Call Me KP

Beautiful.

Sitting three desks back from the front, the row against the wall, minutes from moving on to my next class, knowing there was really nothing left to talk about in Great Books because our permanent substitute favored Boggle to The Bard, I wait with my classmates for the bell to ring.  But instead, we hear the phone.  Our teacher jumps from his chair and answers with his usually chipper voice.  That voice turns to shock.

“Wai- What?”  With that, he hangs up the phone and rushes to the TV hanging in the upper right hand corner of the room.

“What happened,” we ask.

“A plane just hit the Trade Center.”

Well, now wait a minute.  I can understand planes crashing in oceans and fields and stuff.  And I know I’m only fifteen and I don’t quite understand the wide world of aeronautics, but how can anyone, any pilot be so stupid or so careless to just wander off of his course and land smack dab into the Trade Center?  How does that work?  Wait.  Was it a small plane?  Like a prop plane?  Or one of those tiny ones that fly out of the airport that’s five miles from my house?  How do you not see one of the biggest buildings ever and fly your plane right into it?  Are you high?  Because if it’s a private plane, I could see how you could be allowed– well, not allowed but able– to smoke or drink or whatever and then get into your own plane.  It’s pretty stupid though.  And it sucks for everyone that was in that building.  But seriously, how does that happen?

Wow.  How big is a prop plane?  Because that hole is pretty huge.  How big is a regular plane?  Like the one I was on when I went to Disney?  That would be just ridiculous if the pilot of one of those things hit that building.  How does that even happen?

“Guys,” our teacher begins.  ”I don’t think this was an accident.  Something isn’t right,” he starts flipping through all of the news stations.  ”This just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who would do this intentionally,” someone asks.  ”Who and why?”

———–

I’ve never written about this before.  I don’t pretend to know what to say.  I don’t think I can say anything that hasn’t already been said.  This is the one thing everyone can write about.  It’s the one thing that everyone has an opinion about.  From how it was handled then, to how it’s being handled now, to what we should be doing and where our focus should be, to the problems with it all, the blame, the sadness, the hurt, the unity, the faded unity, the cliches, the annoyances, the conspiracies, the brokenness, the healing, the rebuilding and the remembering.

It’s exhausting.  It’s absolutely exhausting.  Every last piece of it.  It just breaks my heart.  Year after year.  I want more than life going on and the storm passing over.  But I don’t know what that “more” is.  I want people to be good to each other.  I want people to know that “Never Forgetting” stands for something bigger than a pin or a sticker or a flag or a song.  I want people to be good to each other the way they were those months following that awful, awful day.

And yet, there’s this weird feeling in me in that I absolutely resent this whole tragedy for giving perspective to this country, for making us value each other regardless of status or color or creed.  It hurts me that tragedy can do that; that loss can stop us and make us wait and breathe and be grateful.  Every funeral I’ve ever been to (and there have been plenty) it’s the same way.  When one leaves, the remaining seem to love a little deeper.  It’s that sick, selfish pang that grief brings.  My loved one died.  How is everyone still living out their lives when mine has just been rocked?  And to experience that on not just a national level but on a worldwide level, that feeling of stillness and of stopping and of sadness, is beyond devastating.  It sucks.  It really, really fucking sucks.

When I know that I can and that everyone else can say so much about today, I only really care about one thing: Just be good.

Be good to each other and make no exceptions as to where that good stops.  Just keep it moving.

And thank you to our nation’s heroes (and those especially that I can call my friends) for everything.  And God Bless.

I am actually writing this from my couch, from my iPod. I feel like I could be pulling a RevRun here and really be sitting in a bubble bath. I might try that later. But for now I’ll settle for the Lay Z Boy. Maybe this will help me update more? This little bugger is easier to lug around than my laptop.

Hmm…

I might be on to something.

Only success, and that at a perilous peak, can give relief, but for artists without an art, it is always tension without release, irritation with no resulting pearl. Possibly there would be if the pressure to succeed were not so tremendous. They feel compelled to prove something, because middle-class America, from which they most likely spring, has withering words for its men of feeling, for its young of experimental intelligence, who do not show immediately that these endeavors pay off on a cash basis. But if a civilization falls, is it cash the inheritors find among the ruins? Or is it a statue, a poem, a play?

– Truman Capote, New York

TC, I love you. Ya big lug. I have nothing but the utmost respect for, and a big, bad brain crush on, those men with kind eyes, Havana hats and pinky rings. I went on a bit of a Barnes and Noble binge last month. I bought three– count ‘em three– collections of Capote. Currently reading “Portraits and Observations” and I’m just in awe. I don’t know what else to say. Just in awe. The art stays behind. That’s all. And that’s just such a simple thing to realize (put in words prettier than I could ever write). That while we may have some samples of ol’ timey currency pinned to cork in big museums, we don’t have Billy Shakes’ bank statements. More importantly, we don’t care. Well, not all of us care. We’ve got what he wanted to leave behind.

What will they remember from this civilization? Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of blogs? Creepy, over-posed MySpace mirror reflection pictures? Or one- armed self portraiture for that matter? What’s going to stay after we leave and who gets to make that decision? What if it, by some twisted act of God or fate or the cosmos, we’re remembered by Pauly Shore’s extensive D-Movie filmography? What will the art history students of the future have to say about that? In a culture where so many people get their fifteen minutes and few get anything beyond that, how will we be remembered? Obama’s “Hope” portrait silk screened on a thin cotton t-shirt hanging in a glass case down the hall from some old Red Coats and tri-cornered hats?

Kind of a fascinating concept. I guess we should stop selling crap then, huh?

Oh.  Hey, Diary.  How’s things?

Probably not too great.  Because you’re just a book.  Haha LOL JK.  Kate doesn’t know what a funny guy I am now.  Kate couldn’t know though, right Diary?  She was all stifling of my manhood and shiz.  Like, if my manhood and my manliness were like a hot piece of flame off of a, of a… like a candle or whatever… Kate would probably swoop down and blow it out with her fire breathing breath.  Which we all know isn’t as strong as my fire on my candle.  But a bad kind of fire that shrinks balls and emasculates me.  So it’s bad fire.    Ugly, bad white girl fire.  Ain’t worth shit.  Quit blowin’ out my shit, Kate.  I’m on the cover of fucking People Magazine.  Where are you now, Coupon Nazi?  Where are you now?

So things with Hailey are really starting to get somewhere.  Yesterday, in the car, she let me touch her boob so I flashed her my ween.  Score!  Seriously, I can’t wait to tell Mikey Lohan all about it.  Dude’s legit.  Got a sweet- ass crib off in the Hamptonizzles and shit.  Mad hoes all over.  But, no.  Not mad like angry mad, Diary.  Not mad like Kate mad.  Mad like so mad awesome and so mad horny that they’re just screamin’ and creamin’ to get a slice of this pudgy Asian lovin’ and are so hot for my bald spot.  I don’t know how I missed them all before, Diary.  I can’t believe I’m just discovering all of these other bitches now.  Because, you know, I’m young.  I’ve still got a lot of mileage left, Diary.  And if there’s one thing that Jon Gosselin’s good at… it’s… you know, Diary.  It’s probably pimpin’.

But there was that one buzzkill about a month or so ago with that chick reporter who totally left her job for me.  And I say ‘buzzkill’, Diary, because things with Hailey were just kind of like freshie fresh and so new that I kind of didn’t want to have to juggle bitches again.  Not then.  Not when my freedom was all mine.  But the fact that my magazine ho left her job for me was kind of cool.  I mean, would Kate ever quit her lifestyle just to accommodate my needs and honor the Gosselin name?  Would she ever step down from her successful career to be Mrs. Jon Gosselin and iron my clothes and fold my clothes and make me breakfast  and dinner every day?  And would she ever sacrifice her goals as a nurse and her paycheck and her sense of identity and all she’s ever known about Kate to be, like, my number one ho, my rock, my savior, my sweet, sweet rhinestone angel?  No.  ’Cause she’s a bitch.  That’s right.  A bitch, man, blow me.

Oh!  And Diary… I have to tell you about the most wicked-ass, bitchin’- shit pool party I hosted in Vegas, man.  At first I was kind of bummed this week because my brood started school and stuff and I thought I wouldn’t have anyone to chill with or anyone to bring me juice when I need to get my drank on, but it turned out to be one of the greatest things ever.  Because when the teacher watches the kids for, like, what… a thousand hours a day?  That leaves all the time in the world pimpin’.  Pimpin’ Vegas style.  Seriously, this pool party was the greatest thing that has ever happened to me ever before in my young life ever.  So friggin’ sweet.  Drippin’ wet bitches in teeny bikinis all standing around get sloshed in a waist- deep pool of under-chlorinated, lukewarm water?  How could I avoid Bonertown?  Can’t, suckas!  Schwing!

Schwing!  Oh man.  I haven’t said that word in a real long time.  It feels good to be me again.  I mean, I guess I am grateful for the fame and the money that my show with TLC has brought to me, but for the most part, I couldn’t breathe, Diary.  I couldn’t even walk in the morning.  I couldn’t bring myself to face those eight little kids all snotted up and smellin’ weird.  It got to me, man.  What good’s a Pimp Hand when it’s changing poopy diapers all day, Diary?  What good is a Pimp Hand when it’s used for trying to discipline toddlers instead of disciplining naughty, naughty sluts?  No good.  It’s no good at all, Diary.  ”This Asian Invasion needs some space to race to the top of Ho Mountain.” (I said that.  That’s my quote.)  Oh!  F!  Wait- I didn’t tell you, Diary!  I met Ja Rule at a barbeque in Pasadena– which is a city in Cali– and we’re cuttin’ a track or layin’ down a… wait.  Well, we’re making a song for his new record together.  Want a preview?  Yeah, you do.  You dirty little thing…

Mic check 1, 2
Uh. Yeah… wha? <— That’s when all of Ja’s black friends shout into the microphone. It’s so badass.
This Asian Invasion
needs some space to race
to the top of Ho Mountain
flashin’ my chains,
my youth be from a fountain
so deep and so shiny
ain’t no bitches whinin’
that my penis is tiny
they don’t mind
no, they don’t care
’cause all they see
is money and me
and free press everywhere
Boyeee, I’m livin’ out my dreams
got my bitches in the back
of my EuroVan
(that’s a Volkswaggen, sucka!)
the young daughter of that doctor
(whaaa?) I mean, yeah sometimes I fuck her
nightly and rightly
well, as rightly as I can
with the paps everywhere
clickin’ and flashin’
trick-turnin’ and Kate trashin’
it’s been hard for this stallion
to be reintroduced to the wild
my mind’s like child
but I’m up for the task
to the front of the class
I’m a -runnin’ this town
’cause now I don’t got
eight little weights holdin’ me down.

Well, I mean, it’s a work in progress.  Still got some tinkering to do with it.  And we might even get Kevin Fed on this joint.  But I’m not sure.  There’s really no guarantee.

That’s all for right now, Diary. I have to take Hailey to her first gyno appointment. Scaaaaary!

Peace, nizzes.

I’m currently sitting in the bar of the Mariott Hotel in New York City.  No, I will not specify as to which Mariott.  Because I don’t want you to stalk me, Cyber Killer.  That’s right.  I fancy myself wildly adorable and above all else, stalkable.  Leave me alone, please.

It’s 12:37 as I begin writing this, my thoughts interrupted by the banal beats of lobby musak.  This is the type of music, I believe, Big Apple Virgins hear when they arrive for the first time in the city, what they think this city sounds like.  Like tall, lean, shoulder-padded women in sky- high heels sipping pink drinks from long glasses, shoes click-clacking across the dance floor, dodging the pulsating blue lights, weaving through crowds of other posh, posh New Yorkers toward their broker beaus.  But for me, I’m reminded of that awful feeling of being pulled out of sleep by the DVD main menu track on loop.  And the DVD was a movie starring a Baldwin.  A Baldwin not Alec.  A Baldwin somewhere in 1994.  I didn’t pack headphones.  Why?  Oh, why?

Underscoring this bitchin’ house beat is some tourist conversation with a dialect that isn’t quite German but is too indistinguishable to be Spanish.  Or whatever.  But it’s either this cacophony (thirty points) or the melodious rattling of my grandmother’s snoring.  So… boom, boom, boom.  I am so chic with my city sounds.  Yo quiero Times Square.

When my aunt called me a month ago and asked if I would drive her, my thirteen- year- old cousin and my seventy- year- old grandmother to the city to see the sights and museums because the kid has never seen New York before and he starts school on Tuesday and has been begging all summer, I couldn’t exactly say no.  It was a free night in a hotel that didn’t suck and some good ol’ Grandma Charity Cash not so slyly stuffed into my purse.  I knew that it could get ugly, what with my Grandmother’s habit of getting hopelessly lost in the simplest of places and all, but like those crazy foreigners two tables over from me that I can’t understand, I’m a sucker for this city.  Over and over.

I took my cousin to a few shops in search of Can’t- Find- This- At- Home magic tricks, comic books, and novelty items.  Keep in mind, of course, that my cousin grew about seven inches in under a year and now stands at a bumbling 6″3″.  And he’s– one more time– thirteen.  So the walking definitely took a toll on his crazy legs and jelly joints.  But he soldiered on, through the heat and the humidity and the bums and the pigeons and came back with a sweet collection of comics and the creepiest Halloween mask I have seen in a long time.  He had a good day, I think.  And we’re hitting up the museums tomorrow.  I think he’s excited.  He fell asleep to a $15 rental of “Night At The Museum.”  Anticipation.

All the while I was nervous about him though.  I’m 99.4% certain that he met his first drag queen in the first costume store we went into.  A far cry from his home life, let me assure you.  And he tends to be a little dazed and unfocused in overwhelming situations, kind of hides in himself without much regard for others.  Or cracks in the sidewalks.  Or short steps on a staircase.  So the crowd factor (and the “Is that a…” factor) worried me.  Some people, to be blunt, sucked.  And told him to MOVE! when he suddenly stopped in the middle of an aisle to remember whether or not he had that particular movie or figurine.  Which is awful.  He’s a kid, for crying out loud.  A kid who not five minutes earlier asked if we should maybe give our cab money to the guy with the sign on the corner who needed to buy a plane ticket home to Ohio.   He’s innocent, you jerk.  Can’t you see that?  Do you care to see that?

But it wasn’t until we went to one comic book store in the Village that I was reminded again that there are some really, really good people out there.

Hardly the social butterfly, my cousin walks up to the register, goodies in hand, and chokes out, “Ah, I’d like to buy these, please.”

Yes.  Yes, he is that sweet.

And the cashier could have been annoyed.  First, he was on the phone with the clerk on the first floor, trying to track down a missing movie.  Second, this store was apparently Amish owned and operated judging by the unholy lack of an AC.  The heat was oppressive, biblical.  We were on the fourth floor of this tiny place and everyone up there was veiled with a nasty, nasty sheen of sweat.  And it smelled.  But as my little buddy stood there, all- thumbs and so, so gangly, the cashier smiled and ended his call.

“Hey Guy.  What have you got here,” he asked, shuffling my cousin’s stack of DVDs.  ”Oh, good stuff!  In fact, this is great stuff, bro.  You a fan of this guy?”

“Yeah, he’s great.  I watched a lot of his interviews on YouTube.”

“Yeah,” the clerk exclaimed, smiling bright.  ”Yeah, I’ve seen a few, too.  Yeah, this is good stuff, guy.  Good taste.  Nice choices, kid!”

And I may have died a little bit.

Alright.  Alright, fine.  I’m lame, but that was adorable.  That was so, so adorable.  It didn’t hurt that the clerk was a wee bit cute too.  But to be so nice to a kid who is so obviously a shy, nervous wreck, and to do so in such a genuine and kind manner was so refreshing and in stark contrast to the heat and the sucky people all around me and all around this city.  People like that comic store kid just make it easier.

Nice people always make things easier.  Hardly a revelation, I know.  But it’s something I tend to forget every now and then.  It’s so natural to thicken my skin a little each time I come back to this city.  Don’t look at the bums.  Don’t give anyone money.  Don’t smile.

But I kind of think that’s crap.  All of it.

Aside from mugging (I’m not so naive), what harm could come of a little bit of courtesy?  A little bit of “Hi!  How are you?” Every last person we pass whether on a city street or a country road, every last person has a story, a past.  Each person has a goal and need.  That’s why I love this city.  I love it so much.  I love to just stop and sit and watch.  Watch all of these millions of lives passing by and around each other, very few with any regard for anyone but themselves.  Because when they do collide, when those hard shells do crack, it’s such a cool thing to see.

By now this hotel bar is emptying.  There’s a man in blue coveralls with bright yellow wellies mopping the floor.  He’s commented on the music, the horrible, horrible music.  He thinks it’s too loud.  The young guy with the shiny black hair and pink button- down agrees.  And they start talking.  One with a mop in hand.  The other with an iPhone.  And they’re laughing now.  One made a crack about this music sounding like something off of a late night private line commercial.  The other agrees and says he met his girlfriend that way.  And they’re laughing.

It didn’t last long.  Just a small exchange.  But that’s the good stuff.  That’s the stuff that makes this otherwise tough jungle soften a bit.  That’s what de-drones the hoards of people mindlessly shuffling off to their destinations down each of these city streets and makes them seem that more human, that much more like me.  And like those crazy pseudo-Germans still chatting away about wanting to see the “Liberty Statue.”

There’s something about this place that sometimes turns people away.  It could be the fear or the smell or the pigeons or the traffic.  Yet there’s something about this place that always bring me back.  For me, it’s those little moments of life and of good that spring up and surprise you with their humanity that give this city it’s life, it’s pulse.  And I’m a little bit addicted to the constant possibility here for the universe to surprise me.  I welcome it.  Even with the pigeons.

And fine.  The lights of Times Square are sometimes really pretty, too.  I guess.

Yo quiero, Manhattan.  Yo quiero you very much.

I don’t have a job again.

Because I quit things.

I know how people see this.  I know how my father sees this.  I know how my grandfather sees this.  I know how you see this.  But I did not want to work in bindery for a buck and a half over minimum wage for twenty hours a week.  I felt dead inside.  There.  I said it.  Dead.  All over my insides.  I’ve never hated direct mail, rock radio, or rubber bands more than I do now having been at their mercy since June.  And so I walked away.

This blog has been pretty dead, too.  The truth is (well, the prettier truth is) that I’ve been more focused on cover letters than anything else.  Every single time I’ve signed on to WordPress to do the thing, do that little blog dance… I’m distracted by a dwindling bank account and the ever-present cloud of parental frustration.  They suggest I apply everywhere retail.  So I did.  With no luck.  My bachelor’s degree apparently has me stuck in limbo between being overqualified to fold t-shirts and panties and under-qualified to write for financial gain.

(I really can’t wait to sell out.  Just being honest.)

Right now, I’m working on teaching myself the in’s and out’s of web design.  The goal is to figure out just enough to help local small businesses establish an online identity via social networking sites plus sites of their own all while building up some kind of techy/ writey portfolio of my own to compensate for that missing Master’s degree that every day becomes less and less possible financially.  It all sounds good in theory.  But the execution is a bit more tricky than I thought.  At least, no one is relying on me right now and I can afford to screw up.  But the point is, I’m doing something for myself, for the sake of employment.  I’m bettering my resume and having fun while learning just how to do that.  That makes the whole daunting task of making myself financially independent all the more… well, not enjoyable.  But tolerable, I guess.  Learning makes me happy.  There.  I said it.

Also, I’m hoping to be a self-taught Santana.  I’ve got the books and the mom who plays a pretty mean six-string.  And the banjo.  Pickin’ and grinnin’.  Why not?  It’s summertime.  And I didn’t really see a lot of sun last year while working for … you know.  Them.

So the beauty of all of this– this unemployed, not entirely hopeless, but mostly clueless– life I lead is that I can do it while getting a nice, Jamaica- caliber tan.  That’s right.  A little vanity here and there can be good for the soul.  For some reason, I just feel more healthy when I’m tan.  For now, I’m grateful for the Vitamin D.  But come my 30th birthday and I look like Donatella Versace’s mom, well then I may just feel some twinge of regret.  But for now, I’m glowy and jobless.  And wholly concerned with my conflicting tan-lines that, thanks to bandeau versus bikini, have made my girls look like two scoops of Neapolitan ice cream.  Flavors?  Tan, burnt, and Irish.

So more little things.  Yes.  More little things that make me happy.  I need that.  Because right now, I’m not exactly handling the job stress well and I’m bitching to anyone who will pretend to listen and care.  But to be honest, I’m annoying myself.  I’m annoying myself and I’m annoying other people.  I know that every time I sit down and try to write something here, it becomes some lengthy, longwinded, spoiled, bratty, pointless rant about not finding a job that makes me happy.  So screw it.  Screw it and stop whining.

The new goal?  Do something each day to destress, to stop worrying.  Worrying causes wrinkles and I’m clearly OD’ing on UV.

Then I’ll really have something to cry about.

Woof.

So keep reading if you’re interested to see where I end up and what I figure out.  I know you’re out there, readers.  How about some feedback?  I could always talk more about my boobs as incentive.  Let’s talk and work something out.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I am 100% able to align my feelings with that of Tony Award winning puppets. In fact, I welcome this commonality. Because puppets are fun. Especially monster puppets. Especially, especially singing monster puppets.

One of the scariest, if not the absolute scariest, thing about growing up is knowing that you are the only one who can really save you.  Yourself.  You are your only savior.  I mean, God too.  If you believe that.  And I do.  But as far as the actual physical carrying out of whatever it is you think He wants for you, it’s you against the world, Lovie.  Pull up those big girl panties and suck it up.  Step up to the plate of life.  And, you know, insert other Tough Love Real World adages here.

Since we last spoke thirty-nine years ago, I’ve quit my semi-cushy, well-paying government job in the hopes of finding something more in line with my ultimate career goal; which is writing.  TV or film or print or pain- in- the- ass direct mail.   Writing not for the love of the craft, but for the pure, pure, selfish, ‘It’s All About MeMeMe’ profit.  At least I’m honest.

I’m considering film school again.  During my Senior Year, I only applied to one.  One, because I knew how expensive it would be.  And it scared me.  Which sucks.  And I’m over that.  Because I’ve come to the realization that I will forever owe money to Big Brother College Man for the rest of eternity.  So I’m no longer going to let my broke-ness dictate my life decisions.  Save for eventual prostitution.  But let’s just call that research for the Next Great Lifetime movie.  Don’t scoff.  That shit’s lucrative.  And I need to find another use for the pole in my bedroom.  Something more mature than private, invite only May Day celebrations.  (Shhh, lame.)

I’ve started working on some new items for my portfolio/ applications.  And it’s going well.  Well, if the admissions office likes post-grad two-person dialogue drivel about finding my adult way and that all-consuming need to not turn into my mother.  But I’m so far in debt with my undergrad loans, that I need to really think long and hard (heh) about my financial situation before I make big purchases that I could never hope to repay in eleven lifetimes.  It won’t deter me from applying and/ or eventually going to school should some insititution be crazy enough to accept me.  But I just need some sort of plan.  I need to map it out.  (I’m maturing.)  You know, I could always just perfect my credit and land a hundred year loan and pay, like, ten dollars every month until I die and the leave my cats to pay the rest.  A viable option, of course.

So with all of this debt, I know what you’re thinking.

“KP, you spoiled whore.  Why would you walk away from something so financially stable?”

“Because, Internet.  Because I’m an asshole.  One silly, silly asshole.”

Well, maybe not an asshole.  But you know.  And the bottom line?  It didn’t make me happy.  The job just didn’t make me happy.  The paychecks did (hello MacBook Pro & designer trench coat).  The job just did not.  That’s not where I’m meant to be.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the experience.  I learned more than I bargained for and more than I’m sure I can even process a whole year later.  But as for the long run?  That wasn’t it.  At all.  I applied because I knew how much my grandmother loved it.  She worked with FEMA for over thirty years until her passing and for some strange reason, I felt compelled to follow in her footsteps.  I met incredible people and heard beautiful stories and tried my best to ensure that the work that I was doing was solely for the benefit of those affected by the Iowa storms.  That’s it.  I was so very turned off by the bureaucracy, the few ladder- climbers I met.  There’s no room for that when it comes to helping those who have just lost everything through no fault of their own.  Knowing that I was making great money and some of them had so little… that hurt.

I know I can’t feel guilty.  I know that I worked to earn it.  I know that not everyone out there would be willing to work twelve or thirteen hour days, seven days a week and I know that’s why the pay was so good.  Lots of hours.  Zero benefits.  But when I looked at the financial situation of those people I was helping, people who couldn’t even afford to replace a wheelchair, it just broke my heart.  I haven’t given up on that part of my life, the part that wants to do the right thing and help others who need it, when they need it most.  I just need another avenue.  I wanted to get in to those houses and rip down those walls myself.  I didn’t want to talk to applicants and refer them to services that could help them directly.  I wanted to do more.  And I’ll get there in a similar capacity again.  I’m sure of that.  But for now, I’m just doing a little each day to give back.  It makes for a happier me.

Okay.  Rant Switch off.

It is difficult to try and explain my decision to my family or even to my friends (and the worst when wine is involved as proven that night at Morris’ Aunt’s house on our mini-retreat– eep!)  And that’s what I’ve been struggling with as of late.  I’ve always been the girl that asks permission.  To make sure that I’m staying in my own lane and that no one is displeased or hurt because of my actions.  Because it’s always been easier for me to adapt to a situation and control my own emotions than predict anyone else’s.  If that makes sense.  I’ve always played it safe.  And that has to stop.

Mom and Dad won’t always know what’s right for me.  They know what will keep me safe and healthy.  They will love me.  But they won’t always have the answers.  Silly as it sounds, that has been one of the most difficult things in the world to learn.  They’re flawed.  I mean, I always knew they were crazy.  But I never thought they were wrong.  Ever.  I’m young like that.

So I took a part time position with the promise of a few freelance side projects here and there in the meantime.  And when the meantime ends exactly, I’m not sure.  And while I’m making 1/4 of what I made with FEMA, while I’m broke and in debt, I’m taking control.  I’m not letting anyone else call this game.  Just me.

Working at a printing press is hardly where I thought I’d be at this point.  But maybe it’s where I need to be.  For a reason I just don’t know yet.  I’m meeting people, nice people, who were born, raised, and still live and work in this area.  They’re settled.  Happy?  I’m don’t know.  But they’re settled.  What makes them happy?  What are the farmers and the nurses and the copy techs and the girls in the bindery section working toward?

And that’s the one thing that keeps coming up in my life.  I’m out of college.  I’m trying to get out there and fend for myself and make my life happen, make my goals happen; the same goals that I’ve had since I was a little girl memorizing lines and performing scenes from my favorite Disney movies, creating elaborate stories for my Barbie dolls and filming shorts and mock-talk shows in my living room.  No matter how many photocopies I make, those dreams will always be there.  But what about everyone else?

When do we grow up?  What makes us grow up?  Can we ever help it or hope to control it?  And what if everything we hoped to be as children– firefighters, baseball players, doctors, actresses, chefs, dancers, writers, singers, space princesses– is really possible within us?  Why do we let go of that?  Is it worth it?  How much are we giving up and why?  Why?  For the love of Pete why!

I know that it’s been a good eighteen or so years that I’ve been told that I can be whatever I want to be; in college, I just couldn’t decide.  I couldn’t be concrete and definitive.  Hence the English major.  But why suddenly am I supposed to expect to be miserable just to make money and to make ends meet?  Who says?

I may bitch my parents and my sister and this valley and the fact that most of my dear friends are so far away and off doing adult things while I’m still treading water here in the same house I’ve lived in forever with a wacky, opinionated, jaded, silly, sweet, loving family.  But I’m lucky.  I have that freedom to answer to only me.  No one else.  And I’ve still got those dreams.  Whether or not they align with the bigger plan for my life remains to be seen.  But that doesn’t mean I have to abandon them in favor of practicality.  Not yet.

My basket case of a mother hit me with this one this afternoon as I sat at the kitchen table stressed over my loans.

“Mom,” I began.  ”How can someone be content to just settle and not move or change the thing in their life that’s making them miserable.”

“That’s what makes the world work.  Could you imagine the chaos that would ensue if everyone had bravery and guts and ambition?  And how crowded that would be?  We’d be elbow to elbow in pinstripe suits shuffling along with our briefcases.  It’s a balance.”

Understanding that, seeing that as I break away from my sheltered little suburban life makes me realize all at once just how important it is to be self-reliant and self-confident and trusting in the good that my life is supposed to bring me.  And that comes from being open to the little messages and miracles along the way, from not being afraid to move, from doing the unexpected.  It’s in being daring and brave and insane and ridiculous.  I’ve got the questions and I’m far from the answers.  But at least I’m in the drivers seat for the first time in a long, long time.

And control feels good.

And is a virtual CSS/ HTML whiz kid.

Whiz. Whiz? Is that like the cheese? Cheeze.

Whatevs. Stay tuned.