple scars and maybe a bruise or two. But when I look in my own eyes, I see an old woman, all worn out. Like an old piece of leather. That’s not to say I’m world-weary or that I think I’ve seen so much that now I’m simply bored. I’m not that pretentious. But it takes so much to play the game. Meet someone, flirt, wait for a call, go out, more waiting, go out a couple more times, walking on eggshells because this book warns about somethingorother, and this relationship coach says you have to do thisorthat, otherwise you will be a complete failure at life and die alone, die one of those sad New York deaths where no one notices until the smell comes down through the air vents a week later.

I’m tired.

What’s worse, I’m afraid of being tired. Because the last time I gave up, I met this amazing guy, and everyone always says it’ll just happen when you stop wanting it, which is exactly what occurred….except he freaked out and left after a couple months. And if I’m too exhausted to be out there, there’s no way I can handle being dumped right now.

I know I’m not becoming broken and cynical, because there are a couple people who I love beyond all reason and comprehension. I’m just not sure what happens to all that love when there’s no place for it to go.

When does art become dangerous? At what point do we say that the consequences of self-expression outweigh the expression itself?

Controversy is not generally something that concerns me. I support using art as a forum for political discourse. When I choose a scene or a monologue, I generally look for what’s most likely to make someone cringe. Many of my poems and paintings are fairly graphic. I like to shake people out of the norm. Which is why I feel like such a hypocrite when I say that I’m uncomfortable with something like “Thirty-Two Kilos”, a new art exhibit at the Goethe-Institut Washington.

There’s nothing wrong with the exhibit, per se. All of the photographs are digitally altered. I do have concerns about the pro ana/mia audience, though. It doesn’t matter that the girls in the pictures don’t actually look that way, that the photographs don’t represent reality. They stand as a new example of what these girls want to be. And it’s so easy to fall into that trap. A few years back, I wrote a paper on the ana/mia online community. Even though I had my diet well under control by that time, I found myself getting sucked back in, just from reading the blog posts. I have never had the frame of someone like Gabrielle Anwar. No matter how much I wish otherwise, it is physically impossible for me to be that skinny. But after a few days of my…I guess it would be considered research…I was back to kicking myself for having a piece of cheese. I still have my old thin-spo collage hanging on my door. I understand that “Thirty-Two Kilos” is supposed to be a negative representation on the fashion industry, but what it’s really doing is giving more fuel to a physically and mentally unhealthy movement, and possibly acting as a trigger for girls (and boys; ED males are rare, but they certainly exist) who are trying to heal.

So, what’s to be done? I don’t think censorship is the answer, but it has to be made clear that these images are not something we should strive to be.

….if it were my exhibit, I’d probably just smear “EAT A CHEESEBURGER” over the photos in bright red paint.

The cafeteria was packed this morning. Every chair taken, people sitting on tables, on the floors, leaning against counters. I managed to get there just in time to see Joe Biden take the Vice Presidential Oath of Office.

Watching Obama being sworn in and giving his inaugrual address moved me more than I could have ever expected. For the first time, I can honestly call someone My President. My first election, my first time campaigning, my first rally….the first time in my lifetime that I feel truly proud of my country. We still have many faults. We still have a very, very long way to go. The election of a Black man does not mean the end of racism, not by any stretch of the imagination, just as having openly gay officials doesn’t eradicate homophobia. I wish it were that simple. And, of course, we can’t expect President Obama to do everything for us. Amazingly enough, he is not the messiah and he can’t magically make everything better. One of my professors just told us to not hold him to such a high standard, because he cannot save us. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, though. Maybe he can help us to save ourselves. When I heard him speak this morning, I was inspired to work harder. To take more chances. To be more aware of my actions and their consequences. I want this for everyone, because I think that we can be so much better than what we are if we just drop the philosophy of ‘my country, right or wrong’. If we stick with that mindset, then we’re going to keep on making the same mistakes. But if we can follow Obama’s lead, take a step back, and see what’s in front of us without wearing red, white, and blue-colored goggles, then maybe we can start making some changes happen.

I hope that we can do this. I hope that we can band together as a stronger unit. I don’t agree with our new President on everything, and I know people who don’t agree with him on anything. But I believe in my father’s advice of having to start from where you are. We are being given the chance of a lifetime, and we would be fools to waste it. Let’s be more humane. Let’s be wiser. Let’s be more considerate and more joyful and more willing to kick ourselves in the ass when we screw up. Because we do screw up. Quite a lot, actually. But we can learn from this. Starting today, let’s be better.

There is something I’ve suspected for quite a while now, but has only recently been confirmed.

Kids today are total pussies.

Now, granted, this is a relative statement. My parents’ generation had dangerous toys like a miniature Atomic Energy Lab or the original Creepy Crawlers Thingmakers, not to mention cap and/or BB guns. The only gun I was ever allowed to have was a light-up Star Wars Storm Trooper Blaster (aside: holy crap, that thing rocked. If I still have it tucked away somewhere, I will save it for my own future geek-spawn). Hell, I was born in the 80s and still completely missed out on lawn darts and slap bracelets.

I saw an article today on AOL Shopping called The Most Dangerous Toys. A few of my favorites:

*The Fun Roller. How awesome does that look? I want one! It’s the closest I would ever get to having my very own hamster ball. But don’t buy one for your child. They might roll out into the street and get hit by a car. Okay, that is a valid fear. Might I offer a couple suggestions? Have them play with it in the backyard. Even better! Try some good, old-fashioned Adult Supervision.

*Hulk Smash Hands. Put on the gloves, hit things, they make Hulk noises. What’s that you say? It makes children aggressive? They could hurt someone? Well, have a Come-to-Jesus Meeting with the kid where you explain that hitting the cat or their little brother is not, by any means, okay. At the very least, get another pair for the younger sibling so he/she can fight back.

*Lite Brite. I grew up with this. It’s pretty, it inspires creativity, it’s a choking hazard. Look, the pegs are tiny. It will not kill you. If the child (who should be old enough to know that swallowing toys is a dumb idea) or a baby swallows a little light peg, he/she will poop it out. No big deal. Same goes for pennies and small pebbles.

*Trampoline. We’re not talking a regular, ordinary, old-school trampoline. A bunch of my friends had those, all filled with holes and relatively high of the ground. We fell off, and it hurt like hell. We were more careful the next time. This Is How We Learn. But these spiffy trampolines have a big piece of netting around it, so the kid can’t fall and get a concussion. However, “the safety net could pose as an entrapment issue”. What does that even mean?

In junior high, I was the only girl in my group of friends. Well…that’s a mostly true statement. The boys I played with would occasionally have girlfriends, and Allison stayed in the group for a while, but I was the token vagina. I liked the way that worked. It allowed me to do *fun* things that other girls weren’t into…like playing tackle football or doing a host of stupid things for money (keep my hand in a frozen puddle of water until it turned blue, eat a bug, spit across the street, etc). It also gave me special access to Frog Pond, the boys haven. It wasn’t a pond, and I never once saw a frog. I think the only creature I ever found in there was a blue and deformed crawdad. Makes sense that it would be a bit retarded, because Frog Pond was (still is, actually) where the sewer lets out. It is smelly, awful, poop water. And we stomped around in it. We fell in it. We climbed down a garden hose that was tied to a tree branch, balanced on slippery boulders and discarded couches, all so we could make our way through the liquid poo. It was brilliant. The most fun I’ve ever had. I felt like a freaking Goonie. I also twisted my ankle more than once, fell down a ravine and nearly hit my head, and generally came home wet, bloody, and/or bruised. Because (and this is the point of the anecdote, so pay attention) kids get hurt. They are supposed to get dirty and get hurt. If you live in a bubble, you will never learn about your limits, you will never get any stronger, and probably not much smarter in the terms of being street-wise. Grade-school children aren’t even allowed to play Dodgeball for chrissake, and I can’t think of a single game that was more important in my childhood. If you wanted to win, you had to earn it. You had to be fast, alert, and willing to get a few scraped knees. Sitting in a circle and playing nicely with your peers, while valuable when learning about sharing and cooperation, doesn’t teach a child anything about survival.

We are making our kids weak from the get-go, and then wonder why they are growing up to be weak adults.

I can’t believe I’m a month late in seeing this (thanks for telling me about it, Chels-face)

How to Talk to Girls

It might seem odd to think that a child would be an authority on dating an relationships…but maybe he has a clearer view of it than any of us. A nine-year-old doesn’t know about mind games or power plays or ridiculous rules of conduct. It should be as easy as saying “hello”, at least at the beginning. Why do we make these thing unnecessarily complicated?

“If I say hi and you say hi, we’re probably off to a good start.” I could not agree more.

Two days into it, and I’ve already hurt a friend by posting about a certain incident.

In light of this, I’d like to make a couple things clear.

I write about my life. What happens in it. The people involved. Sometimes, that might include you. However, I will not use real names unless given permission, and I will be willing to delete or amend a post if it makes someone truly uncomfortable.

Thank you.

The universe works in mysterious ways.

A week ago, I could answer most questions posed to me in class. I sounded like an intelligent and eloquent young woman. To be fairly blunt, when it comes to English Literature, I know my shit.

This was completely decimated once Pretty Creative Writing Boy starting hinting that he might be attracted to me. Now my brain exclusively sings The Fail Song, leaving exactly no room for anything resembling…anything.

I can’t WAIT to see how this plays out.

I thought I had a few more years before this would become an issue. Not even an issue, really, just a reminder of impending adulthood. Three of my friends are engaged–one of them is a friend from junior high; the other two, I’ve known since elementary school. It’s this weird juxtaposition. My young friends are starting their new live together, while a good number of my older friends are struggling and watching their relationships fall apart.

I know that divorce rates are high. I know that young marriages are more likely to fail. And I seem to have plenty of people to remind me of this in case I start to forget. But god, I desperately want these to work. I want my friends to be happy. I want to believe that, even if I don’t wind up living a fairy tale, maybe someone I care about will.

I’ve never read House at Pooh Corner (please don’t hurt me), but I found the final passage, when Christopher Robin has to go off to school and grow up. It seems….relevant. At one time or another, I think we’re all a bit like Christopher Robin.

“Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little.
“How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety-nine.”
Pooh nodded.
“I promise,” he said.
Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh’s paw. “Pooh,” said Christopher Robin earnestly, “if I — if I’m not quite —” he stopped and tried again — “Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won’t you?”