Wednesday, September 9, 2009

A Shout Out To You, Internet

I have less than 50 friends on Facebook.

My friends (!?!???) and family have always joked that, while I may not have a lot of interpersonal relationships, I'm still kind of a big deal on the internet.


This, I won't lie, is a little hard to explain without feeling self-deluded.

Still, when you show up for a midnight showing of a movie and strangers want to hug you and you get a call from CNN the next day, it's hard not to think there might be something to the rumors.  For the most part though, I tend to keep a pretty low profile.  I use the same login name everywhere, but I don't cross link my blog, my twitter account etc... to any of my websites and I don't do it because being "kind of a big deal" doesn't really interest me.  It's wonderful to be appreciated and there's nothing handier than having an 'international contingent' when you want to travel and you need to know what kind of outlet adapter to buy, but I'm not Tila Tequila, nor do I want to be - so I'm me, and if you want to web stalk me and follow me around, go for it.  I won't be making any Forbes lists anytime soon....

Where am I going with all of this?  Today I was looking for a new avatar to use, so I was browsing my gallery to see if anything struck my fancy or if I was going to have to make a new one when I got home.  Internet, I've had Gallery installed for years and I love it, but I've never really noticed the "views" feature. 

A few months ago, I removed all of my files from Gallery and re-uploaded them with all new meta data to give myself a uniform structure and remove a lot of crap I didn't want.  Doing so, obviously, reset the view counters... This was July.

 
What have you people been up to because I don't even like that icon...
I guess sometimes I forget that there are people out there reading my blog, browsing my gallery and looking at my tweets.  It only really occurs to me when I have to confront that, despite the fact that I block search engine spiders to save on bandwidth, in the last 63 days that single icon has not only been looked at but been clicked on 1049 times. 16 times a day?  Seriously??!?  I don't advertise...my stuff is not posted all over the internet and the first time I walked into a store and saw someone wearing a t-shirt i'd designed I almost passed the fuck out.
It's weird, but it's a good weird - so thanks, Internet.  I love you too.

Yo Momma So Fat....


I hate Craft People.
This strikes most everyone who meets me as slightly…shall we say counter intuitive on account of my status as the Queen of Why-Would-I-Pay-You-To-Do-That-When-I-Could-Do-It-Myself? I have a cursory knowledge of painting, wine making, light carpentry, re-upholstery, garment making, knitting, crochet, jewelry construction, stained glass design, baking, cake decorating…etc, etc, etc… In the last month I’ve made blankets, two costumes (one of which included the most obscenely ornate trench coat, both of which I completely drafted my own patterns for), a wedding cake and greeting cards. My big goal at this point is to locate an Eames or Plycraft knockoff lounge chair on Craigslist and refinish it in a light gray vinyl and Brazilian Cherry stain.
I may have repaired my sofa with mounting brackets, plastic coated wire and a borrowed hammer tacker but before you confuse me with Craft People, you should understand that there is a subtle distinction between me and them: everything I do is useful and usable.

My Kleenex boxes do not have quilted cozies for every season – though I’m not above picking up some bulsa wood and spray paint to bang out an adorable, mod Kleenex box cover should my lifestyle ever warrant hiding the hideous floral patterns their corporate office reveres so. And yes I could knit you an ugly sweater, but I would rather make your kid an adorable stuffed hippo. Of course I can tell you that vodka and vinegar are the most effective ways to remove a strong scent from fabric, but that doesn’t make me a Craft Person – that makes me crafty.
A few weeks ago, I got quite the shock when one of the girls invited me to her baby shower. It wouldn’t have surprised me because, at their core, most people will do anything for free stuff, except this shower is not the “everyone from work” shower – this is the “friends and family only” shower. At the office, only an elite group of five were invited, or so I was informed in whispers when the card was dropped off and she hissed “friends only – I don’t want a bunch of other people there.” Forgive this for sounding strange, but I didn’t know I was friends with this girl.

It’s not as bad as it seems, it’s just that I’m not a person who has “friends.” There are people that I hang out with/around at work who I don’t do the tuck and run for when I catch a glimpse of them at the grocery store, but I wouldn’t presume to be friends with these people. I wouldn’t call them and ask for help moving or invite them to my baby shower…. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I would resent them asking the same of me, I’d do it in a heart beat…. Maybe it’s the after effect of being the kid no one liked in school but I there are exactly no people that I know whom I would feel comfortable imposing upon in any way. I just assumed that meant I didn’t have any friends – all though, apparently I do. Go figure.
Anyways, the point of all of that is that in the near future, there is a baby shower looming for me. The best thing about this is that this particular person is by far the most reasonable pregnant girl I’ve known and I have every confidence that she will not attempt to make me wear a pacifier necklace or participate in a diapering relay race….(not that I don’t totally pwn in those relay races.) If there were another best thing, it would have to be that this is also a “cool” pregnant girl. I’m one of those people that see something they like once and files it away hoping that some day the information will be useful. Among those ‘somethings’ have always been baby items that I saw once and thought were totally awesome but never had someone to give them to because no one I knew would ‘get it’
This girl – she gets it. I could explode. Suddenly I have a place to bestow all of this stuff that’s clunking around in my head. (Finally I’ll have room for that cure for cancer Colin was always bitching about.)
Problem? The physical manifestations of this stuff are just not as good as they were in my head. Iron on transfers fade, rhinestones fall off, embroidery is too Holly Hobby, that design is so ugly it ruins the funny…
Of course, to the crafty, these are not problems, they’re challenges :P
So last night I raced to four different stores to pick up the necessary supplies but, damnit, the thing that existed only in my head has been brought to fruition…delicious, snarky fruition.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

B is for BuSpar

I think I was seven when it first occurred to me that I probably didn’t want to have kids.

I know that sounds silly because, at seven, most little girls are playing with Barbie’s and Baby Alive (Or, at least that’s what we were doing in the early 90’s. I guess now they’re playing with rolling papers and dreaming about fucking a Jonas brother, but whatever.) For me, seven was the magical age in which I got my little brother. My parents say that I asked for him. They remind me, emphatically even, every time he does something stupid and I start raising money around the neighborhood to send him to a boarding school. I remind them in turn that, unless you want to know which Care Bear is which, you shouldn’t be looking to six year olds for guidance on major life decisions. Either way, the experience of getting my little brother was one of the more traumatic endeavors of my young life. My mother, in her pursuit of raising a well rounded daughter who was attune to the world around her, decided that I should understand the concept of birth and labor in a “first hand” kind of way.

Internet, there are things that you cannot unsee.

I remember four details surrounding my brother’s birth.

1. I was allowed to bring my Duplo’s and my Tiger games to the hospital for my mother’s labor.
2. My parents had no idea what to name him and chose his name only because the hospital wouldn’t let them go home without filling out the name on the birth certificate.
3. We dressed him in a 101 Dalmations outfit, complete with ears. This first experience with incognito dressing would come back to haunt us in years and years of “I don’t wear clothes! I wear Barney/Superman/Big Bird/Woody/Wonder Woman!” screams from the afor mentioned child.
4. ….

You know what, I can’t even tell you about four. This is the one time I am going to get up and call this experience a unique little snowflake. All I can really say is I didn’t have a cheap seat or, to use another euphemism, this was not an “above the curtain” viewing. I’m pretty sure I can still feel my grandmother’s fingernails digging into my shoulders.

It goes without saying, but my first real understanding of child birth was graphic, gory and utterly repulsive. Add that in with the particular variety of little brother I got – one that has gone far beyond the usual reaches of stealing your stuff and tattling when you sneak out of the house on Saturday night and into… well, suffice it to say that my little brother has endeavored to become everything I ever hated about other people. I’m sure he and I will iron it out later in life after he has a few life experiences and grows the fuck up but in the interim, we’re not doing to well.

Either way, I’ve spent every day since his birth very confident that I never wanted to have children. I don’t blame my mother for this in any way. In fact, she inadvertently stumbled upon the best form of contraceptive on earth. Never has there been a more careful or conscientious person when it comes to keeping the risk really really really low and I’ve been exceptionally dedicated to ensuring my own little corner of the world doesn’t contribute to the climb in teen pregnancy rates. I pass out condoms like they’re candy and we’ve taken every teenager in reasonable reach to Planned Parenthood.

As I got older and the people around me started having kids and settling down, it started to make me anxious. It took me a lot longer than it should have to come up with that word but it really is the most appropriate one for the emotion. When one of the girls at the office gets pregnant I get physically uncomfortable. When a family member pops out a kid I back away. God forbid someone in their late teens or early twenties gets their girlfriend pregnant accidentally – when that happens it’s a little like pulling the parking brake for the first time in a few years – the whole drive shaft seizes and smoke starts coming out of my ears. (Perhaps my understanding of pregnancy, child birth and child rearing was slightly skewed by my friend embedding a bullet in his skull because he knocked his girlfriend up and she wouldn’t have an abortion. That might have had something to do with it…maybe a little.)

I’ve developed a nervous twitch when people mention that they’re trying to have a baby…It’s just completely surreal.

I get that my reaction is irrational and that my behavior may read with a wink of “thou dost protest too much” but I can’t ever help it because it’s how I feel – completely and utterly repelled.

About two years ago, I got pregnant. I was on the pill but karma, in that way that it does sometimes, reached into a disastrous situation and decided to make it just a little bit worse. The sex that lead up to the almost baby was had on the cusp of Mike’s near suicide attempt. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, my boyfriend told me he’d bought a gun and intended to eat it because he was on the edge of financial ruin and what happened but I went and got myself knocked up. A lot of factors went into my decision to have an abortion but, to be honest, the emotional turmoil and our status as completely unprepared to raise a child really didn’t factor in that much. I didn’t want kids and, for his part, I don’t think Mike really wants kids either, though I think he’s far more inclined to tolerate them than I am. To boot, I was a miserable pregnant girl. I didn’t have morning sickness – I had all day long sickness, and it wasn’t just eat and wretch it was a simple inability to eat, period. Was part of that psychosomatic? I’m sure. Had I wanted to be pregnant the fact that I had to drink all of my meals for a few months probably would have seemed a lot less problematic. I might have even gotten over the fact that taking fifteen steps was enough to make me want to pass out I was so dizzy. I probably could have avoided the anemia if I’d been planning a pregnancy.

Two years later and I’ve never regretted the decision to have that abortion. It’s a decision I revisit often, like I’m sure I’m going to change my mind about it at some point – like I’m supposed to. Pop culture and the media pumps you full of the notion that if you elect to abort you will live to regret it – to miss the little life that could have been – and maybe that’s true for the spiritual but for me I’m still sure that this was absolutely the right decision for me. Sure, the protestors outside the clinic were scary – it seemed like the wrong moment to be pouring salt in people’s wounds. The fact that they had bomb doors and a video intercom system was more than a little foreboding, but when it was all said and done it was a comparatively painless experience.

I’m older now than I was then. While my eight year long relationship with Mike has always raised eyebrows and the question “when are you crazy kids gonna settle down and make babies?” over the last few years, the tone of the question has changed. People ask now with a lot more sincerity than they used to. Co-workers who I barely know stop me and tell me that I’d be a great mom and ask when I plan to have kids. The office pregnant girls, who are more than aware that “no, I don’t want to touch your stomach and feel the baby kick – tks” smile and point out that they wish they could be half the mom that they know I would be if I had kids.

They don’t do that to everyone and I’ve never really understood that because I’ve always had the hunch that I would be a horrible mother – a selfish one. I like watching bad tv and would do everything in my power to ensure that my child was enriched by PBS, not Dora the fucking Explorer. I wouldn’t give my kid Disney cd’s, I’d teach them to love metal and big band and blues and indie rap. There would be no cutting the crust off of the edges of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because that’s some pink bullshit right there. If my kid fell down roller skating, I’d probably be laughing when I went to help them up because I don’t care what you say, it’s kind of funny. Just because I made you get your drivers license doesn’t mean you’re ever getting to use the car and I think it’s fabulous that you want a $200 pair of jeans…come to think of it, they’re cute – I want a pair too. Oh well, now we both need a weekend job cuz there’s no way in hell I’m buying those for you just because you want them. I’m happy to make edible play dough and stay up all night making a costume for the talent show but god help us all if my kid ever took an interest in t-ball or fishing (or became a Heather… shudder) because I would have no idea how to relate to them.

When I look back on the mother’s that I’ve known – my own included – I see women who have made incredible sacrifices for their children and, while they don’t seem to resent them for it, are certainly a little worse for the wear. My grandmother stayed in a marriage that is ultimately bad for her simply because she had children. My mother is, to a large extent, doing the same despite the even larger sticking point of her sexual orientation. She has effectively swallowed that in order to maintain her relationship with my father so long as my brother is still in the house. From the outside, I can see nobility in their actions, but I can also see the negative impact it’s had on their children. Exempting myself from the conversation, I know my brother was ready for my parents to just get a divorce and move on from the age of twelve – I think he’d rather. Conversely, I’ve had pictures of the bad moms too. My other grandmother is a cold, calculated, manipulative truly evil woman. I won’t say that the abuse her children suffered at her hands was the worst kind but I think Loralie Gilmore said it best when she said “Honk if Emily Gilmore thinks your mind is her personal playground.” My grandfather is dying of liver cancer and the entire family is afraid to go see him because We Dare Not Speak It will be there. I’m pretty sure that’s some bad juju.

At the end of the day, I’ve never been able to pinpoint what it is that these relative strangers are seeing that makes them think I should be entrusted with another human being.

I don’t read “Mommy Bloggers” – but I do read a lot of Bloggers that have gone Mommy over the last few years and, I have to be honest, they’ve done a lot to change some of my perceptions about parenthood. Their missives on raising their own children have gone a long way toward making me feel less alienated…a little closer to whatever it is that people see before they feel the need to grab me by the arm and encourage me to “marry that man and have a little baby!”

I have a post in my near future about finally finding a “cool” pregnant girl that is actually tangibly here – it feels a little like finding a unicorn. I’m not saying that I want to go home and get myself good and pregnant right now. M is still knee deep in classes, we’re planning a move in the not so distant future…It will be a few years before we’re really settled enough anywhere to even consider having that particular conversation, and I do still hold strong to my convictions about being able to afford college funds and private schools, but I think, as long as there are still people out there who teach their kids to laugh when they get hurt rather than to cry I might have some more options than I thought I did and that’s nice.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Do I Have To Spell It For You?

In the last few months, I've caught myself doing a lot of the things that used to drive me bonkers about my parents. Before I embarked on the wedding cake I cleaned the kitchen. Not just a cursory wipe down all of the visible surfaces clean, but the kind where you take every appliance off of the counters and wash the appliance, then was the counter, the wall, the backsplash, the stove, the cupboard doors... If you've ever cleaned like that you'll understand that while you're cleaning the backsplash you notice that there's gunk on the bar, and since you can't reach the bar to really clean it unless you're on the other side, so you go to the other side and the next thing you know you're vaccuming the baseboards and your significant other is standing over you, confused how your project in the kitchen made it all the way to the upstairs bathroom. My mother did this every Saturday morning and, as a kid, I neither understood it nor tolerated it. She would get up Saturday morning and tell us we were going to go get donuts just as soon as she finished cleaning the fridge....three hours later she would be washing the living room windows. It was annoying.

My father didn't share that particular neurosis, but he has this habit. He's had it for years - as long as I can remember, even - and it drives everyone who knows him up the wall. Whenever he says something that you don't understand and you counter with "What?" he repeats exactly what he said, only louder. This is fine when you simply didn't hear him, but if the problem is more that you heard him, it just didn't make sense, it's one of the more annoying things that happens on any given day.

Dad: "Can you hand me the idler bar?"
Me: "What?"
Dad: "The idler bar."
Me: "Huh??"
Dad: "The idler bar."
Me: "This thing?"
Dad: "No, THE IDLER BAR"

I spent the first fifteen years of my life trying to figure out how to better handle this exchange before it escalated into him getting up, puppetting his words with hand mouths to get whatever tool or part he was looking for - all of which looked like hunks of rusty metal to me. I did the obvious and just tried asking "What's an idler bar?" immediately, but that seemed to just inflame him further.

Years later, I work in customer service and I find myself having to explain a lot of things to people over and over again only to be met with obstinate confusion on the other end of the phone line. Today, while attempting to explain to a customer that he would need to contact the delivery courier to find out when he would receive his shipment, I noticed more than a little bit of my Dad sneaking into the conversation.

Me: "Yeah, you would need to contact FedEx to find out when this will be delivered."
Customer: "So it went UPS..."
Me: "No, FedEx."
Customer: "What?"
Me: "The order shipped via FedEx."
Customer: "Right, but I can just call my local UPS office."
Me: "No. It went FEDEX."

You can put that one in the "Things I Inherited From My Father" column apparently - right below my status as Hall Monitor for the Close-The-Damn-Door-The-Air-Conditioning-Is-On Club.