One starry night, when the moon was just right,
Drank the octopus and the pussycat,
When they were both were pie-eyed,
A fine hobbit they spied,
And at the same time said both “I’d hit that!”
So using their charms, tucked him under their arms
And carried him up to their room,
Where their lust took control,
Tentacles, tongue, and hole,
Took him to the edge of Mount Doom,
Eight arms and a tongue, and the night was just young,
There was nary a part left untouched,
There was many a groan, the hobbit held his own,
Though in moments a little nonplussed,
At the height of the action, a guttural reaction,
Each screaming to their deity,
Despite lack of coherence, a religious experience,
Orgasms had by all three!
It had to happen…
…eventually.
Being married to a self-proclaimed Evangelical Agnostic and drifting further and further away from my faith, the question loomed large. What are we going to do with the child? Since there is more to being a Jew than the religious aspects, we really were faced with a significant challenge. The Evangelical Agnostic is not shy about his feelings. At one point, he said anyone who followed any religion was “stupid.” I was sitting in the den. EA was standing in the doorway. Hanging on the wall, facing me was a plaque that reads “Shalom” (it’s still in the same spot but the den is now Milky’s bedroom). My house is not outfitted with Judaica but there are bits and pieces here and there. I collect dreidels. I have menorot (one via my grandmother and namesake). There is a mezuzah on the doorpost. None of these things speak to my level of commitment to my faith, though. At least not on a conscious level. They’re more along the lines of “things Kang likes” or “things you just do.” When you move into a home, you put a mezuzah on the doorpost. It’s just what is done. As Milkface grew inside me, I thought of the whole “stupid” comment while sitting in my den, looking at the word “Shalom” and trying to keep the definition and spirit present within and wonder…what do we with the kid?
While I’m of the Reform persuasion, looking back, my upbringing was leaning a bit conservative. Had it not been an interfaith marriage, I’m pretty sure our family would have been members of the Conservative temple. For years, my stepfather dragged me to and from shul for Hebrew school (Mondays or Tuesdays), Sunday school and confirmation classes. My mother would deal with my sullen, unpleasant tween self by forcing me out of bed, into a dress and over to temple for whatever classes were on Saturday and services. I’m a proud member of the Jew Camp Illuminati (credit to Foster Kamer for that brilliance), having gone away to the Poconos for eight glorious summers of shenanigans, kosher food, prayer and the opportunity to not be a minority for at least four to eight weeks a year. Jewish summer camp is a pretty big deal and I highly recommend reading City Boy: The Adventures of Herbie Bookbinder by Herman Wouk if you’re interested in learning about the long tradition of sending little Jewish kids off to the mountains in the summer since it’s been going on for nearly 100 years.
Ultimately, we decided that, at the very minimum, Milky would be culturally Jewish. He would identify as a Jew. Half of his family is Jewish. Random Yiddish words pop up in conversation so naturally that I’m completely unaware of the occurrence. My family is delightfully neurotic and prone to self-deprecating humor. On my part, there is a very strong passion to keep the family folklore alive – from how my father’s family managed to evade a Pogrom, my stepfather’s family experience with the Holocaust and the general immigrant experience that many Jews either had first hand or have heard via tales from their Bubbes and Zaydes. Then there’s the ugly baggage that comes along with being Jewish (culturally or observant) – bigotry and rampant racism. If the child is going to be raised as a Jew (practicing or non), we, as parents, are going to have to prepare him for that. There is no avoiding that. Not even if you grow up in suburbia with other Jews. The bigots…they will find you and depending on where you are in life, what your experiences are and how you are adept at managing this bullshit, your life will become a temporary hell.
Now that we consigned Milky to his fate, without his permission (something oft criticized by the EA set), all we needed to do was put the plan in motion. Here you go, kid. Have fun with your new identify! You is J00, now. You will have latkes, gefilte fish and chopped liver and like them. You will grow up being told that you will be a doctor and a doctor you will be (Sorry, it’s your father’s fault you were born male). Your mommy will wreak such havoc with your psyche that all future romantic partners will curse my existence for perpetuity. And don’t even think about looking at a state college, pal. It’s Hopkins, MIT or Duke for you. Fret not, you’ll find other young, Jewish males whose soul has been sucked from them, too. You will sit around bars and basements with them, watch sports and critique the game play at an expert level while being completely unable to play said game yourself because, let’s face it, we’re not exactly athletic people. You’re welcome. Really. You should be a little more gracious and appreciative, however. Mommy had to do an enormous amount of work and sacrifice a great deal of herself to provide you with all of this. And you won’t even pick up the phone and call…
Since we are not religious and are not practicing anything other than how to not leave the living room looking like a toy tornado ripped through it, religious symbols, holidays and other things haven’t exactly been high on the list of things we discuss. Sure, we’ll whip out the menorah at Chanukkah and light the candles but we also have the tree and give presents on Christmas. Dock may not like the concept of religion but he sure as shit loves the concept of presents. This year, however, things are changing as Milky is in kinderMAPP and is learning *everything* at a pace that defies description. This includes symbolism. Last month, it occurred to Milky that the “stars” are ours and the “t’s” belong to everyone else. Ok. Time to discuss religion, explain symbolism and tell him that there are many more flavors at the old ice cream parlor. But the point – Milky knows he is Jewish and he seems pretty down with that. Kewl. Let’s hope he doesn’t decide he wants to go to synagogue or have a Bar Mitzvah because I’m not sure I want to deal with that aspect of it for reasons I’ll explain later.
The drawback to Milky’s realization and self-identification is now he knows he’s Jewish and to my point earlier, this privilege comes with a whole lot of unnecessary and unpleasant baggage. The other day I wrote about my experiences on Rosh Hashanah where the Jews were eating each other. I don’t want Milky to experience that. I don’t want Milky to have to listen to ramblings about how Jewish he is because his lineage isn’t 100% Jewish. I don’t want Milky to be put in the position of questioning his identity as I was when I was a teenager. That shit hurts! You think you’re in a safe zone when you’re among your own and it turns out…you’re not! Scripture is murky and can be interpreted many different ways. Some may say that certain people aren’t Jewish but others will accept that they are. People outside the faith make no distinction when it’s time to put us on train cars, though. So, that’s huge problem number one: potential discrimination from within the tribe. I don’t like dealing with that. Do you think I want to put my child in those crosshairs? Say what you will about my parenting methods but no one can say that I’m not one hell of a protective mom.
On to problem number two: discrimination and intimidation from everyone and everywhere else. I mean, do I really have to cite specific examples? Is that really necessary? Were we not paying attention in history class, folks? Very well – what happened yesterday in Paris? Unsatisfied with the outcome at Charlie Hebdo’s office, the fanatics decided to raise the bar on the berserk scale and go buck wild at a kosher grocery shortly before the start of Sabbath. Four people were killed. Why? Wrong place at the wrong time? Did they do something offensive? Did they run over a cute little bunny on their way to work? Possibly. Nope. Nope. They were killed because they were Jewish. Of course. Now, France doesn’t have the best track record managing anti-Semitism and I feel fairly comfortable pointing a finger because I did spend time in France and did spend over ten years of my life studying all things French. So no, I’m not rambling from a knee-jerk perspective, looking for a source to assign blame. That said, you know it’s bad, you know it’s legitimate when François Hollande flatly declares the attack at Hyper Cacher was anti-Semitic.
Awesome.
I should like to add – as the events of yesterday unfolded and I was jabbering with my family, this came as a surprise to no one. We all saw this coming. As soon as the words “kosher market” were said, we knew. We knew why. We knew what the outcome would be. We know these things because we have lived this directly or indirectly. And, as I mentioned the other day, there will be plenty of commentary stating that the evil, horrible Jews deserved what they got.
Tell me, again, why I chose this life for my child? Of all the things I could bestow on my kid, I decided to give him a life of managing this? What was I thinking? Why am I even thinking these things? I’m not the one with the fucking problem. Neither is my family. Nor most Jews. And please, shut the fuck up about Israel. This is about being Jewish; not Israeli. Stop linking the two every single time something happens and stop using politics as an excuse to be a fucking racist asshole. Jews don’t deserve to be targeted because of the actions of a nation they don’t live in. YES. It is that simple. Furthermore, if people keep attacking Jews and killing us, these people are simply enforcing the need for a Jewish state where we nice, minding-our-own-damn-business Jews can go about our lives without having pennies thrown at us, having to endure hate speech, see swastikas, listen to “jokes” or worry about being killed.
My question about whether or not human beings deserve such a privilege as religion may be nearing an answer in my own brain. I’m beginning to lean towards: NO. It’s far too destructive and we do not use the tool/device as we should. Looking back through history, we haven’t been, either. My personal perspective – I’m very close to cashing in the old chips and walking out the door with my remaining kitty. I know I’ll never cease being a cultural Jew and that part I will not relinquish. That part I will pass along to my child. As for the religious aspect, I don’t think I am capable of fully relinquishing that, either. There’s too much guilt and fear. Yet another reason why I wonder if religion is a good thing. If you think about walking away from it but don’t because you’re guilty or afraid – that isn’t a good thing. That’s an abusive relationship, is it not?
Another day, more words, continuing frustrations and no answers. And in due course, I’m going to have to have the conversation that all Jewish parents have with their children. I’m going to have the good fortune of trying to explain why, throughout history, people have been killing us because of religion. No amount of self-deprecating humor, jokes about the IJC or funny stories about the insane allegations that Mommy is an agent of Mossad will soften the blow, either.
I do not want…
…your fucking shirt.
Everybody’s talking at me
I don’t hear a word they’re saying
Only the echoes of my mindPeople stopping, staring
I can’t see their faces
Only the shadows of their eyesI’m going where the sun keeps shining
Through the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes – Harry Nilsson
No, he wasn’t talking about the cacophony emanating from the human race but the lyrics really suit the mood of the day regarding cacophony. With the pain of the mass murder of the great minds at Charlie Hebdo still fresh, condemnation freely flows. A good amount of it is justifiable. From our perspective, no one has the right to silence another because the message may be unsavory. We have a right to argue. We have a right to disagree. We have a right to ignore. We have no right to kill another human being because we find their particular message distasteful or blasphemous. This seems to be lost among many (regardless of preferred religion).
Along with the justifiable outrage, sheer terror and tremendous heartbreak, now we get to wade through the sea of bigotry because this is what happens when a subset of a particular group behaves horrendously. The few become the sole representation of the many and unfairly so. Being a religious minority myself, I certainly appreciate that special feeling of mortification and understand the dread in anticipation of the backlash. Each time Israel blunders, I steel myself for the hate speech and look at the computer monitor through splayed fingers with a turning stomach and legs that feel like lead. Today, tomorrow and, potentially, the following day, decent Muslims will be attacked by the ignorant masses who presume that bad apples represent an entire belief system. It’s shameful and disgusting. It’s why so many people looked at Australia with wonder in middle-December when they responded to an attack with love instead of hate via I’ll Ride with You. The rest of the world seems completely incapable of doing that. It’s why I have a tendency to get a bit twitchy and bitchy when I hear people say :insert random demographic here: are dangerous/evil/vile/must be wiped off the planet. It’s why I won’t allow others to besmirch what they do not know or understand – at least in my presence. It’s very easy to look at something, form an opinion and stick to it when you lack basic facts and knowledge, especially when everyone else appears to be doing the same. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that is the very definition of prejudice. Oh…and you thought you were so very evolved and enlightened, didn’t you?
Alas, this isn’t a tentacle wag at the bigots. This is actually something a bit different. The above is actually a rambling aside.
I freely admit that I spent a large portion of my time in my 20s in a drunken stupor or stoned (possibly). If you’re unmarried, childless, gainfully employed and unencumbered by any other responsibility, your 20s are the appropriate time for fucking around and fuck around I did. That said, for as drunk as I was, I don’t recall the world being as barking mad as it appears to be today. Could it have been because I spent ½ of my 20s living outside of the Bible Belt where religion was just one of those things that was a part of life and not the sole point of life? I really don’t think so. I lived in predominantly Catholic Western Pennsylvania, went to a state university and for the life of me, I don’t recall the cafeteria feeding us meat on Friday. It was fish. Every Friday in Western Pennsylvania was fish and mac and cheese day. Yet, no one was hounding me to surrender my faith. Those who even bothered to ask really didn’t care that I wasn’t one of them. Oh, and I really loved fish and mac and cheese day, too.
Religion didn’t really become an issue for me until I moved to the Bible Belt. Since then, I have had the joy of experiencing discrimination at every single job I have had. It’s not pleasant. But what’s really unpleasant, what’s really the catalyst behind my picking up my ball and going home (reevaluating my entire position on religion, in general) is the incessant attempts at evangelization. Yes. I understand that certain groups have instructions to go forth and seed. And, yes, I have tried to be patient and respectful of this but a person can only stomach so much before it becomes offensive.
As I see it, religion and attempts to shift someone away from their existing ideology to the ideology of another is just madness. And it’s presumptuous, rude and in very poor taste. Think about this scenario:
You’re out and about doing whatever it is that you do and someone walks up to you with a shirt in their hands. They see that you’re already wearing a shirt but that doesn’t really matter to them. That person thinks their shirt is better than the shirt you’re currently wearing. They say “Look. I have a shirt for you. I think you need to put it on right now. This very minute, to be exact.” You tilt your head in confusion. You point to your shirt. You tell them that you’re already wearing a shirt that you quite like. Yet, the person you’re speaking to is neither listening nor caring about the words coming out of your mouth. Instead, they say “NO. You must wear THIS shirt. This shirt. Right here in my hands. Wear it. Wear it now.” Again, you look at your shirt and the slightly deranged person talking to you and you say “Allow me to iterate, I have a shirt. I’m wearing a shirt. It is a comfortable shirt. No thank you.” Still in denial, they thrust the shirt in your face and adamantly exclaim “But MY shirt is better than YOUR shirt. It will save you!” “Save me? Save me from what?” you ask “Is it made of Kevlar and thus bullet proof?” The shirt bearer stares at you like you’re crazy and says “No.” You ask “Is it impregnated with some sort of anti-bacterial and/or anti-viral substance that will keep me immune from all disease?” Shirt bearer shakes head no. “In the event that I’m standing atop a very high building, near the ledge, and someone decides to shove me, will a parachute deploy and will I float safely to the ground?” The shirt bearer, again, responds “No.” You follow with “Ok. Given that there is zero evidence that this particular shirt will save me from three imminent threats (or three terrible traps, three terrible traps, three terrible traps – so terrible!), please tell me how and why you think this shirt can save me.”
Marginally flummoxed, the shirt bearer responds in the only manner they can “Well, it’s because that is what I believe.” You, finding this data insufficient, tell the person that you disagree with them which prompts the de rigueur “But then you will go to hell.” Not one to pass up the opportunity to scramble brains, you say “Well, the joke is on you. I don’t believe hell exists.” Completely exasperated, the shirt bearer hollers “PUT ON THIS SHIRT!” You calmly say “Please take your shirt and leave.” “MY SHIRT IS BETTER THAN YOUR SHIRT! I WILL NOT BE DENIED” howls the shirt bearer. You repeat “Please take your shirt and leave.” “WHY WON’T YOU WEAR MY FUCKING SHIRT?” Losing patience, you testily snap “Please take your shirt and your very un-pious self and go away.” “I HATE YOU. I WILL ONLY LIKE YOU IF YOU WEAR THIS SHIRT. “ Again, “Please take your shirt and leave.” Shirt bearer snarls “YOU ARE A VILE HUMAN BEING AND I’M GOING TO SPEW HATEFUL WORDS AT YOU, YOU BLASPHEMOUS, SINFUL PIG!”
In that scenario – do you want to put on that shirt? Do you want to spend time with that shirt bearing freak? NO. And now you understand why many of us are growing tired of religion, in general? Is the popularity of the Flying Spaghetti Monster starting to make sense?
Within the first few months of living in North Carolina, a colleague asked me out to lunch. I was excited as I thought “Hey! Friend making time! Hooray!!!” And, since we know how much I love putting myself out there and trying to make friends, this was a pretty big deal to me. On our way to lunch, she played Christian rock which I found peculiar but kept my mouth shut. At lunch, she openly prayed before eating. Again, for someone not from the Bible Belt – different but something I was going to have to accept as the cultural norm. Then she proceeds to talk to me about religion. She expresses her grave concern for my soul since Jesus is not my savior. She is very worried that I’m going to hell; so worried that she invited me to lunch to talk to me about where I was going astray. All I could do was look at her, smile and say “I’m not concerned about hell. I know you’re praying for me and that should take care of it.” We never went to lunch together again.
Mind you, all of this isn’t meant as an indictment of Christianity. Like every family has its crazy relative, each religion has its crazy zealots who taint the rest of the followers. Each religion has its own issues with thinking it’s the only path (towards what…who the fuck really knows). Each religion sits in judgment of the next. Shit – each religion judges itself. I spent one Rosh Hashanah listening to a Rabbi drone on forever about how horrible the Hasidim are towards those who are less orthodox. The Rabbi condemned someone in our own faith for condemning us. It was one of the most fucked up experiences I have ever had. I wanted to walk out of synagogue but I was too afraid that the Almighty above would smite me for leaving temple in the middle of a High Holy Day. And don’t even get me started on how fucked up being afraid of something that may or may not exist is. My attempts to reconcile that one over the past 18 years have proven unsuccessful.
And this is why I sit with a very fatigued brain and heart and wonder if any of this is worth it. Aside from some inner peace which could, theoretically, be obtained through various other methods, what is humanity getting out of this whole religion thing? War. Discrimination. Murder. Death. Women being treated as chattel or worse. On a good day, we’re lucky if someone is simply offended by hearing their religion used as a verb, it seems. That’s not sufficient enough for me. Not anymore.
There are many things I think humans are not capable of handling responsibly, as collectively, we all do a wonderful job of dropping the ball and screwing things up. I’m starting to wonder if religion is one of those things. Have we bastardized the whole concept to the point where it is more detrimental than beneficial? Is religion simply an outmoded technology (a series of laws before there were actual governments)? I genuinely do not know. What I do know is this – I cannot bear another yesterday. I don’t want to raise my child in a world where yesterdays are not only possible but normal.
Je suis Charlie…
…aujourd’hui et toujours.
We want to laugh at the extremists — every extremist. They can be Muslim, Jewish, Catholic. Everyone can be religious, but extremist thoughts and acts we cannot accept. – Laurent Léger
More headdesk
Behold…the end of the calendar and fiscal year. All reports (time and expense) must be filed by close of business today to make the finance trolls less stabby. Surely you did not expect things to function properly? Why would the most erratic VPN on Earth be anything but? And why, why would you operate under the silly assumption that your piece of shit Lenovo StinkPad not crash 40 times whilst reworking a file the size of…I dunno…something really large? At this point, I’m really at a loss for words. And hope. That’s lost, as well. And sanity. Let’s review what is lost: hope, words, sanity. Yup.
Please, please keep crashing, StinkPad. Please inhibit any progress I may attempt to make today. Please make doing rework more exhilarating. I would love nothing more than to be sitting in the exact same position, performing the exact same exercise in futility at 10 pm. Really. I would. Don’t believe otherwise for this is the stuff I live for. This is the stuff of dreams.
…september
This morning brought a kick in the pants courtesy of Blitzken. He posted an article written by Mark Manson titled Love is Not Enough. Initially, I giggled because the preview mentioned Trent Reznor and we all know how well things end up for me when Trent Reznor is involved. Then I thought “Hmmm…It’s Sunday morning. You have a ton of things to do today and you’re not in the best head space to begin with. Are you sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?” Given that I am extremely adept at making bad decisions, I clicked and the little hamster on the little wheel in my little head started running and running and running.
This article is quite provocative and potentially painful. It certainly gave me a great deal to chew on and a great deal to file under: Denial or Save for Therapist. Accepting love does not come easily. We’re humans and, as such, we’re not overly bright when it comes to management of emotions. At least I’m not and I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in this regard. What really stung was reading this:
One of the oldest pieces of relationship advice in the book is, “You and your partner should be best friends.” Most people look at that piece of advice in the positive: I should spend time with my partner like I do my best friend; I should communicate openly with my partner like I do with my best friend; I should have fun with my partner like I do with my best friend.
But people should also look at it in the negative: Would you tolerate your partner’s negative behaviors in your best friend?
Again – a billion thoughts in the head but the one I’m willing to cop to is thinking about my relationship with Kate.
When I spoke at Kate’s memorial service, I had nothing prepared. One would think that someone who likes words and likes to make things out of words would have had some idea, a rough outline of sorts, of what to say or how to speak about her dearly departed best friend. I genuinely didn’t. Even that morning, as I was getting ready (which, to be honest, other than throwing on a dress, I didn’t do because I felt it was pointless to look nice) I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say other than wailing “I want my best friend back.”
When it was time to speak, I stood in front of a room of people (which I despise doing) and decided to talk about our friendship and what made it the perfect friendship for us. Kate and I were “yin-yang” to the core. From our appearance, our personalities, how we approached life, etc… I remember saying “Kate is kind and I am…me.”
After reading the article, I started thinking about Kate’s negative behaviors. People are prone to canonizing the deceased. Look no further at the legacy of Ronald Reagan for that. I wonder if I have been doing the same over the years and think “nope.” Kate was Kate. She wasn’t perfect, she had her flaws and areas for improvement but, overall, she was one of the kindest, most decent people one could hope to encounter, let alone befriend. And, because of that, she usually ended up in situations where she was hurt or taken advantage of. To the point of the article, if I were to expect the exact qualities in a lover as I would Kate, that would be impossible. Best friendships from childhood are special, precious and cannot be reproduced under any other circumstance – much like a gemstone. One can certainly make one in a lab but they’ll always remain lab created and not the real thing. And while lab created such-and-such has value and serves a purpose, it’s never treasured on the same level as the naturally occurring substance.
I also thought about how many times Kate and I argued. Arguing isn’t necessarily a bad thing but I find it exhausting, physically and emotionally. I feel as if it takes me longer to recover from an argument than a hard day’s work of physical labor. I also think arguing (note: not animated bickering but fully blown, nasty words exchanged, accusations lobbed, name calling and general insulting activity) is destructive. Off the top of my head – Kate and I argued twice. Once when she questioned why I went to a therapist and questioned the entire life with depression thing largely due to my making some horrendously odious and destructive decisions at the time (I hung up on her even though I knew she was correct in calling me on my shit but incorrect about the depression bit) and the other time was about the drug dealer.
After that call in July when I thought everything was settled and she was going to toss him in the fuck-and-run bin, things seemed relatively quiet with Kate. We mostly talked about work, my frustrations with being a new mom and Dock’s being away so much, some health issues we were both having and boredom. A mostly non-notable summer passed. Me in Raleigh, Kate in Atlanta (the master plan was both of us in Atlanta but I was derailed). Me being a Mommy. Kate going out and having a rip-roaring good time with her friends when she felt up to it or staying at home, being a hermit and reading books when she didn’t. It was the new normal for us since Kang’s days of debauchery were decidedly over.
September rolls around and it’s still more of the same with the minor exception of my spine getting much, much worse. Turns out – lifting a baby when your spine is disintegrating isn’t a really great thing to do on a repeated basis. Emotionally, I was on overload. I did not need another problem to manage. I simply didn’t have it within me to deal with another problem. My patience was shot. My nerves, physically, were on fire and metaphorically, were just done – over everything. As usual, Kate listened to me moan, groan and cry my way through visits with specialists and share in my delight and I was handed Rx for pain killers. One of Kate’s dirty, little secrets was a fondness for recreational use of painkillers to take the edge off. She wasn’t much of a drinker but she did have a bowl of various pills on her kitchen table. Looking back, it should have been a clue. Then, it was just amusing to me. “Here – take one of these when you get home” she would say and I would wake up three days later. Good times.
The weirdness picked up around the middle of the month as her birthday grew closer. She started calling me from work during the day. Now, I’m rotten to the core and think nothing of making a personal call during the work day. Kate, on the other hand, wouldn’t dream of breaking a rule. If I did call her during the day, she would try to limit the conversation to minutes because she was supposed to be working. My initial thought “Oh yay! She’s finally relaxing.” Another sign missed.
The day before her birthday Kate called me in the morning and she was acting considerably bizarre and exceptionally evasive. I couldn’t figure out why she called if she was completely unwilling to talk to me or tell me anything about her weekend. She also didn’t appear to be in any mood to hear about what was going on with me. Then she tells me – she saw the asshat again. After 25+ years of being best friends, I didn’t need to know much more than that. My initial assumptions were correct: she never stopped seeing him, she never stopped using and her life was out of control. I was awash in rage and back to my earlier comment about the yin-yang, being angry at Kate is like being angry at Thumper. Who the fuck gets angry at Thumper? Who the fuck gets angry at Kate? Maybe I raised my voice? Maybe I didn’t? I don’t remember exactly. What I remember, clear as day, was saying I didn’t have the time to talk about her and the non-entity and hung up. Then I dashed off one of the cruelest, harshest emails I have ever written in my life and I can write some really toxic shit when I put my mind to it.
The gist of the email was: It’s the day before your birthday and instead of acting like you’re 38 going on 39, you’re acting like you’re 18 going on 19 (or something like that). Is this how you want to age? Is this your idea of maturity? How ’bout this? Why not give yourself the best present you can? Get yourself to a qualified therapist, work through your bullshit with respect to picking loser boyfriends and friends and why your self-esteem is in the toilet. Stop doing meth, kplzthnx. I love you like a sister. I don’t want to see you dead. If you continue down this path, you’re going to be dead. PS: Don’t speak to me again until you have made an appointment with a therapist.
Her response: an email confirmation for an appointment with a therapist. And, over the ensuing months, she made sure to report in to me regarding her treatment and progress. PHEW.
In the pre-Milkface era, when issues like this arose, the solution was simple. All I needed to ask was “Do you want me to come down there?” Her response was always “No.” And I followed with “Are you certain?” Five or six hours later, I was in Atlanta. That’s the way we rolled because Kate is like everyone else on the planet. No one wants to openly admit that they want help or simply don’t want to be alone. Most people will front and say they’re just fine while secretly wishing someone will show up and rescue them from something truly awful. Yeah…shake your head no. You’re lying to yourself.
This time, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get in Astrid and blow down 85 to talk sense into her. I had Milky and a traveling husband. And something that I have never admitted to anyone before – I was genuinely afraid, too. Abusive boyfriends, I can handle. Horrible break-ups: piece of cake. General life crisis: easy-peasy-puddin-pie. Drug dealers: not my forte. Meth has always scared the shit out of me. Furthermore, I didn’t know how bad things really were. I was working with data provided to me by Kate and Kate was 414 miles away.
All that said, it is my biggest regret in life. I might not have been able to prevent the inevitable but I sure as shit could have tried. My best friend, the person with very few negative behaviors (known to me at the time) deserved that and more. And how did I respond to the person with the least negative behaviors and the least amount of character flaws in my life? I failed her. I failed her family. I failed myself. And, please, do not think this is a plea for pity or forgiveness. It’s not. It’s just a genuine statement of how I view the situation now that I have more pieces of the puzzle. Logically (and knowing what I know now), I know the battle for Kate would have been epic and I was woefully incapable of fighting it. It doesn’t lessen the sting or the sorrow, though. It certainly doesn’t lessen the yearning for a do-over, mulligan, what-have-you. Maybe, however, it does explain why the grief is as profound as it is and why this particular loss is different and thus must be managed differently, atypically.
Fuck me, right?
Yup. I’m sprawled across the bed, perusing Better Homes and Gardens, City of Durham edition. Oh who the fuck am I kidding? There is no such thing. After today, after seeing one too many homes with one damn bathroom for a family of three (and shut your mouth, I don’t care what you think. Princess Demandy-Pants shares a bathroom with NO ONE. Not even the cats), one too many homes that need some TLC (eat a bag of dicks, realtors) or one too many homes out of my price range, I’m about to give up on this fleeting fantasy of moving closer to PCSGU. I will resume the 147 shuffle and I will like it. I will miss the gym and I will embrace the flab. I’ll get up at 04.00 instead of 04.30/05.00 when Dock is travelling so I can write the pretty stories with the hyperbolic flourish and profanity overkill. Yup. Fuck it all! Oh…and I’ll even pay through the nose when the lease on the white VW expires because heaven knows when we’ll repair that lovely dent I put in the front quarter panel of the blue VW (compliments of a garage in Durham – yet another sign I need to stay the fuck put).
Yes. Sprawled across the bed I am when I hear my son talk about the time that tickle juice (otherwise known as cortisone cream) ended up on his itty-bitty toothbrush instead of actual toothpaste. I remember this morning well.
In the audio-sound-engineering-bleeping-blooping-noise-making industry that is Dock’s, the work seems to be feast or famine. Either he’s in town and grating on my last nerve or he’s out of town on a road gig and I’m plotting his death because he left me alone to deal with *everything.* Let me say this right here, right now: if anything happens to my husband (heaven forbid), I will marry the first man I can find with a pulse, a non-negative bank account and remotely respectable credit score because I am not built for single motherhood. The man can have tombstone teeth, Leprosy and Typhoid for all I care. Just so long as he’s capable of taking out the garbage, running the vacuum and unloading heavy shit from my car – we’re good. And, it goes without saying, mad props to single moms. How you do it and not end up in a straight-jacket mystifies me. Furthermore, if you doubt me – see if I’m walking upright and speaking in full sentences at the end of this month since Dock will be away 10000% of the time. I won’t be and there’s a really good chance that I will have had to forgo the shower that day, too.
That morning was one of those that started off decently. I woke up early enough to grab several pots of coffee, read websites bearing no relevance to my job and get cracking on those wild and crazy spreadsheets I whip out at a snail’s pace only to rework and rework again. I wake up the Milkface, get him dressed, drag his blanket, select fluffies and his limp body down the stairs and force him to feed the dog. I likely kicked the dog out the door after arguing with him to drop his stupid toy which he always tries to sneak out of the house and then I focus on feeding Milky. Dishwasher (the glory hole free version) is unloaded, dishes put away, more dishes thrown at the sink, several rounds of “eat your fucking breakfast, I don’t give a single fuck about what so-and-so did at pre-k yesterday” later and it’s time to scrub up. Dollars to donuts, it was one of those mornings I said “fuck it” and threw a bra on beneath the pjs, pulled the hair up in a knot and considered myself appropriately attired for morning drop off. For some reason, I did have to take off my glasses. Milky probably spewed syrup, tears or allergy medicine in my face.
Of all the things one comes to value when they turn 40 – it’s the glasses. I have had the esteemed pleasure of wearing glasses since the summer after freshman year of college. Progressive lenses, at that. But I could manage to fumble around well enough without them for a few minutes without setting the house on fire or causing bodily harm to myself or anyone else within a five mile radius. Once you’re in your 40s, things change. You need your glasses on your face all the time because everything becomes small and blurry.
Milky is at the sink and I hand him his toothbrush. I’m yelling at the dog (the dog and I, well – it’s complicated. I love him. He’s a good dog but…he is a dog and I…I am a cat person) about his stupid toy or something and I hear this retching and gagging noise followed by screaming and wailing. Milky with teary wide eyes looks up at me and says “Moooooooooooooooooooommy! This is not toothpaste!” Fuck me, right? Turns out, what comes out of the Tom’s of Maine kid’s toothpaste tube bears a strong resemblance to “tickle juice” (cortisone cream). So, on that particular morning, I inadvertently poisoned my kid.
I do not panic. I’m too cool to panic about these things. I work in healthcare! I know people! I know people who have degrees in sciency things and do the medical stuff like put bandaids on booboos and replace heart valves. And, because I know these people and I play with this shit all day long, I am :drumroll: a doctor by extension.

No. Really. My mail is addressed to Dr. High Priestess Kang. All the glory and none of the malpractice and student loans. GO ME!
Not really.
What I did do while I was certainly not panicking about potentially killing my kid was google “cortisone cream instead of toothpaste.” Turns out, I’m not the only moron on the planet. I scream “Did you swallow?” (here, have some bleach for that gutter mind of yours) and Milky responds “No but this tastes awful!” “Spit! Rinse and spit” I bark back. I rip the toxic toothbrush out of the kid’s hand and then spend the next 20 minutes trying to convince him that the new toothbrush has actual toothpaste on it and Mommy promises she won’t try to kill him again. He takes the bait and off to school we go. I spend the remainder of the day waiting for child protective services to show up and take Milky into foster care.
This evening I hear the words: tickle juice, toothpaste and Daddy. I scratch my head and holler from the room “No, Milky. Mommy tried to poison you; not Daddy.” Milky walks into the room followed by Dock. Dock turns and said “Wait…you did that, too?” Dock is the worst about wearing his glasses. Bitches and moans like you would not believe. It’s one of those things about your significant other that invokes images of their heads on pikes. Left eyebrow raised, I look over Better Crack Homes and Whore Houses of Durham Weekly and ask Dock “Did you try to kill our child with tickle juice?” Milky interjects “YOU BOTH DID!” Uh. Oh.
Silence washes over the house for the first time since 2004 when the deed was passed to us. Then, our sweet, loving, freakishly intelligent child says with his finger pointing in the air “I have a suggestion. JUST LOOK AT THE PICTURE ON THE TUBE.” And with that, two 40-somethings were given the giant bowl of STFU from a five year old. Looks like we’re getting our money’s worth from Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Either that or he’s morphing into a horrible smartass.
They say…
…and they are always right, aren’t they?
They say that when one resumes the “art” of writing, that the writer should be disciplined; that the writer should sit down once and day and grab some words, rearrange them into sentences which will inevitably form a paragraph which could potentially result in many paragraphs with the ideal goal of producing some sort of cogent essay or story. I was really hoping for a massively long run-on sentence and this should demonstrate exactly where my brain isn’t because I couldn’t even formulate that.

I crawled into my office this morning with a cup of coffee and a bit of grit and determination to make the words say something pretty or something repulsive. Nothing happened. I grew frustrated and started fidgeting around with WordPress which made me unpleasant and intolerable so I tried taking a nap.
Après failed nap, I waddled back into my office and resumed the exercise. Again, nothing happened.
I went downstairs, grabbed a handful of chocolate covered raisins, stuffed them in my foodhole, washed them down with water (which I always carry with me in some nalgene-ish bottle) and dragged myself back upstairs to my office. Nothing.
I turned on the tv and watched recorded episodes of The Gilmore Girls. Nothing.
I started thinking of my usual sources for inspiration but it’s a slow news day so I cannot get in touch with my inner hate. My husband and child aren’t home so I cannot start any fights with the husband and use him as a fire source. There aren’t even any annoying dogs barking in the neighborhood today. It’s just…quiet and pleasant. MEH.
In an attempt to avoid the dreaded and much feared writer’s block, I have started making notes of topics I’d like to explore further. So far, I have a few really solid ideas and a handful of 1/2-assed ones but I’m not even in the mood to work through those. These potential stories have meaning and I don’t want to water down the impact they may have because of my general ennui.
Yeah. So I just banged out 300+ words to sum up what Pinkie Pie says in one picture:
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 31st 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.

Starbucks Beat Poetry
Starbucks mindfucks,
Superficial tit,
Here I sit,
Heartattack Mac amongst the hipsters,
Who’ve come to see and be seen,
Partake of a pretentious pricey coffeebean,
Balding bearded men adjusting giant lebanese scarves,
While young women with laptops look at pictures of themselves,
And I just melt into the corner with my black Americano,
Musing at the fusion of jazz and ego,
Smiling to myself.



