Paris…

…how you see the world and how you will teach your children to see it, too.

About a month or so ago, Milky said to me “(classmate) says Paris is a dangerous place. There are bad people there.” I did some digging and discovered that she must have heard this after Charlie Hebdo. Her father is an art director for a magazine. It makes sense that her six year-old perspective would be such.

Paris is a special place for me. If you spend 10 years of your life studying a language and a culture of a particular place, the epicenter of said language and culture means something. When Dock and I took our first taxi ride into The City of Lights, I openly wept. Sweden owns my heart. France owns my brain. Knowing that I would soon have a chance to walk around this magical city, the core of it all, was simply too much to process. It was 10 years of studying, six years of using my knowledge at work (albeit intermittently), two weeks of slogging my way through trenches, forts and bunkers in the making. I was excited but overwhelmed. The teachers who never knew they inspired me would likely never know the dream would be realized. And all of those hours spent making a stained glass window in high school would pay off the minute I stood in La Sainte-Chapelle (which also made me cry).

I turned to Milky and said “Paris, like any big city, can be dangerous. It can also be safe. Big cities require big city posture. You and I call that Philly Style, right?” Then, I explained Charlie Hebdo and Hyper Cacher. To a six year-old. To a six year-old Jewish kid. It was arduous work, thinking of how to minimize the fear, especially since Milky will be taken to Paris, at some point. The city is too important to Dock and me for us to keep Milky away.

Towards the end of the conversation, I shared my story of one time when I was in Paris, when in the hunt for cheap lodging, away from tourists, I decided we would stay near La Marais. Being the history fiends that we are, I wanted to inject a little Jewish history into our adventure. I admit, I’m not quite ready to experience anything Holocaust oriented, at this point. My stepfather’s family died in the Holocaust. It’s too painful.

We ended up in a predominately Arabic district in Paris six months after 09.11. The general mood was quite peculiar. The French, as a whole, were thrilled to see Americans returning. One bar owner said “You have been gone too long. We miss you.” which is something I expect from smaller towns and rural areas. It is not something I expect in Paris proper. It’s not something anyone with a lick of sense should expect to hear in any large city (so, kindly refrain from saying Parisians are snotty. They’re not. They’re urbane, just like every denizen of every large metropolis.). We courteously thanked him. He was also gracious enough to speak English to us which is also sort of an anomaly because very few people in France speak English to me. Dock, yes. Me, no. I learned too well and no matter how exhausted I am from a day of translating, no one gives me mercy.

As we wandered around our little temporary neighborhood, it was evident there was an American in one’s midst. Dock felt slightly uncomfortable. I shrugged it off. I shrugged it off to the point where I left Dock and our traveling companion behind one afternoon and took off for a walk by myself. “That’s how dangerous Paris is,” I tell Milky. Mommy, all 63 inches of her, all 130 pounds of her, can go for a walk by herself in a big city and feel just as comfortable as she would in Philly. Or anywhere else. And, being me, I bought souvenirs for friends and candy (it was near Easter and chocolate eggs are ubiquitous) for my colleagues. I also scouted for kebab stands because Dock and I love authentic kebab.

This tangent is important: Dock looks very WASPy and American. He doesn’t dress typically American when he travels but his general appearance is very much American or Scots-Irish. I, on the other hand, am ethnically ambiguous. Thanks to my paternal DNA and the ability to speak more than one language (well enough to survive), it’s hard for the locals to determine where I’m from. Most natives know I’m not from their country but thanks to my table manners, my appearance and a few other factors, they just cannot figure out where I’m from. My father reports the same thing only everyone assumes he’s Middle Eastern (he looks eerily similar to Yasser Arafat).

We arrive at the kebab shop I found earlier and the shop keeper stops us at the door. He looks at me, looks at Dock and then says, in French “No. You can’t come in here. You’re American.” I respond, in French, “Why not? We’re hungry. I speak French quite well. We don’t have proper kebab at home.” He twists his face, pauses and relents “Fine. Come in.” As I’m eyeballing the menu he says “No. Go sit down and I’ll make you something. You’ll like it.” Now, it’s challenge time. Do I accept food that could have expired or do I trust the man? I trust him, grab Dock’s sleeve and sit down. We look around and we’re the only non-Arabic folks in the restaurant. I whisper “Imagine what would happen if he finds out he’s feeding Jews.” in a joking way. For all I know, the shop keeper could love Jews but really hate Americans after 09.11. He had no way of knowing that Dock and I fundamentally disagreed with the Bush Administration. The meal was the best kebab I have ever eaten and neither one of us became sick. We thanked the shop keeper, left a standard, small gratuity as appreciation and went on with our evening.

Another night in Paris. Another night in a beautiful place, brimming with culture and brimming with diversity. Another opportunity to show that not all American tourists are hideous, chest thumping beasts.

I shared that bit with Milky, as well. We all have our implicit biases. Sometimes, it’s up to us to knock down someone else’s wall. Most important, in a post-09.11 world, it was imperative for Americans to not treat all people of Arabic descent like garbage for then we’re the problem.

Paris is not dangerous. Paris is not a scary place. Paris is not rife with evil. Paris is hurting. This year started horrifically for Paris. It appears that it will end horrifically, as well. When Charlie Hebdo and Hyper Cacher happened, I said that Paris shouldn’t be defined by this, that Paris has survived much worse (you think it hasn’t?) and that Paris will recover. 2015 is a very small period of time in a city with a history dating back to the 3rd century…BC.

Today, I ache for Paris. I ache for the world. I ache for my child and children everywhere. Yet, I remain determined and committed to keep moving forward, keep pressing on – for this world can be better. Even if it’s only one kebab at a time.

The Magic Slide…

…a dreadful ride.

When I became pregnant, the already weird family dynamics became even more so. I’m not entirely sure what caused the giant explosion but there was one and little bits of dysfunctional family whatsits lay higgledy-piggledy throughout the Central Atlantic region. By the time the Milkface arrived, X wasn’t speaking to Y. Y wouldn’t acknowledge Z’s existence. Kang tried to mediate which proved as fruitful and productive as herding the metaphorical cats. Only one thing came out of that attempt and it was a spate of vicious emails. My sister (we have a mutual disdain for each other) said to me “Just you wait. After you have been a parent long enough, you’re going to become really angry and here is why: being a mediocre parent is easy. Being a good parent takes a lot of work. Being a shitty parent takes a lot of work, too. Think about it.” Then she hissed something about that being her rationale for speaking to no one in the family (save the most dysfunctional, imho, branch). From my esteemed perspective, my sister’s emotional fuels of choice have been anger and resentment. They propel her. It’s her base. My base is sadness and confusion so I cannot relate. I’m too busy scratching my head, crying and trying to figure out why everyone acts like a blistering, selfish asshole which, I hasten to add, is a total fucking waste of time (my insatiable compulsion to understand the incomprehensible).

That wisdom was filed in Kang’s “Big Book of No.” The Big Book of No is, essentially, how I parent. I look back on my experiences as a kid. I think of what my parents did. I do the opposite 90% of the time. Right now, the outcome is one Milkface who is compliant, happy, well-adjusted, exceptionally intelligent and a genuine pleasure to be around. Granted, I’m only five and a half years into the whole parenting gig but I’m confident I’m on the right path. The Big Book of No, combined with advice from anyone remotely sane seems to be working. Suck on that, those who say you can’t break cycles and unlearn bad behaviors. This bitch isn’t accepting that excuse at all. This bitch has also been in therapy for fourteen blissful years trying to be anything other than some of her parents (when you have more than two parents, you get to use the word some). It’s not fun. It’s not a comfortable admission. But, it is the truth and my reality. Furthermore, if it makes Milky’s life better – then, by all means, I’ll spend another 14 years’ worth of time and money in therapy and maybe my darling shrink can get another boat out of it, as well (The man works hard and puts up with my shit. He should actually get two boats. Possibly three.).

This past weekend was graduation at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. The graduation ceremony is dramatically different from the traditional ceremony we have come to accept. To me, it was lovely but emotionally exhausting – pretty much like a majority of my experiences with the school this past year for I have learned that being in a loving environment when you’re not exactly used to such a thing is fucking overwhelming. Each of the students had a letter read to them by a faculty member. The letter was actually written by the family (parents or grandparents). It was loving, supportive and nurturing. Then, each of the seniors prepared speeches. As with most things PCSGU, the students are encouraged to put themselves out there. Filtering is not something that happens at this school. Exploration is desired. Expression is encouraged. These were positively amazing expressions of love, support and gratitude. For someone raised in an environment where there was very little of this, it boggled my mind. Emotional feral cats don’t receive this. Wait – I really shouldn’t use that term without a qualifier. I wasn’t entirely emotionally deprived. I was on the receiving end of a good amount of emotional feedback; the majority of it was of the soul-crushing, esteem-destroying variety, however. While I had more of my fair share of the negative, I was starving for the positive; distended belly and all. By the grace of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I did have some decent adults in life: my father (with whom I did not live), Kate’s parents (who become more and more heroic to me as my journey down Parenting Lane grows longer), my Swedish parents (to whom I will never ever begin to articulate how much they mean to me or how they actually saved my life) and some amazing teachers and school administrators who knew to look beyond the propaganda (the smear campaign towards anything related to Kang’s paternal side) and see the hungry child beneath the surface.

Approximately a third of the way through the commencement exercises, I was a legitimate mess. While fumbling through my sack of magic tricks, I managed to locate the tissues but realized the much needed bottle of Klonopin had been left on the kitchen counter. On the verge of becoming overly emotional and feeling like I would cause I scene, I excused myself and slithered to the bathroom to get my shit together. Because while the glowing words from the parents were read and the seniors spoke candidly of their experiences, something was overriding everything in my head. My selfish bitch wouldn’t stop whispering “Soooooooo very different from your graduation, innit? These kids are really lucky.”

My graduation was different. It was typical. 252-ish students packed in the circle gym of our high school (we had two gyms – check out the badasses up in here) in the stagnant June air. Everyone in their nice clothes, polyester blue robes, caps, etc… Aqua Net, Drakkar, Ben-Gay and boy sweat (the boys had the circle gym, the girls were stuck in the creepy, old, wooden gym) fumes permeated the room further contributing to the inability to stay awake while people droned endlessly about whatever it is we’re supposed to drone endlessly about during occasions such as these. I was separated from Kate because her last name begins with an M and mine begins with an L. The bobby pins holding the mortarboard in place were stabbing me in the scalp. My coworker tied my hair into a nice french braid but it was a bit too tight so I was crabby about that. The darkest cloud came from looking in the stands. I saw my father, his girlfriend, my then boyfriend (a college lad…ooooh) and my aunt and uncle. So, 50% of my parents were represented. 50% were not. Incidentally, the absent party included a teacher in the school district. One who worked directly across the street from the building we were in. And if you didn’t think that wasn’t the dominating thought of the evening for me, you’re wrong. It was so present and cause of so much shame for me, it was a large contributing factor to why I drove the 40 minutes back to my father’s house instead of going to a post-graduation kegger. Yes. 40 minutes to a house that wasn’t even in the school district.

What?

You see, my mother’s house had a very unique feature: The Magic Slide. If memory serves me correctly (and it does because I have one of those weird memories that recalls just about everything vividly), my sister and I came up with this one day at my dad’s house. Where my sister lived. She lived with him from the age of 14 onward and not by choice. My mother decided that she no longer wanted to parent my sister so my sister was shoved down The Magic Slide and landed straight in my father’s yard. Locks were changed. My sister was banished. I only saw her on my father’s custodial visitation schedule. I was seven years old and I basically became an only child. This was only mildly upsetting since my sister wasn’t exactly the nicest person to me, even then. But still, personal contempt for my sister aside, shoving her down The Magic Slide, separating siblings and the trauma it caused her was pretty horrific. I also knew that I would eventually suffer the same fate. The only questions were “when?” and “how long could I evade it?” My father moved out of the school district to a more rural area and this bitch wasn’t going to a cowtown high school in the middle of nowhere. This bitch had visions of going to college and nothing was going to get in the way of getting the fuck out of dodge for good. Sweden was a legitimate way to run away but that was only a temporary escape. Even I knew that. Returning to America remains one of the saddest days in my life.

My mother and stepfather were long convinced that I was a loser with zero prospects in life. They would have lengthy discussions at the dinner table (my presence irrelevant) about how I would amount to nothing, how I would be lucky if I could score a place at the lowly (they looked down upon it yet my stepfather eventually taught there so go…irony?) community college. I was my father’s daughter and therefore I was only partially human. The fact that I had a solid B GPA was irrelevant. The fact that I wasn’t a troublemaker at school, also irrelevant. The fact that I worked two jobs in high school also did not factor into any character assessments. Rather than spending time parenting me, I was, more often than not, grounded for the slightest infraction. Granted, I did develop quite a sarcastic mouth and contempt for their authority but it’s next to impossible to respect those who have zero respect for you and spend most of their time shitting on you for things you cannot control – like your own fucking DNA. That I loved my dad did me no favors at all. That I didn’t care for their incessant trashing of me and that I would stand up for myself didn’t bode well for me. After a while, when you realize whatever you choose leads you to punishment, you start to care less and less. You cannot change the opinions of others so why bother? Survival mode kicks in and all you do is try to make it through the day without sustaining some form of abuse. You cling to your friends, your hopes and your dreams. You build a strong work ethic and save your pennies to get the fuck out of the hell you’re in as quickly as possible. You stop caring altogether yet you don’t because there is no possible way to fully accept that the person who is supposed to love you the most, your mother, not only doesn’t love you – she hates you. She hates you because you remind her of a mistake she made. You remind her of her bad judgment. You’re a scar but you’re human so you can’t literally be thrown away. You can, however, be used as a pawn, belittled, emotionally destroyed, mocked, slapped around, deliberately deceived and outright tricked.

I knew I had a game to play if I didn’t want to go down my sister’s road to cowtown high. I had to eat the shit, develop ways to minimize the damage to me (as my father referred to them, “catatonic fits.”) and generally try to be as invisible as possible. Unfortunately, being a teenager and knowing everything, I was a bit too precocious and audacious so I would battle back. It’s unrealistic to expect a human to be trampled on so many times before they rise up and say “Really? Fuck this shit.” and return fire. I returned fire one too many times. My punishment: hearing in May of 1989 that my ticket for The Magic Slide had arrived. My mother declared that she was done with being a parent and that I was my father’s problem now. Like my sister before me, I was given my termination date as her child which would be repeatedly barked at me in a harrowing, taunting fashion. No one stopped her. No one corrected her. She was rife with fury and completely out of control. In her mind, she had “suffered” enough and was done. Her horrible, evil ex-husband was to pick up the slack he never did in her mind. The minor child of whom she had custody was no longer her problem. Let’s completely disregard what the law would say about that, too.

Here’s the thing she never fully understood: be as angry as you want at your ex-husband. Rage all that you want towards your ex. You do not, under any circumstance, let your child see that shit go down for every time you do, you send the message to the child that 50% of that child is a piece of shit. You send the message to the child that you think the child is garbage. You send the message to your child that you don’t love your child because you don’t love your ex. You send the message to your child that you hate your child because you hate your ex. And this is exactly what 17 year old Kang received for high school graduation. Validation that her mother hated her. Plain and simple. Then, after packing her bags with the help of some friends (because she received none from the parents who were all too anxious to get rid of her), she was pushed down The Magic Slide, just like her sister before her.

The school district, having seen this happen with my sister, had mercy on me and allowed me to finish the year and graduate as a student in spite of no longer residing in the district. They knew the score. They felt badly for me. My college recommendation letters from staff and faculty had references to my stellar home life. “Look at what this kid did in spite of…” Yay. I was marketed not on my achievements but on the fact that I came from a fucked up family and managed to survive. And this is why I loathe pity from others.

The Monday after my magical ride down The Magic Slide, I foolishly returned to my former residence to collect my mail. It seemed like an obvious thing to do. I was paying a good amount of my own bills then (because I was treated like a tenant rather than a child). I arrive at the door, stick my key in the lock and turn. Nothing happened. I had been gone less than 48 hours and the locks were changed. It was then I accepted that my mother didn’t love me and likely never would. I walked to my car and broke down in tears. To be dismissed and rejected by your own mother is a special sort of agony. It’s a pain that doesn’t abate. Ever. You will always walk around with that and wonder if people know that part of you. You can convince yourself that it says more about the other person. As a parent, I cannot wrap my head around this behavior and think it speaks volumes of a parent’s failure and character flaws. As an individual, it’s a shame I’ll never be able to scrub off, no matter how many showers I take, no matter how many times I may be decontaminated, no matter how many years I will spend in therapy. Not only was I told by my mother that she was done being a parent, the locks were changed. The message was driven home – not only was I not welcome, I no longer existed. It set the tone for the rest of my life. And for as many times as I tried to build a relationship with her after (why on Earth would I even try, I have been asked – because…no matter how hard you work to get better, being rejected by your mother is insuperable and I’m only human), I know in my gut, she will never love me. So, I tried building a relationship with her for the sake of my son. It has been a very hard struggle for me. I feel like I have built a constructive relationship with my stepfather (finally…he approves of me and is proud of me). My mother – not so much. Today was another exercise in stepping on an emotional landmine and I’m not sure how to proceed or if I should even bother at this point. I will not have my perspective devalued nor will I sit and be screamed at.

Sixteen years ago, I made a promise to myself to take myself out of the line of fire. Two years ago, I put myself back on the range as a target to do the right thing (I maintain zero regrets there). Two years later, knowing full and well that people don’t change, I remain heartbroken that lessons haven’t been learned by either party. Fourteen years of missed opportunities – a wedding, amazing career progression on my part, the arrival of a grandson – have taught her nothing. Fourteen years of deep introspection and I’m left to wonder if I’m making a huge mistake letting certain people into my life. And what do I do about my child who has developed an attachment to a potentially harmful person? He can’t be pushed down a Magic Slide but he can be hurt if he doesn’t toe the line to the exacting specifications. Right now, he’s perfect. What happens when he isn’t? What kind of mother will I be if I set him up for a similar disappointment – to be emotionally dumped on the side of the road because of whatever reason my mother deems fit?

The families who experienced the joys of commencement on Saturday – outwardly – had a blissful, wonderful experience and I’m genuinely happy for them. I hope that the same is going on behind closed doors. Shit, a reasonable facsimile would be fine with me. Anything other than my experience, at least.

I think I’m still going to wrestle with the positivity that surrounds PCSGU for years to come. Milky thrives there. My struggle to manage the feels and the good vibes will not become his burden. I’ll slink off to my car and save the tears from the overwhelming feelings for the ride home or share them with my dear friends who understand the same pain, the random internet people who read this rambling nonsense and the wise shrink who has made me well enough to parent my child in a very different fashion than the models I had. Eventually, I will learn to accept them as familiar. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully embrace them as normal, however. My normal is different. My normal is rooted in confusion, heartbreak and consistent disappointment. My normal, no matter how far away I get from the hellscape that was my childhood, is always going to have an undertone of “Why?” and “How” and “Why? How? Who?” To be able to entirely let go would be ideal and the desired outcome but I’m realistic. I don’t think that will ever happen. There is a part of me that doesn’t want it to happen (for now, at least), either. That part of me allows me to remain hyper-vigilant and ensure that my son’s childhood isn’t mine; that he grows up knowing his parents love him, that his parents will always be stable and reliable and will do anything and everything it takes to make sure he is secure and provided for. It’s my touchstone. It’s my Big Book of No. It’s my parenting manifesto, if you please.

And to those who may think that I’m disconnected from reality or not focused on my son – they should take a long, hard look in the mirror. When Milky was a few months old, my father stopped by to visit. Milky was fussy that afternoon and crying a bit. I turned to my father and said “I don’t want to fuck this up. I want to be a good parent.” My father turned to me and said “You’re already a much better parent than most.” And with that, I knew that things would be ok for my kid. That, at the very least, my priorities were in the right place and the behaviors weren’t inherited. There would be no Magic Slide in my back yard.

The cycle was broken.

Failure is an option…

…and a viable one, at that.

Content wise, I have been resisting the urge to push links to other stories and articles. We did that in KangWorld, which was fine, but Random Misanthrope is more about us and less about everyone else. Every now and then, I’ll stumble across a story and think “Hmmm…this needs to be shared” and then nope away from it because it’s not in scope; not what this iteration of Kang’s int4rw3bz fuckery is about.

Today, I’m breaking the law. I’m washing the dog. I’m being an editorial rebel because I just (fo realsies and shit) finished reading an article that was like an egg beater to the brain. A much needed kick in the pants for me, at the very least. A sorely needed reminder that it’s perfectly fine to fall flat on your face, owning it is good and sharing the failure is even better.

Professional Kang has never had a problem with owning her mistakes. Early in her career, she learned it’s an admirable trait and people appreciate honesty, chutzpah and the willingness to right the wrong. Personal Kang loathes failure. In fact, she lives in visceral fear of it. Why she cannot apply what works so well for her professionally to her personal life is something she struggles with daily; especially since she knows she really is far too intelligent to have such a significant mental disconnect blocking her on-ramp to Happiness Highway. :vomits in mouth a little:

With that blather done and addressed, I’ll get to the good stuff: the article in The Guardian titled “My big fail: losers come clean on their all-time low.” I tried looking for a few passages to pull out as a teaser and, really, I don’t think it’s fair to the article to do that. Everything is compelling and to snag a snippet for click-bait would be…meh. Not to mention, each of the vignettes deserves its full due. I suppose the only thing I could really carve out and leave as a point to ponder is this:

“A failure isn’t always big. It might just be a realisation that you could be doing better things with your life.”

Ahead of me, tomorrow, is a long drive home to Philly with my ever-present sidekick, the Milkfaced One. At some point, as we molder on I-95 in Virginia, he will fall asleep and I’ll be left with some quiet time to climb up into my brain and over-think just about everything in my life as I’m wont to do. I will be revisiting my friend, The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. I will be intensely auditing the past six or seven weeks of the clichéd “new normal.” I will be wondering how and why it is that I use the right words on the wrong people and what I can do to correct that timesuck. There’s nothing quite like the breakdown (or epic fail) of a major relationship in your life to get you thinking about all of your relationships with everyone else. Who is worth the time? Who isn’t? Now that you find yourself feeling pain, are you inflicting it on others and what the fuck are you going to do about that, sugartits, because that’s not a good way to go through life?

Then, I’m going to do something very bold: I’m going to ask myself the question “What’s it going to take to make you happy?” Supremely happy. Because I have learned two things as I adjust to the “new normal” and they are:

Happiness: it’s mine for the taking.
Failure: just a synonym for opportunity.

The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås…

…is bewildered.

Last week, in the world of pop culture, people invested an enormous amount of time in a picture; a picture of a dress that plays games with your mind due the way the brain processes color. The dress sparked animated debates, destroyed relationships and, for all I know, caused millions of support groups to form around the world. When things get messy, as the world is right now, it’s a lot easier to focus on the trivial. Everyone deserves a break from doing mental gymnastics and trying to make sense of the senseless. The world is not the nicest of places to be with its wars, starvation, disease, poverty and loss. Sometimes, all a person can do is look for a mindless distraction. I managed to avoid the all-consuming dress debate. My contribution was a Jules Winnfield meme because the world needs more Jules Winnfield. I may have also grumbled a bit about hypothetical kids on my hypothetical lawn.

The picture that caught my attention went largely unnoticed by the masses. It was taken by Miss Kitten as she went about her day to day life, spreading the joys of English throughout Sweden. Miss Kitten posted this picture and titled it “The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås.” Instantaneously, I had a connection to the bunny. The bunny’s expression is captivating. So captivating that some of us started wondering why the bunny looks the way he does. Being the diagnostician that I am, I wanted to know if the bunny had a backstory (after research, it does but it’s not relevant to my perspective so I’m going to do what I do with shit like that – largely ignore it). Miss Kitten said she did not know (we both did agree that the bunny is a boy) and suggested that I create my own. Heh. Challenge accepted.

Oh the humanity…

My theory: The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås was likely a completely normal, well-adjusted bunny who was plopped into position in the park and was denied the opportunity of running away from the scary and freaky that is humankind. The years of exposure to the shitshow that is humanity has made the bunny not jaded but exceptionally exhausted and, well, bewildered.

And what evidence do I have to support this, you ask? In the spirit of full disclosure, I have yet to visit Borås. Usually, we just drive by it on our way to somewhere else. From what I know of Borås, it’s not overflowing with unusual people. It’s not globally renown for being a freak show. Borås doesn’t have to have a reputation as such to cause a bunny to become hopeless or confused, though. Wherever there are people; there will be weird. That is a fact. The same could be said of disappointment. And for those inclined to sport the rose colored glasses, I will even acquiesce and say there may be love or optimism. Essentially, there is a whole lot of shit, the bunny has seen it all and now the bunny needs a stiff drink, a big hug and (potentially) some reassurance that things are going to be ok.

I understand the bunny with his confused expression and wonky ears. I know the bunny’s struggle. I’m the Short Bewildered Bunny of North Raleigh.

Life, as I know it, currently makes no fucking sense at all. For three weeks, I have been walking around with a similar expression (my ears are smaller and not pointy, however) and in, presumably, a similar mental fog. All that I knew to be real and valid disappeared within the course of an hour. The bits and pieces are now mine to reassemble and, because life is just a funny, little prankster, I have no user manual. Furthermore, tech support is closed. My existence is now akin to the experience of putting together Ikea furniture; largely frustrating, lacking the necessary tools yet potentially fruitful so long as I keep myself from going completely barking mad in the process. Sincerely, it has not been a good month (never cared much for February with its assholian Valentine’s Day, its dreary weather and complete inability to decide how many days it wants). I may be smiling on the outside but on the inside…not so much. And for a person like me, lacking in goals is one thing but I have always had some sort of forward momentum. Now, not only do I not have forward momentum, I find myself regressing – moving backwards on the happiness scale, making blunder upon blunder, committing offense after offense. It’s a shame spiral of epic proportions and, as usual, the harder I try to stop the madness, the more mad the madness becomes. The mess. It. Is. Everywhere. :lowers head in shame:

Feeling unsettled and discombobulated has never suited me. Some people are more adept at managing these feelings and life in a state of flux. I am not one of those people. I need a certain amount of structure and order to foster a sense of emotional security and balance. I don’t object to confusion, in general, because it is my muse. I do mind when confusion is consuming, though. I especially detest it when I cannot identify the source or the solution. It becomes far too distracting and deprives me of joy. It causes me to do peculiar things like falling into silence and becoming a passive participant in life. My ability to make smart decisions lessens so I opt for making no decisions at all. I don’t recommend this particular approach if you’re an adult with a job or a child or any sense of responsibility. People may find that disappointing or frustrating. Also, the outcomes are subpar.

But the worst part of this all-consuming bewilderment is the toll it has taken on my psyche. I can think of dozens if instances as of late when I did not know what was going on in my heart, head or gut. I can also recall, clear as day, the times where instead of speaking, I stood mute, literally paralyzed by fear or confusion with words in my brain begging to be set free yet the body unwilling to cooperate. Instead of opening up, I shut down. The dreaded blank stare that frustrates my father so very much has made way too many appearances on my moon face. The catalyst behind the mess has triggered a shift from “This is who I am” to “Who am I, again?” Alternatively, “Why?” It makes me add another row of bricks to my wall that protects me from the outside world; the wall I work so very hard at knocking down so connections can be made with others as opposed to making connections with large sculptural bunnies who aren’t necessarily bewildered, they’re just looking for love (the actual name for the sculpture is Mate Hunting). Wait a minute – love is bewildering. Go on with your bad self, bunny friend.

Last week, before the snow that ate Raleigh arrived, I was at the store (of course) and was invited to go fuck myself by a very charming man in front of the shredded cheese. The invitation was offered out of the blue as I was just standing there. *POOF* In an instance where my forked tongue would be quick to issue a takedown, nothing happened but a smile. But I did walk away with a very confused expression and some concern for the shredded cheese. The man was boorish. I was unsettled. I cannot imagine how the poor shredded cheese must have felt. Think of what he must have said to it knowing shredded cheese was entirely incapable of defending itself. All that said, my response to the charming man was atypical for me. I do not smile and walk away from things like that. If anything, I leave entrails on the floor but I do it in a sweet, endearing fashion befitting the lady I was raised to be and the mother I have become. Yet, this very morning, the forked tongue rears its head in a playful manner and slices someone in half. Someone who, quite likely, had no idea I was joking and certainly doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of any negativity from me. :lowers head in shame further and tries to lodge it up ass:

After the three week ago incident, I promised myself several things. I promised that I would be kind to myself (whatever the fuck that means). I promised that I would be patient with those around me and myself. I promised that I would make no decisions in an emotional state. I promised myself the luxury of emoting when I felt like it and not emoting if I didn’t. I reassured myself that it was ok to be confused, sad and bewildered; to be lacking in the answers department. Then, I made what I felt to be the most important promise of all: my shit would not bleed on to others. I may be going through some confusing and trying times but these problems and issues are mine and mine alone. Others will not pay the price for my sadness, anger or confusion. Until this morning, I was doing pretty well, too.

So, where does one go from here? How does one un-bewilder herself, right the wrongs, find her path back to whatever her version of normal is? Should I make a pilgrimage to Borås and leave an offering of sculptural carrots at the feet of the Big Bewildered Bunny? Is it time to run away with Milkface and join the circus (No)?

I do not know.

For the past three weeks, that’s been the way I have been answering most questions because I’m an honest lass (to a fault). I do not know.

What I know is that I feel awful. I feel lost, confused, bewildered, baffled and an aching desire to hide under the blankets where I can daydream about pleasant things. I know my boss was right when she told me to take the afternoon off and do something nice for myself. I know that my friends are right when they offer me encouragement and help make my life easier with their general awesomeness. I know that wisdom lies in surprising places. My amazing five year old reminded me of that on assholian Valentine’s Day when I was feeling unusually low. I also know that I have survived worse upsets than this and in the end, we’re all ending up where we’re supposed to be.

Lastly, my next visit to Swedenland will definitely include a stop in Borås. I’m not a fan of the selfie. There are actually very few pictures of me in human form (octopus form – totally different story). I will, however, take a picture of myself with the Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be a little less bewildered and help bunny feel the same.

I see what you did there.

Round Robin Exercise

A refresher for those who have been following since the days of Kang World and an explanation for those who are t3h n00bz.

For a short while, we used to pick a theme and everyone would write something within that. Usually it was some version of longform because I cannot poem. Seriously, I cannot even write a haiku – I’m that fucking useless in this regard. But we did this and it was challenging and fun. Please don’t ask me to unearth the archives because I cannot be arsed to code, migrate or resurrect the dead. My skillz are mad but they are limited.

Anyhow, while we’re introducing some new things: Go Fuck Yourself Weekly (double entendre intended), we’re going to bring back some old things. The Round Robin is one but it may not be permanent.

Brian Kurcaba of West Virginia made a horrendous comment about rape, unplanned pregnancy and abortion this week. Automatically, we decided he was going to be nominated for GFYW. As I started to work through some ideas, I realized I wanted to tell a story. Kitten has a story, too. Actually, a lot of people have a story to tell. These stories are about sexual abuse (any form). The mere thought of condensing these stories just doesn’t sit well with me. It didn’t sit well with her or another RMer, either. After some discussion about how best to approach this topic, keep it isolated from the rest of the site due to the content, be sensitive to others and work with the limitations of WordPress, we decided it would be best if we put the Round Robin in a page (you can see it at the tippy-top, next to About) and have our posts as subs, just as our bios are. For whatever reason, I decided to spew first. Just in one of those wormholes today.

This is not funny content. It’s not supposed to be funny content. The content is deeply personal, graphic and potentially upsetting. You’re not going to be able to unsee this, folks. We ask that you take the time to read the Round Robin detail and respect the rules of engagement. We ask that you read the detail in advance of reading the pages as they are published. We’re not going to push them en masse. From my perspective, not only does one have to be willing to write the story – they have to be willing to hit publish and deal with everything that comes with hitting publish.

So that is what is brewing today.

In a few hours or a few days, the snark will be back. The snark never leaves. It does like a nap now and then, though. And the poets, they’re still here, as well. Well, they’re actually outside building their first snowman or shoveling snow or complaining about snow or thinking about getting the fuck away from snow. Whatever. Normality is just around the corner, y’all.

“There is nothing like puking with somebody…

…to make you into old friends.” – Sylvia Plath

Note: For Clifton. For the only person who comes close to understanding.

It’s winter and winter, in my opinion, is a useless season. It’s boring. It traps us in the house, it shrouds us in darkness and makes us overeat. It drives some of us bananas. For as much as I love Sweden, I don’t know if I could handle living there permanently because the mere thought of very few hours of sunlight a day horrifies me. And, I don’t think the light box therapy would do much for me, either. Neither would copious amounts of vitamin D. Winter just sucks. It makes my fingers and toes turn bone white if they’re not wrapped up in thick socks and gloves, my skin crack and it gives me cabin fever. Compared to Kate, I handle winter well. Kate loathed winter. It sucked the life out of her – so much so that she lacked the energy to spew a torrent of fury about how much she despised winter. The most she would say was “I hate winter. I’m going back to bed. Wake me when spring comes.” Maybe she should have been a bear? Maybe we should all be bears? I wouldn’t object to hibernating. I really like to sleep, I don’t care much for the insanity between Thanksgiving and New Years and the only thing I would really miss is post-season football (and, as an Eagles fan, it’s not as if I would be missing much there, either).

To get through the tedium of winter, Kate and I started building little rituals. For a while, we saw each other over Martin Luther King, Jr weekend. Were we being servicey? Nope. Were we drunk? Yup. Did we sit in a lump on the sofa, under a pile of blankets and overdose on carbs, cheese and wine? Of course! We would also watch really crappy movies, eat more really crappy food, paint our toenails, lament about guys and life in general and spend money on clothes. Kate’s mood was usually meh even if she was happy to have company. I was thrilled to escape the doldrums of daily life and see Kate. Anytime there is a change in geography, my spirits immediately perk up a little. My perkiness likely annoyed Kate but she tolerated it.

Spring, though, spring was the time of year where Kate and I would go bananas. Spring spelled trouble. We started celebrating Easter together in our own little way. Our sole observation of Easter, itself, was eating the ears and tails of chocolate bunnies. Maybe a few jellybeans. Certainly a lot of bread (ok…so she had her fill of the Body of Christ, I suppose). Kate was a health nut and carbs were off limits and only to be enjoyed when her less than healthy friend, Kang, would come rolling into town. Throwing a loaf of freshly baked bread at Kate was like dumping catnip on the floor and watching a trillion cats come streaming out of the woodwork. Through mouthfuls she would always say “Oh…my…god…this…is…sooooooo…good. I…cannot…stop.” :chomp gnaw chomp gnaw gulp gulp gulp: Then she would reach for another loaf and a glass of wine to wash it down.

Do you really think carbs were trouble for us, though? Really? Come on, now.

Putting together a renewed Kate and an excitable Kang is like the clichéd putting the two things together in chem lab that results in an explosion which causes the evacuation of an entire school and surrounding neighborhood. Bad things or potentially scary things happen. Use of judgment is suspended. It becomes an exercise in giving zero fucks, albeit not instantaneously. It takes a while to get the ball rolling. During my “eulogy” (I really don’t want to call it that but I’m not sure what else one would call it), I explained that Kate and I were yin-yang. When Kate came alive, there were no limits. She was bold and she took risks. Kate could be wild, fun and outgoing. Meanwhile, she would be dragging along her shy (until certain level of intoxication was achieved) pal who had the proverbial rod up her ass at all times. You know the type – the woman who would dust off seats before sitting down because she’s a freakish germaphobe; the woman who worried if the guys we were talking to would try to slip roofies in our drinks. Why Kate never pulled the rod out of my ass and clubbed me over the head with it remains a mystery but there was one instance where my being a total tight-ass worked in our favor (we may or may not have bogarted someone’s entire stash of weed while camping out at a NASCAR race and they may or may not have expected compensation in forms other than monetary and I may or may not have suggested that we run like the fucking wind to get away only to end up falling into a gully and having Kate standing over me, laughing too hard to help me out of the gully with the worms, snakes, tarantulas, alligators, rodents, scorpions, grizzly bears, wild boar, etc…).

Easter weekend always resulted in several incriminating photos of us (once, she decided we were going line dancing and dressed me in head to toe denim – RED, made me wear ropers with fringe and teased my hair). One night always ended with our running away from men who thought our game of “let’s see how many free drinks we can get from these weasels” wasn’t a fun game for them. One of us was usually screaming “OMG! RUN! Run faster!” Alternatively, “Hide here. They’ll never find us here (the aforementioned gully was not part of the ‘hide here’ plan)!” Most nights culminated at the Waffle House with a table full of food while we mewled incorrect lyrics to really shitty country songs. And in our drunken, maudlin stupor, we made plans for our retirement. No matter where we were in life, no matter what we accomplished, no matter how much money we had, how many husbands we had been through, how many children were involved, Kate and I were going to buy a house somewhere in the South (preferably near water) with a giant porch. We were going to have 20 million cats, sit on the porch, gum our dinners off of tv trays and gossip about everyone who walked by. We would also be doing this while wearing all the really nice clothes we had purchased during the daylight hours while we were sober. And maybe some of the jewelry, too. Ok…definitely the jewelry and none of that cheap shit for us, either. Sure, there was a time and a place for paste and there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with wearing costume jewelry but we were ladies and, as such, we demanded the good stuff from the men who would not be permitted to live in our retirement home. They (the men) were, however, welcome to live a few doors down and come over to fix whatever was broken. We may have hatched these plans while we were seeing double, stumbling drunk and on our way to throw up the delicious vittles we just stuffed in our faces at the Waffle House but we were always, always pragmatists.

Oh…and did I mention shopping? Yes, it might seem like something that girlfriends do together but Kate and I have been doing that together since we were fifteen or sixteen years old. We were exceptionally impatient with each other on our particular snipe hunts for the perfect whatever. Kate’s sense of style was impeccable – from slutty chic to well put together slob – she could pull it off. Whereas I was floundering in the finest of corporate attire (something which caused her considerable angst when she saw me in a suit and pearls for the first time). Kate also possessed this uncanny ability to find the niftiest stuff at second hand shops (again, something I would never dream of doing since…GERMS). One weekend, I lamented that I didn’t have a decent pair of jeans so Kate took it upon herself to find one for me. She regretted it from the minute she volunteered. How did I know she regretted it? We lost count at pair number 80 (no embellishment). As she brought pair after pair back to me in the dressing room, she went from knocking on the door and handing them to me to throwing them over the door. Then the throwing became aggressive with intent to harm. Probably around pair 90, I decided that I would take two of the same solely because I didn’t want to lose an eye. But…when you’re with your best friend, even assault by denim and whiffs of pending death are simply signs that you’re loved dearly.

Sundays would eventually come and it would be time for me to load the car. Usually, at this point, the sisterly aspect of our friendship would manifest itself. There was a lot of “Oooooh…I love you so very much, I’m so glad you came but…please get the fuck out.” on her part and I would be thinking “Oh…I love you very much. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Please try not to get us killed the next time we get together.” We would stuff all of my shopping loot in the trunk, pound the trunk shut, exchange hugs and kisses and I would be on my way back to Raleigh where I knew a verbal spanking awaited me for my husband did not view these weekends as fondly as I. To this day, I remain confused by that. Granted, I may have spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment or two but it’s not like I was arrested or anything. It’s not like I came home with a second husband. And, really, what’s another tattoo, anyhow? It’s my body; not his.

Whenever spring rolls around now, I wait until the yellow clouds of pollen settle and then I go for a drive on the back roads near the house. I roll down the windows and open the sunroof as Kate would do. I’ll play music that Kate would listen to (except the Grateful Dead. Kate – I’m so, so very sorry but I cannot abide by that shit and you know it) or might like now. I’ll think of our high jinks and smile a devilish smile. I’ll choke back a tear or two and remind myself that I’m supposed to be enjoying this moment on her behalf. Then, I’ll return home and resume life with no one knowing what I have just done because best friends, among many things, are also the keepers of the secrets. If I’m feeling particularly untethered or lost, I might pull out the hatbox full of the pictures she loved to take and send and go through them. Or, I’ll go through my closet and look at the clothes I bought during one of our many sprees. And then, I’ll envision Kate rolling her eyes at me, making a silly face and laughing at me for being the closeted, sentimental fool that I am. The side of me that only Kate and a very select few ever get to see because, again, secrets.

In real time, it’s the end of January. MLK Jr weekend has passed. Easter has yet to arrive. My fingers and toes are still bone white and totally numb. I’m in total agreement with Kate about the eternal suckitude that is winter – especially winters that bring only cold rain and no snow. At least light reflects off of snow and no matter how old you are, you can play in snow. My hibernation tendencies are high but there are things to be done. Milky and I need to go find lingonsylt today since the grocery store near our house stopped carrying it. Much to my surprise, the end of the month of single-momming it finds me upright and marginally pleasant but I believe a lot has to do with the fact that each day, I try to do one thing that Kate would enjoy doing. One thing to keep Kate’s spirit present. One thing to keep Kate with me in a way that’s more than just a memory. Maybe today will be about a freshly baked loaf of bread or maybe it will involve a giant nap? Maybe I’ll be wild and crazy and do both if Milky allows. I will certainly do one thing, regardless of Milkface’s plan: think of spring.

Reflection and resolution…

…if you look too closely, will you drown?

Each year I say I’m not going to set any resolutions for myself because I don’t particularly care for failure and I may be the least disciplined person on the planet. I may have a routine for certain aspects of my life but that’s about it. My mind changes far too rapidly and I have piles of things dedicated to causes or hobbies that I lost interest in within a span of five minutes or five days. For the past week or so, I was wondering if I should challenge myself and establish a few things that I’d like to see myself achieve or conquer in the coming year. The mind remains a jumble. Please don’t state the obvious: better structuring of the thoughts because, really, I have been seeing a therapist for fourteen years now and I’m comfortable with the fact that my brain remains a tangled mess of words, thoughts and images. Furthermore, I fear what would happen if the noise abates. How could I honestly respond “busy busy busy” when asked some random question by any random person if the clamoring ceased? And, no, I’m not a Bokononist. I simply think “busy busy busy” is the most suitably succinct answer to certain questions.

If I decided to challenge myself and set some goals (which I have masterfully avoided doing since the age of sixteen), what would I set for myself? Would I go with the clichéd but valid lose x amount of weight? Would I resolve to become more physically active? Would I resolve to stop putting every single person in my life in front of me which consistently results in a husk of Kang tatters on the floor (not a humble-brag, ‘tis fact)? Do I eye another rung on the career ladder and decide to climb it?

I have no fucking idea.

And thus therein lies the problem that’s always been. I have skated through life with no goals. Financial goals: none comparable to what I have seen from my friends. Career goals: I was in management before the age of 30. Decided management was not suitable for my temperament on many levels and have avoided it ever since. Personal goals: finally, after many years of soul-crushing failure, managed to have a kid. But none of these were actual goals. There was no master list I kept where I ticked off my achievements and added additional items to make myself a better person. I’m just one of those people who gets up, gets out of bed, goes along with what the day has in store and deals with it. Some days, I manage better than others. Other days, getting out of bed is enough to merit a gold star. Basically, I’m like every other fucking person on the planet. No special snowflake or stardust, here.

What compels us to sit down on the 31^st of December and engage in this silly exercise, anyway? Is it basically peer pressure? Do we see others sitting around, trying to improve themselves and think “Hmmmm. Maybe I should get on this bus?” Where and when was it drilled into our heads that at a specific date and time, we’re supposed to modify all the negative behaviors? Because, if this is supposed to be a thing, am I not doing that on a weekly, if not daily basis, via self-improvement and general avoidance of being a raging asshole towards the entire world?

If someone barged into my office right now, held a gun to my head and forced me to pick something, I suppose I would opt for: get back in touch with the writer within. For two miserable years, I stumbled around with everything bottled up inside presuming that no one gave a single fuck about what was on my mind. For some misguided reason, I thought my voice had to have a specific audience or someone had to be remotely interested in what I had to say or what I was trying to say (the more important of the two). Turns out – staying quiet out of fatigue and ambivalence is a pretty stupid way to go through life. Especially if you’re someone who isn’t quiet by nature. So, maybe writing more would be something I would resolve to do in 2015. I cannot say that for certain because the Kang Muffler still looms large and is still very much present.

The only other thing that springs to mind is a passionate resolve to return to Sweden in 2015. Come January, it’s been seven years since I have been on Swedish soil. Seven years since I have left American soil. For a natural wanderer, this is just insane behavior. Granted, life has changed significantly in that time span but there are relationships that need attention and attention I have not given them. Not to mention the huge chunk of my soul that has gone un-nurtured for far too long.

Or, maybe, the only resolution I need to make is to get back to being a better version of myself. The me that includes all I was before Kate died and took a large part of me with her to the grave (as others have observed and told me). The me that includes the part that had to be put on the shelf because I was no longer just Kang, I became Kang+Milkface which I wouldn’t trade for anything. There will never come a day when I won’t “think too much” and I remain committed to not surrendering that part of me, no matter how frustrating others may find that trait. It feels like the only things I can answer are the phone and the door.

So, if I was to actually make a list of goals for 2015, I suppose I would:

Write more
Visit Sweden (and actually return to the US, solely because I highly doubt we can find a functional equivalent of Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns for Milky anywhere else)
Get back in touch with my bad self
Not chastise myself in December of 2015 for failing to do any of the above

Oh…and one other thing – stop apologizing for who I am. I’m really quite over that.

UPDATE: Courtesy of the Resolution Generator that’s floating around Facebook. I’m not exactly sure what to think of this one.

It’s not a crack house…

…wait a minute. I was going to say it’s a crack home but I’m wrong. It is a crack house.

Ever since Milkface began attending Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, I have been saddled with the burden of the commute from our house to central Durham. Without traffic, it’s a fairly easy breeze through RTP and up 147. Maybe 20 minutes at most given the way I drive (probably would have been 10 or 15 if I still had Astrid). Unfortunately, the drive is not made during off-peak hours so the slog can stretch upwards to 45 minutes (one way) if there has been an accident, bad weather or some witless fucktard in the left lane driving the speed limit. As you can imagine, doing this twice a day has its drawbacks. While I love the opportunity to jabber with Milky or rock out to songs from My Little Pony, Equestria Girls or Taylor Swift, I have come to loathe missing the two to two and a half hours in my day. Particularly now that my shoulder has healed from the Great Shoulder Fracture and Tendon Tear Incident of 2013 and I am cleared to return to the gym to work off the manatee and get back to the small sized seal I once was.

About a month into the slog, I turned to Dock and said “Sorry, pal. I know you hate urban life but we’re moving. You’re going to have to take one for the team.” Lacking a mirror, I have no idea what my expression was but it was apparently horrifying enough that Dock immediately consented and we decided to start looking for a house closer to PCSGU in central Durham.

Our decision to buy our current house in Agrestic was made after spending months trolling neighborhoods in Raleigh. Given that a house is potentially the largest investment we would make, we wanted to make sure we were going to get what we needed: enough space to avoid each other 80% of the time and what we really needed: resale value. We logged many a mile creeping through neighborhoods, taking notes, counting rental homes, reviewing tax cards, property values and comparable sales data. Since it was suburban Raleigh, we really didn’t have to worry too much about crime statistics. As for schools, well – Wake County is such a dismal clusterfuck, it really doesn’t matter because the school district will reassign your kid in a heartbeat so why bother with that? The outcome was good. We actually like living in Agrestic. The neighbors, for the most part, are decent. There’s little drama with the HOA and, holla, we have equity.

Given the outcome above, we decided to employ the same and start our search for a new home. Last week, after feasting on mediocre fare at a brewpub in Durham, we piled in the car and started cruising the PCSGU’s neighborhood and a few others. Surrounding the school are some fairly adorable homes that reminded us of what Five Points in Raleigh used to be like before the yuppy scum moved in, knocked over the small bungalows and built repro Craftsman homes but with six or seven floors (logic that one for me, please). My first thought was “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if Milkface could walk to school like I did when I was in elementary school?” So, I was pretty darn excited. We drove up and down a few streets and then turned (direction is not relevant). In the background one could hear the dulcet tones of Elvis Presley except he wasn’t singing a happy tune. He was singing the mournful one. He was singing “In the Ghettoooooooo.”

Now, I’m not talking ghetto as in “I’m a snob and I look down upon thee.” Nor am I talking ghetto as in “ratchet.” I’m talking ghetto as in crime and not that petty, bored, suburban vandalism shit, either.

Growing up mere miles from the city limits of Philly, I consider myself to be somewhat urbanized and somewhat of a badass. Stuff like this doesn’t usually turn me away. But – my husband travels for work and he travels a lot. And while he does own many firearms, he is an antiquarian and I just cannot envision a break-in going down like this:

Felon: Well, hello Lady of the House. Would you be so kind as to give me your valuables, your legal tender, your credit cards, your ATM card and your pin code, please?

Me: :ammo thing clamped between teeth: Hold on for a second, Mr. Burglar/Serial Killer/Rapist/All of the Above. I’m loading this long arm circa WWI and it’s a bit of a sticky bitch but have you seen this the Finnish stamp which has been marked over and replaced by this Russian/Bolshevik mark? A very interesting time in history, would you not agree?

Felon: My goodness. That’s quite a find. How much did your husband pay for it? Should I take that instead and sell it at a gun show? Perhaps, if you wrote down the history of this fascinating firearm, I might make enough bank to give up this life of crime, return to medical school and realize my dreams of becoming a neurosurgeon.

Mmmmhmmmm.

Each and every street, it seemed like we were either on “Adorable Bungalow Boulevard” or “Omar Comin’ Drive.” The oddest part of all, there wasn’t any sort of delineation. There wasn’t a transition. It was either urban splendor or urban blight. For a woman with lofty dreams of not losing hours in a day to traffic and commuting, this was extremely disappointing in a :sniffs: first world problems sort of way. Especially since the more time I spend in Durham, the more I really like it.

Raleigh is so damn milque-toast, it viscerally upsets me whenever I return after a period of time elsewhere; mainly up North or abroad. Fucking Lexus SUVs, Japanese mini-vans and dvd players in every car. There is this feeling that no one really works during the week – it’s just a series of carpool upon carpool. The strip malls are the exact same. My father lives across town from me. We have the same exact strip mall with the same exact stores. No variation at all. There is very little local flavor and color. From what I understand, one of the few assets is the annual hoovering of the fallen leaves. I’m not sure if that’s compelling enough to make me stay.

Durham seems to be experiencing a demi-renaissance of sorts. It’s always been a place that drew artists because *surprise* rents are low. One can drive through downtown Durham and see various tall-ish (there are no tall buildings here) being erected. Some of the neighborhoods are positively darling or genuinely quaint. It seems like the largest problem is finding the one that isn’t backed up to hAmsterdam.

*I realize that I have used this title previously but it is considerably appropriate in this scenario so accept my apologies for my laziness and lack of creativity.

So I made an ass of myself…

…yet again.

There are some people in life who manage to bring out the best in you. You know who I’m talking about and you know what I mean by the best. I’m talking about the people that render you completely and utterly stupid by simply looking your way. The people from whom you would like some reciprocal respect for some inexplicable reason. The people who manage to shatter the “I give zero fucks about you, world!!111!” barrier we strut around with daily. Yeah. Those people. Like everyone else, I have had a few of these creatures in my life; personally and professionally. My experience has been to avoid these people at all cost because who wants to appear as a mentally deficient dumbass or be mortally embarrassed on a frequent basis? Egos can only sustain so many punches before the bruising occurs and permanent damage is done.

Working from home has granted me the good fortune of essentially eliminating characters like this from my life. I stay in the safety of my home, free from the days of hiding under the sofa and from my own shadow. When venturing out in public, terminally shy Kang now has her sidekick as a sort of deflect-o-shield. Any situation with a potential for discomfort and embarrassment can be quashed by interacting with my child. I no longer come across as aloof. No longer do I appear as a snob. No longer do I have to worry about someone engaging me in conversation and searching for words while, internally, I’m hoping to self-immolate because shy introverts do not care for these particular challenges. And before another word is said – yes, you can be extremely chatty and opinionated among people you know quite well but still be shy and introverted. Weird, eh? But completely true.

Back to the topic at hand, there is a teacher at Milkface’s school who has this unique gift of rendering me dull-witted. The woman who can take down the strongest of people with a single sentence becomes totally unhinged and unable to string together more than three words without sounding like a total lunkhead. Trust – I’m talking about a level of dumbassery reserved for signs at Tea Party protests. I become the physical manifestation of “Get a Brain! Morans” or “Not a Extremist. Just Extremey Over-Taxed!!! No Amesty” Is the picture forming, now? It is also imperative to note that if, by some flaming miracle, I do manage to string together a coherent sentence to exchange pleasantries with this person, the question is typically so inane the only suitable response is an adolescent-esque side-eye. I lower my head, blush and, again, wish for self-immolation.

The natural question “Why can’t you simply avoid this person?” springs to mind. Alas, I cannot. Milkface adores him. And, like every good mommy out there, when you see your child adore a teacher, a part of you shares that adoration. It’s just the way the Mom Gene works. Fucking Mom Gene. As if the menstrual cycle and hormonal fluctuations weren’t enough to contend with, now I have this bullshit to toy with my emotions, too? As I age, I seek paths to simpler living; not more complex. This is more complex. I did not sign up for this part when I procreated.

With the back story somewhat set up, I bring forth the asshattery.

Last week, after the weekly doctor visit and Target run (look – Mom Gene up in here), I roll up to the school. My mind was back at the doctor’s office or Target or up my own ass. Whatever. It was not present. Teacher-of-Whom-I-Make-an-Ass-of-Myself was traipsing through the parking lot. Dilemma: stop the car, roll down the window and exchange pleasantries or keep going? No time to think! Eye contact made! Awkward alert! Awkward alert! Code humiliation! Think of your kid! Think of your kid! My Little Pony! What’s for dinner? How much money is in the bank account? Did you leave your coffee at the doctor’s office again? Did you remember to eat lunch today? Where’s the fucking brake pedal? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I stop the car. FIRST FUCKING MISTAKE.

I roll down the window. BOOM. Reality settles in. As soon as I open my mouth to speak I realize that the radio is on (Sirius Lithium channel, to be precise). Playing on the radio is Nine Inch Nails’ Closer. Aaaah…you see where I’m going, don’t you, my pretty? My mouth is open, a word salad is about to come tumbling out and I’m interrupted by Trent Reznor bleating “I want to fuck you like an animal.” Did I mention the teacher is MALE? Did I mention the male teacher is young (perhaps young enough to be my son)? Did I mention that the young, male teacher who renders me an idiot is not exactly a passenger on the Big Bus of Unfortunate Looking People? SECOND FUCKING MISTAKE. And, I hasten to add, the only mistake that matters.

So here I sit, in my middle-aged splendor, in my middle-aged sedan, listening to music that is 20 years old and sexually suggestive – trying to keep on chattering away as I frantically push the volume buttons. Naturally, the volume buttons are all “NOPE! EAT MY SHIT, BITCH. YOU AIN’T FINDING ME TODAY. NEENER NEENER NEENER!” The words “UR…uh…Milky’s favorite…heh…heh..heh…” did come out of my mouth but for the love of Flying Spaghetti Monster, it was fucking Beavis and Butthead hour up in that bitch. Fortunately, the conversation lasted about as long as a sixteen year old boy having his first go at it so I was able to remove myself from the situation, park the car and begin laughing hysterically. And did I laugh! Tears were streaming down my beet red face. I was so damn discombobulated, I stumbled around the school and went in the opposite direction of where my child would be when it was time to pick him up.

A few joking text exchanges with friends and a self-deprecating Facebook post later, I thought that was the last of it. After all, who would actually take any of this seriously? I mean, it’s not like Closer isn’t a well-known song, right? And really – look at me? Do I look like the type of person who would be sexually suggestive? Wait…now I sound like a paedophile. TRIPLEDEFUCK.

Welp – the joke is on me! Things weren’t just awkward or remotely uncomfortable. Things have gotten a bit more “real” for my taste. Mind you, I have yet to be yanked into the Head Mistress’ office for improper conduct (although, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if that did happen) but there’s a whole lot of side-eye, uncomfortable exchanges and general ignoring going on at the school by other faculty members. That’s right. Unfortunately, it’s not simply limited to the teacher who constantly bears witness to my inner circus freak. Others with whom I would normally chatter have been just a wee judgmental. Granted, I do spend a lot of time up in my own head, “thinking too much” about experiences but it doesn’t take a terribly intuitive or intelligent human being to detect when others are, how shall we say, put off by their presence or essence. And that really cuts to the core. So, I put on the big girl panties and dashed off an email explaining my embarrassment and apologizing for any offense I may have caused. Classsssy.

I can live with making an ass of myself. I have been doing a stellar job of that for forty-three years at this point. Some people paint. Some people craft. I fuck up in spectacular fashion in the most public way possible. That’s my milieu. To paraphrase a bit, with such extraordinary talent comes great responsibility. I have learned the whole “improvise, adapt and overcome” and move along with my bad self. I have mastered the art of letting the haters hate. I could teach a class on giving zero fucks. In this instance, there are just too many layers of ewwwww, ugh and ouch to do that, though.

I feel tremendously shitty because my child is on the periphery of this madness. If anyone judged him because his mom had a momentary lapse of judgment, I would be crushed for him. He’s a great kid and will have his own issues to handle later on (the joys of being a kid and then the joys of adolescence). I feel really frustrated that a group of adults could fall into the trap of making an assessment about my behavior without even considering what might have been going through my brain at the time. No one likes being denied the opportunity to share their perspective. It’s very dehumanizing. Usually, when I run across people like that, I immediately consign them to the box of stupid people and banish them to a life at sea with the rest of the intolerable human stains on this planet as they’re not worth the oxygen spent speaking of them. Unfortunately, I’m sort of stuck being nice to them and that just grinds the old gears.

The ultimate sadness comes from two places: the idea that someone could think so poorly of me and that someone I respect could think so poorly of me. It’s a double-edged sword slicing through an already fragile ego. It’s a problem with absolutely no solution. For an outcomes oriented person, it’s a tough, tough pill to swallow and yet I have to swallow it because my options are limited to making jokes about it among my friends, scribbling down my thoughts on paper and doing absolutely nothing else. The following Monday morning, after a pantload of unpleasant interactions, I left the school feeling like a cross between a deflated balloon and a broken toy. I actually cried while driving home and pulled a full melancholia by listening to The Smiths, album upon album. Then I slapped myself across the face for self-flagellating. Sure, the whole thing is going to smart for some time to come. Maybe it will all be forgotten after Christmas break and I can resume just being my bad ass self without worrying about what others think. I won’t lie and say that as I walk with my head held high that there isn’t a part of me cringing on the inside, though.

The moral isn’t simple. This isn’t a case of “Hey, Jackass! Don’t listen to songs with questionable content when driving to your child’s school.” That would be omitting a significant part of the equation; the dynamics of human interaction. And, if that was easy to work out, there wouldn’t be a bazillion psychotherapists in the phonebook, would there?

And time stands still…

…but for a fleeting moment.

We were home for Thanksgiving, visiting with Kate’s parents. Visits to Philadelphia are always pleasant, far too short and there is never enough time to see all those near and dear to me. I do try my hardest to visit Kate’s parents, however. These are people who stood for me when others were not willing to do the job themselves. Kate treated me like a sister. Her parents treated me like a daughter.

Towards the end of the visit, Kate’s father took me aside and gave me a watch that had belonged to Kate. He was slightly confused by the watch as it was a strong representation of how Kate compartmentalized her life and kept many secrets. While her parents knew of Kate’s fondness for the finer things in life, they were not aware that Kate would procure said fancy things. This component of grief and frustration seems as if it will never sort itself out; no matter how much time passes. So many questions remain unanswered.

Immediately, I put the watch on. Of course, having sat idle for nearly four years, it no longer functions. It will definitely need a battery. I’m thinking a complete service is necessary, as well. Just my luck – there are neither authorized service centers nor retailers in our state. I kept the non-functional watch on my wrist so I wouldn’t lose it while we were skittering hither and yon in Philly.

We have been home for over a week. The thank you note is overdue (will I ever get my shit together, I wonder?). The watch is still on my wrist. It still doesn’t work. And it occurred to me: why should I fix it? Is it not more…erm…sentimentally poetic that I’m wearing a watch that belonged to my deceased best friend and the watch no longer functions? On December 19, 2010 time, in a sense, stopped for many of us that day. We find ourselves moving forward, doing the things we do, living life as we should because Kate would not want people moping about and, let’s face it, this is part of life. That said, is there something inherently unhealthy or wrong about wearing the watch that no longer keeps time? The watch that froze time, perhaps? The watch that could potentially bring me back to the time when Kate was here and I was still a whole person?

This morning, Milkface asked if I was going to “fix Aunt Kate’s fancy watch?” I had no answers. I’m in no hurry. After all, in this particular instance, time has stopped. Time is irrelevant.