the half truth of a whole life

It’s not unusual, if I’m not busy scanning obituaries on funeral home websites from my home town, for me to spend copious amounts of time on the MSPCA website perusing the animals available for adoption. I’m not going to adopt any of them, and I never spend any time looking at birds or reptiles or rabbits, but there’s just something about all those hopeless faces coupled with the worst writing of all time that I can’t resist. I love it.

It’s also fun to judge the townspeople based solely on the names of the animals. Sometimes you’ll get six or seven black and white “tuxedo” cats named Oreo or a handful of Mittens or Socks because, you guessed it, their paws are white! (I did see a cat named “Oreos”– plural– the other day I the judgement came on so fast and so strong I scared myself a little.) There are animals named by Captain Obvious and his litter of observant children, those are the Fluffys, and also those named by folks who eventually had to give up their dogs “due to the economy” and their children who are doubtless named Amber and Dwayne Jr. Dogs named Spike and Killer. Kitties name Tiffani… or Skittles. (Shiver.)

Seeing all those animals left to the “system,” I can’t help but ponder the irony between the fate that likely awaits them and the cheerful manner in which some volunteer copywriter describes their unique personalities. “Such a lovebug!” “The king of our hearts!” “Cuddles for miles!” It’s especially tough to reconcile when you’re looking at photo of a pit bull with crazy eyes and dried foam in the creases of his muzzle. Cuddles for miles? Really?

So the other evening I got to thinking about it; thinking about the humor (after you get over the fuckedupedness) of writing a caption that could determine whether or not society deems you suitable for continued existence, but also how much more awesome the whole site would be if the descriptions were honest.

It started with Stuart.

Stuart is our cat. Stuart George Edward Wayne Beaulieu was brought into our family in September of 2008 after we spent $10,000 trying to save our other kitty Milo. Milo died. Stuart arrived. As a small kitty, Stuart’s ears were too big for his head and I couldn’t love him. I enjoyed the kittenness and his soft kitty fur, but the thought of having an ugly cat gave me such anxiety that I would lay awake at night acknowledging how hard it must have been for my parents to love my little brother. He had a HUGE head.

As Stuart grew into a man kitty, he grew into his ears. (And slightly pointy face. I didn’t mention that before, but it was a source of stress as well.) He exhibited just enough random talent that we were proud of him and other cat parents knew he was no lay kitty. Most importantly, though, he maintained his softness. It’s like a magic power. He’s soft enough that I’ll probably make a scarf or muff out of him In The End.

Of course, like all cat parents, we think Stuart is an excellent cat. He’s well behaved, doesn’t jump on eating surfaces, meows little, and all his annoying habits are quirky enough that they can be packaged as genius so to avoid any family humiliation. He sleeps on the bed, eats an organic, fish-based diet, doesn’t shit outside the box, and shows a disdain for cheap toys that makes his mama very proud.

But…

As I was reading the Ridiculous Captions accompanying my evening entertainment, I realized Stuart’s caption would get him killed. As a matter of fact, I realized that most animals captions would get them killed. Because the truth is that most children’s captions, if truthful, would not inspire you to pick up the phone. “Just at that adorable age when they constantly smell like Mexican migrant workers back from a long day. Shows average intelligence and mediocre aptitude for sports. Doesn’t eat anything that isn’t white and refuses to drink water. Completely adorable and loving. But not in an obvious way.”

Stuart’s caption would read something like this:

I’m Stuart and I’m super soft, which is a really good thing because I’m also an intellectual elitist and emotional hoarder. I’m curious about people and life, but would prefer not to be touched without my explicit consent. I’d love to cuddle up to the far corner of the couch so that you may admire me before giving me a holistic, organic cat treat that smells exactly like a dumpster at the aquarium. I’m completely potty trained. I can’t wait to join a home with no children or other animals, furniture reflecting a mid-century Danish aesthetic, and two parents who work full time. Do you want to make me a part of your family?

Pause.

Probably not.

Stuart would be given a sleepytime cocktail. An eternal sleepytime cocktail.

So instead, someone would write about how precious he is, how playful (lie), and personable (half truth), and desirous of joining your home (if you’re wealthy). Some Average American Family or Single Girl would come and meet him, mistake his disgust for shyness and take him home to some hovel with an over stuffed couch. Truthfully, Stuart would rather be dead.

But then I realized that what really bothers me about the Kitty Kaptions (and puppy ones too) is not the out and out lies or even the terrible writing in the first person, but that Kitty Kaptions aren’t relegated to kitties. Kitty Kaptions are just like People Captions: well crafted stories that we think will appeal to others, make others like us– even those who are all wrong for us to begin with. We believe that cuddly and agreeable is better than a little persnickety.

And that’s just not true. At least not in the household.

Here is what I know about applying for jobs: it ranks right up there with my freshman year of high school. I know that everyone likes to talk about how they were the most awkward or most unattractive and I’m not here to debate that. You were probably uglier than me. Whether or not you felt uglier is debatable. Whether you managed to accentuate your lack of grace and beauty with glitter and hair clips the way I did is not. I inadvertently did everything in my power to paint a huge glittery sign that says, “I am so uncomfortable in my own skin that am borrowing clothes from my best friend who is 6 inches shorter and 50 pounds lighter and pretending I’m her.” Who is buying it?

Hear that silence? MY POINT EXACTLY.

Do you remember those butterfly clips? Not clips with butterflies on them, but clips that actually were butterflies. Their wings, ironically, had teeth that held your hair in place. I’m fairly certain you could buy a jug of them at Claire’s for a quarter. Those butterfly clips were “my look.” I could style my hair to look like 100 permutations of a plastic monarch colony. Some nights I’d go to bed only to find that a stray butterfly had nestled it’s way deep into the frizz and imbedded itself into my skull upon impact with my pillow.

A personal favorite, and go-to style for a casual everyday look, were the upper-middle class, white girl cornrows. These involved framing my face with rows of twisted strands held in place by one butterfly. Somedays I’d go monotone, others I’d have a rainbow of plastic insects in my hair. It was worse than when a friend comes back from Jamaica with those little braids. (I don’t know what happens to people in Jamaica that makes them think it’s okay to do that, but it’s not. No matter how many times you get accosted on the beach, you need to remember that you are going to look stupid and your friends aren’t going to want to go to dinner in public to hear about your trip.)

The key difference between my years of butterflies and job hunting is that everyday when I got home from school, I didn’t have to wait for someone to call and tell me how stupid I looked. I went years thinking I was the hottest shit around. I actually believed people when they told me I could be a professional stylist. I eagerly shared my secrets for where to score the best clips. And no one ever told me later that they were just being nice.

Job hunting, on the other hand, is brutal. You can look forward to waking up to a few emails about how nice it was to read your resume, but how, bottom line, you’re just not good enough. Occasionally you’ll get the, “oh my god! I LOVED your resume and would love to just be friends.” WHAT? NO! This is not a dating site, it’s a job hunting site. I don’t want to be your friend! I want for you to get me a job! I AM GOING TO END UP LIVING IN THE PINE STREET INN! SOMEONE IS GOING TO EAT MY CAT!

Then there is the reality of meeting a potential employer, likely someone you will report to, and realizing they are retarded. As you sit there imagining how much money they make, it occurs to you that not only will you not be getting the job, but someone else with a half of a brain will be. Probably someone related to the person you’re attempting to communicate with. That’s always nice.

I can almost imagine the annual job-hunting year book signing. Unlike my freshman year, when people wrote nice things like, “UR hair is AWESOME! Stay cool.” and “2Cool 2B 4gotten”, my job hunting year book would have things like, “UR not awesome enough for us!” and “2Bad UR not an MBA.”

But the worst? The ones that really sting? Those are the ones you love. The ones you’re sure you’d be a super fit for that don’t feel the same way. Then you really are back in high school again. You’re sitting across the table from some super cool guy who you are SURE would think you were the cat’s meow if he’d just hang out. If he’d only take a second to realize that you’re a little shy and that’s why you come off so… strong. But he won’t. And you go home and don’t say anything, but eventually your dad comes into your room and for no reason at all tells you that he thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. And while it doesn’t make it better, it makes it bearable. And you actually believe him when he says someday everyone will see how beautiful you are. He says that even though you look like the ring master at a My Little Pony Circus.

But when you’re all grown up, it’s highly unlikely that dad’s going to burst through the door and tell you how you’re gonna kill the competition. You have to look yourself in the mirror, remember that those butterfly years didn’t hold you back, and hopefully neither will these. You have to open your computer and keep sending emails, keep asking people to give you a chance. One cool football player after another.

And hope that one of them really will give you a chance.

"Amazing Laughter" sculpture by Yue Minjun (Photo credit: Matthew Grapengieser)

A lot of years ago, maybe seven or eight, I bought a card with a sheep on it. The caption above the sheep read, “and to add to my misery, no one here thinks I’m funny.” It’s the kind of card you send to a good friend when they’ve left you. When you find yourself standing amidst a group of strangers who don’t understand you. Or worse, they misunderstand you. They don’t laugh at your jokes. They don’t even pity laugh. They just look at you.

I didn’t buy the card for anyone in particular. I just bought it to have. I have a rather large collection of cards that I’ve bought over the years. I pick up cards to keep, to read, to have, and to send. I think cards are one of the top ten loveliest things on the planet. Truly. The sheep card, however, has never made it into the rotation. Year after year I see it as I flip through my card drawer and never once have I thought it was the right card to send to anyone. I think that’s because the card wasn’t meant for anyone. It was meant for me.

There have been lots of times when people haven’t thought I was very funny. Many of those times were made worse by the fact that I really did think I was funny. Sometimes I’m not trying to be funny. People sometimes laugh at me for no good reason. The hubs laughs at the way I grocery shop, or the way I like to walk home from work. He thinks it’s peculiar that I sit in the bathtub for long periods of time or create “adventures.” Clients laugh at the way I dress, or the stories I tell. People even laugh at the way my house is decorated. Those things are meaningless.

But when you are trying to be funny and you realize that the entire room is staring at you like a mad person, those are the times it’s painful. You can’t go anywhere or do anything. You just have to sit there while all those eyes look expectantly upon you, wondering if you’re going to redeem yourself or wallow in humiliation. I choose the latter. Wallow. I keep my eyes downcast and I wallow. It’s the only way to regain composure.

The root of the pain is pretty simple: you misjudged your audience. They don’t get you.

Last week, I gave up my job. I didn’t really quit my job, nor did I get fired. I just gave it up. I felt like I was holding onto it so tightly and I couldn’t bear to imagine what my life would be without it. It didn’t define me, but it had been so much a part of my life and my success for the last four years that to imagine my existence without it was impossible. I didn’t even know I was going to give it up. I actually had no idea. But something started happening, something I was ignoring. People didn’t think I was funny anymore.

Don’t get me wrong, there were moments when people though I was funny. How could you not? But those moments were fewer and more far between. I started hearing words like “negative” bandied about in reference to me and my personality.

For a long time I thought that being serious– taking things more seriously– was what you were supposed to do as you grew up. Your career is a competition. There are others out there who will beat you to your dream and you better be ready to crush them with your intellect, smash them with your clever ways. If you didn’t look smart, you looked stupid. If you weren’t at the front, you were at the back.

Believe it or not, there was a time when I was known for being easy going. I’ve never been one to roll over when it came to something I believed in, but my methods were cheerful, my disposition that of someone who wants to learn from others and embrace new ideas. I don’t know what happened to that girl, but my guess is that she died a painful death a few years back. I killed her. Probably in the bathtub.

There’s no doubt that my natural inclination is that of a defensive player. Give me something to protect and I will do so fiercely. I was always shit at shooting baskets, but keeping some other beastly chick from doing it was never a problem. But the truth is that I longed, always, to be an offensive player. And I’ve worked really hard to be an offensive player. It doesn’t mean I can’t be aggressive, but it does mean I need to remember that I’m on a team and that what’s best for me isn’t always best for everyone else. I don’t want to continue with this sports metaphor because it’s making me uncomfortable, but you understand what I’m saying, right? Sometimes you realize you’ve become a fierce asshole when you meant to be a rockstar collaborator.

Now, do not misunderstand me. My job did not make me a fierce asshole, I made me a fierce asshole. My job gave me every opportunity in the world, but my priorities got fucked up and I started focusing more on the me and less on the we. I took the weight of success–collective success– onto my own shoulders and frankly became a touch Machiavellian. It’s no wonder people didn’t think I was funny. I was foaming at the mouth.

And so it happened. I was gripping my job so tightly that I had no choice. I needed to let go. I needed to let the one thing I couldn’t control float away. In a funny way, I needed to throw myself into an unknown place– one of fear and doubt– to really understand who I was and what I wanted. Nothing will do that quite like become unexpectedly unemployed.

And now I’m going to rebuild it. I’m going to take the incredible people, places, lessons, and triumphs of the last four years and I’m going to apply them to finding a new future. I’m going to find a place where people do think I’m funny and I’m going to keep it that way. I think.

Here’s to optimism.

I have as many complaints about my childhood as the next hardened upper-middle-class child with a house keeper, but there’s one thing I can never relate to: kids whose parents never supported them. I was recently watching an episode of the Parenthood and the heart wrenching drama of that particular episode centered on Zeke’s mother never encouraging him, supporting him, or even telling him that she loved him. I sat there like a stone cold bitch. My parents were borderline retarded with their belief in three of the most useless, talentless children on the face of the planet.

No matter what it was I wanted to do, one or both of my parents was there to tell me how good I’d be at it (the best, uncontested) or take me to get whatever gear would be required to excel. Better than that was their unwavering commitment to my ability to do anything. I never once heard them say, “are you sure? Because you thought you were going to be into ____________ and then we bought $4600 worth of gear and you quit because _______________.” (Generally, and this applies to my brothers as well, it was weather or intensity related, or some combination of the intensity in the weather.) To this day, though my lifestyle and choices deviate slightly from those my parents might have made for me, they’re still eager to encourage me. This is a luxury, and I acknowledge that, but it’s also created a bizarre psychosis.

The simplest way to explain it is that I get excited about being able to excel at anything and in turn want to do very strange things. Interestingly enough, none of these things would be lucrative in the least. For example, some of the things I think I would be so good at and would love to try: being a hair dresser, teaching 4th grade, hiking, running a restaurant, managing any number of things, acting, skiing, telling other people what they should do for a living, psychologist, doctor, New Yorker Cartoon captionist, gang member, personal trainer, police officer, barista, and the list goes on and on. My most recent obsession, which has been the object of my desire for quite sometime, is going to prison. I really, really, really think I would enjoy and excel at being in prison.

I’ve always been fascinated by prison. I was desperate for Martha to write a tell all book about her time in prison. Just as she brought the joy of crocheting to the depraved ladies of her cell block, I’m certain I could make friends and protect my purity with a unique combination of humor and subtle psychotherapy. During my recent live threatening illness, I had plenty of time to watch my very favorite prison show Lock Up and it’s juicy and favorable cousin Lock Up RAW. One hour of delight profiling various maximum security prisons or jails around the country and the stand-up ladies and gentlemen who call them home. Occasionally you’ll get an over-crowded or under-funded facility. I try to DVD those for multiple viewing.

After watching a marathon of Lock Up, realized that excelling in prison is about more than telling fucked up bitches whose runnin’ the fuckin’ show once you arrive, it’s about having family who supports you even though you’re in prison.

Imagine my glee.

Not only would I as an individual be so good at being in prison, my family would be a clutch asset. Speaking as a strategist and brand expert, the opportunity to implement my Prisoner of the Era strategy and develop my prisoner brand would be an opportunity beyond anything I’ll ever have at work.

If I were going to put together a Power Point presentation, it would go a little something like this… (First, let’s assume I’m in the Big House for 25 to life for second degree murder. The conviction is mysterious enough to paint me as a bad ass and an unpredictable mother fucker. You want thug life? I killed someone in the moment because I felt like it. It’s also important that my conviction have nothing to do with small children. Bitches get cut for messing with kids.)

Caroline in Prison: Identifying Opportunity and Capitalizing on Brand Equity

Prison is a bitch. (Always have an opening slide that makes people think your presentation isn’t going to be as boring as it actually is.)

Two Audiences: Prison Staff (including guards, wardens, etc.) and Scary Fuckin’ Bitches

First, it’s important to establish a relationship with prison staff. Position yourself as dog with a bark but no bite. Establish understood respect through actions, but maintain public displays of disrespect in order to show the Scary Fuckin’ Bitches how Bad Ass you are. Through the year, invent conspiracies and acts of violence that never happened to establish camaraderie with the SFBs about what liars and pigs the staff is. Kiss staff ass when no one is listening or watching. Learn kids names, without giving them the sense that you’re going to murder their families when you leave.

Assets: Supportive Family = No Lesbianism to Gain Control

Ensure that the family puts money on your books every single week. Not only will it keep you in the company of Doritos and Diet Coke and independent from the prison slop,  Honey Buns are currency. When some chick with a buzz cut starts trying to explore your contours, you leverage your commissary rations. You want a tit? I’ll give you a bag of Combos and two cans of pop. Kiss? How about some Blow Pops and Peeps? Next time Amber tries to swipe your girly bits in the shower, beat her over the head with a can of Chicken of the Sea. Equal parts weapon and consolation prize.

Do not take up religion. Religion has yet to prove a pathway to parole. If you want to get out early, you need to be visible. Religion is not visible enough. And if it is, you’re doing something to make people think you’re crazy. Crazy people don’t get out on parole. They get transferred to a state hospital. There’s no such thing as parole there. Just a bunch of crazy people playing ping pong with their own feces. Poo Pong, if you will.

There are many other factors at play here. I’m really good with hair. Really good. And I can make something out of pretty much nothing. (I cannot stress to you enough how innovative I am. I’m like McGuyvor. Seriously. It’s a talent.) I’ll admit that I need to brush up on my knowledge of textured hair (for my black friends in the slammer) because I don’t want someone to shank me because I’m not an equal opportunity stylist. I could make curlers out of toilet paper and crimps out of paper. Those Scary Fuckin’ Bitches would be lining up at rec time to get an appointment with me. And hell no I don’t take Honey Buns. I can buy my own Honey Buns. You want my skills? You pay me in protection. SHAZAM. Genius.

I’m getting excited just thinking about it.

The key to my prison success, besides my ability to create my very own capitalistic community fueled by the commissary, will be my time management. Keeping my figure will be a priority. Vanity is an obvious factor, but so is being nimble. It’s also part of the plan. People can’t help but respect people who respect themselves. One thing Scary Fuckin’ Bitches are not good at? Keeping themselves. You never meet a scary gangster chick who happens to have an incredible haircut and impeccable style. Eye brows are always too thin, mid sections always too thick, and ponytails slicked back so tight they’ve inadvertently invented a non invasive face lift.

The rest of my time will be spent doing things to better myself and the prison. I’ll become one of those advocates for on-campus gardens. I’ll start a work program to feed the community through the prisons. Plus I’ll eat the shit out of the produce while I’m gardening so I don’t have to choke down the food. I hear they don’t care if you’re a vegetarian. Or a human for that matter.

The bottom line is that I need someone to take me to jail. I’ve tried to get arrested for something silly, a misunderstanding or easily rectified lapse, but I haven’t been successful. I don’t want to do anything that will give me an actual record because then I couldn’t be a 4th grade school teacher, which I would be good at too.

OMG. I bet I’d be a phenomenal prison guard. That would get me into prison.

The movie was about that kid who figured out how to change the world by simply reinvesting the good. Then he ended up dead at the end of the movie and I basically forgot all about paying it forward because I was so ripshit about watching the whole thing and then having him die.

The concept/theory/idea predates the movie, likely predates Jesus if you think about it. As a matter of fact, I think that when you really get down to it, there wouldn’t even be a name for the idea of investing in the good if we didn’t all become so invested in ourselves and the outcomes of each and every move we make. Doing a nice thing should be natural, unfortunately in a world where we’ve consensually implied that trees do fall in the woods and do not in fact make a sound, doing good becomes something totally different. It’s an opportunity. And that, I’d venture to say, makes it not really a good thing. Just sayin’.

I do a lot of bad things, as we all do, and those things get plenty of coverage. I’ve even experienced the effects of a reputation built on people defining me by only the things they’ve seen, or have been witnessed by others. You can see how this becomes problematic. I don’t want to walk around talking about all the insanely nice stuff I do for people because then it wouldn’t feel authentic, but I’m a people. And people, for whatever reason, do want people to like them.

But today, I had a realization. This is deep, so you may want to lean way forward to make sure you get it. There is no such thing as good and bad, truly. There is only context. And context is subjective. And subjectivity is the reason for feuds, wars, political parties, Romeo + Juliet, and the lynch pin of success or failure for everything from brands to presidents and people.

I read The Week. It’s a good thing. And the reason it’s a good thing is because it’s taught me to be informed, but remain relatively unattached. I experience the outrage, disbelief, anger, and moral discouragement of the masses the same as everyone else, but what I’ve learned about myself (with the help of The Week and some solid mental illness) is that my involvement and opinion are only as valid as the context in which I’m forming or applying them. Three major things come to mind: occupy _________, extramarital affairs, and politics (which is arguable the same as the whole occupy bit).

Raise your hand if you’ve been exposed to an “Occupy?” (I’m raising my lily white hand because it just so happens that Boston is being occupied right outside my office.) Fundamentally, I’m with them. It is morally outrageous what’s happening in this country. Our children should be educated, our people taken care of, our collective opinion considered and weighed in every decision. But then I start to think practically about the Utopian society that we claim to want and how every philosopher from here to kingdom come who ever penned a book about a Utopian pretty much came to the same conclusion: that would be fucking awesome; too bad people are comprised of intellect and emotion. (Because the laborers, no matter how valued they are within the whole are going to start to want something shiny. Want their kids to have something as shiny as everyone else, and next thing you know, Maslow’s hierarchy has us all by the balls.)

And just like the rest of us, I think, “well J.H Christ, America! Warren is practically waving billion dollar bills at the budget crisis and we’re having a friendly tribal counsel to figure out which reason to use to tell him no. WTF?” But then that goshdarn practicality kicks in and I start to realize that the top 1% isn’t just men like Buffett. It’s families who make $523,000 a year and live in some of the most expensive cities in the world. Maybe those people have four kids who deserve to have a college tuition and they’re parents have earned the right to pay that tuition BEFORE ensuring that a bunch of other kids get educated. If I were making $523,000 a year and it was just me and Mr. B, there’s a good chance I’d be one of those benevolent, rich liberals holding a sign to give me more taxes. But if I woke up on a Tuesday knocked up with twins, I bet I’d have a hard time finding that sign. I’d slowly pipe down and start focusing on how to invest privately in the public good… I think I’d probably frighten myself with the Elephant-like thoughts running through my head.

Now, this is not to say that I believe in turning a blind eye to criminal activity that’s affected the lives of millions, if not billions, of people. But I need to look, not at the issues, but at the context. The same way our judicial system defined manslaughter from murder two, and murder two from murder one. Those are crimes by definition, but the context is completely different. And while I’d never invest additional money into prison luxuries for a bunch of first degree murders, I’d approach the man slaughter folks a little differently.

That’s to say, we could call that entire percentage of the population “murders” and treat them all as such, but the diversity amongst the group makes it impossible for me to require they all endure the ultimate punishment because of a blanket label.

But what does it have to do with extramarital affairs? Or politics? Or pay it forward?

Well, I’d ask you. Have you ever forgiven someone for sexual indiscretion? Have you ever found yourself rooting for a man or woman in a movie– the man or woman doing the cheating? I remember the first time I watched the movie Waitress. It wasn’t until the end of the movie that I realized I WANTED Keri Russell’s character to cheat on her husband. He was terrible. He’d broken an emotional vow long before she broke a physical one. But emotional vows don’t count. There aren’t any emotional whores being kept out of public office or asked to resign.

I’ve seen affairs that have changed people’s lives for the better. I’ve seen affairs that finally drove people to speak up and become proactive about their lives. I don’t condone cheating, but I don’t judge it until I know the context– and sometimes that can take years to fully assess.

And while politicians are the root of politics, deep inside I know that the kind of personality capable of getting up on world stage and playing the game in a way that can win– democrat or republican– is going to be a textbook example of someone with deep narcissistic tendencies, over-confidence, and likely deep vulnerabilities. But you can’t have the yin without the yang. When I go into surgery, I really don’t mind my surgeon having a cocky attitude and mild God-complex. Better that than a man who is pretty sure and believes that whatever happens, happens.

The point of all this, believe it or not, is not political. Or religious. Or even moral. The point is that our expectations of others has created a society where good must be done on a stage and bad swept way under the rug, similarly, our opinions must be convictions and our doubts ignored. Unfortunately, none of that is human nature. Humans are fallible and sometimes make very poor choices, but those choices alone do not define who we are. Politicians are not perfect any more than business plans are reality. But you have to set a standard, something that everyone can aspire to. And when we begin tearing people, religions, politics, and companies apart to point out where they have failed, the only thing we’re doing is setting the collective farther back. If there was a man or woman who could save the free world, far be it from me to care if they’ve had a tryst in a bathroom stall. What matters is whether that tryst indicates a view of women or gays that will affect policy. Aside from that, fuck it.

Maybe if we all tried to pay it forward, reinvest in the good, we’d start to see that nothing about any of this is personal. It’s contextual. Because there will be trees falling in the woods for the rest of time, whether we hear them or not, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re engaged, but only if we’re thoughtful, and outraged, but only if it’s relevant.

From the time I crossed the threshold into Ms. Kosmin’s kindergarten class until I was in seventh grade, I loved school. I didn’t love tests or homework– something that has followed me throughout my life– but I loved the act of learning. I still absorb information like a sponge. I’m sure that if you gave me a test or made me write a paper, you’d be disappointed in my recall or underwhelmed by my observations, but the knowledge remains. I can call up all sorts of information at opportune times. I sometimes think that my young self cared so little about tests because it took away from the pure joy of school. So long as I felt like we were immersed in learning, I was happy. The second someone turned it into a competitive and objective system of cataloging the contents of my brain, I began to shut down.

Memorizing the dates of battles and treaties being signed plagues me. I spent so much time trying to remember the dates of treatises and reigns of monarchies, battles, wars, and other nonsense, that I couldn’t focus on understanding the general chronology of events or even what those events really even meant. My grandfather did his part to make me feel exceedingly guilty about my ambivalence. I needed to know the date of Pearl Harbor, DDay, the end of the second world war. These were defining moments in American history, the fabric of who I was. Or were they?

There are dates that I will never forget. My grandchildren will be tested on the date that two terrorist planes hit the Twin Towers. They’ll make flashcards to study and memorized the date using devices like “two towers that look just alike is an eleven.” But that date will slip away. And like me and Pearl Harbor, DDay, Normandy, ‘Nam and so many others, they will struggle years later to remember whether it was September 11th or if they’re confusing that with a president’s birthday. And like my grandfather, I’ll implore them to understand the importance of what they are so seemingly ambivalent about. “September 11th was a defining moment in American history. It’s the fabric of who you are!” I’ll say to them.

We never forget the moments that changed us. Ask twenty young black men the date of Martin Luther King, Jr’s assassination and they won’t be able to tell you. Ask their parents and they will pluck it from a wrecked and ugly scar deep within their minds. That day, every belief, every hope, and every security they knew came into question. We go back to those moments not because of their dates, but because the dates are synonymous with the part of our lives we could not control.

I remember listening to a social studies teacher tell me about living through the Cuban Missile Crisis. Clear as if it was yesterday, I remember her describing how she would stare into the sky wondering when and if her entire world would end. At that moment, as a child, she was the equal of her parents. There was no higher comfort, no person that could explain away the fear. She will never forget that day. She’ll never be able to separate the date from everything it brought with it. Not just in that day, but in her entire life.

For so many of us, September 11th is our day. Our quiet lives, our ignorance of war, our belief that the terrors of the world were outside our picked fence ended. Children whose lives didn’t even begin until after that day will know it because the lives of their mothers and fathers were sacrificed because of it. Just as my grandfather can rock lightly in a chair, close his eyes, and bring the memory of so many tragedies into the room, one day we’ll do the same. We’ll tell of where we were, what we did, and how it felt. And to our grandchildren, it will sound like a story. A romanticized American tale of horror and heroism, relegated to a 3×5 notecard, and released shortly after a test on the turn of the century.

9.11.01 Terrorist Attacks on Twin Towers (NYC)

President: Bush

Here’s to our dates. This one and all the others. We remember what we can.

Today the manscape and I reached the five year marriage mark. Marriage is not for sissies. Just a little FYI.

I recently wrote an essay where I ventured to describe the beginning of my marriage. It was not a humor piece by any stretch of the imagination, not because I couldn’t have made it a rip-roaring tale of first year WTFs? but because there are some things that are best explained without the distraction of humor. After I lose the essay competition, I will be sure to post the piece here so that you may all have an intimate view of The First Year, but for now I’ll sum it up for you. There are as many types of marriages as there are people. There’s never a time to judge someone else’s relationship (unless someone is being abused, of course), because you can never understand what it takes for two people to get through the ups and downs. Marriages are not bad because two people fight in public or because you’ve witnessed a personal exchange of hurtful words. Marriages are a commitment to doing everything in your power to keep a promise you made: I’ll be here for you, and you’ll be here for me.

For us, the promise was made when we were tiny babes. When I walked down the aisle, I was still on the parental dole. No seriously, I think I still received an allowance check the month I got married. And then it turned quickly into real life. Real life back then was a post-graduation nightmare. We lived in a hovel, worked terrible jobs, and ate mostly white foods. Truth be told, the most difficult part of those first few years was remembering not to blame the other person for how our lives individually turned out. Cause that’s easy. You ruined me. You’re responsible for my weight, my professional failures, and the fact that our silverware doesn’t match.

But fast forward five years and you get some perspective. Just like five years from now I’ll finally get a little perspective about this year. In five years, I won’t think he’s trying to sabotage me today. For today, though, I’ll share what we’ve learned and hope that you’re perspective can be a little more timely. You’re welcome.

1. The couch is not necessarily a punishment.

You hear a lot about men being “in the dog house” or “sleeping on the couch.” I’m here to tell you one girl’s perspective, and that is that the only women who chose to put their husbands “in the dog house” are bat shit control freaks. Let’s role reverse for a second. Your husband comes home, gets mad at you for staying out too late with the girls and tells you that you’re in the dog house. Funny how that sounds like a controlling, asshole move, huh? Being capable of marriage is about being capable of communicating even when you want to smack someone over the head. Yes, you’ve been waiting all day for him to get home and you’re up to your eyeballs in children and bullshit, but take a step back. Weren’t you so excited about starting a family? Yeah….

But here the in Beaulieu House, the couch is never a punishment. It’s a delightful reprieve from sleeping in the same bed as the oven monster. I could be married to anyone else in the whole world and this would not change: I do not want to share a bed with anyone. Ever. I want the whole bed, all night, no exception. Layer on to that the phenomenon that is a man with a body temperature of 98.6 who has skin the temperature of the surface of the sun, you and better believe that me and the couch are besties with a long history of cuddles. You may ohh and awe over the fact that there is nothing the hubs wants more than sleepytime cuddles, but I need to tell you that I battle the big spoon like we locked in a life or death battle for the future of mankind. DO NOT TOUCH ME YOU SPACE EATING MAN RADIATOR! I want to starfish naked on this bed with the fan blowing the the cool side of the pillow whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

2. Duties require being dutiful.

Life maintenance is a beast. I’m stressed out by everything from brushing my teeth to dishes and laundry. It never stops. There is a never ending need to brush, wash, and clean. Sometimes we’re like Starsky and Hutch with the “chores,” but let a few days lapse and a pile start in the sink and suddenly we’re the Sharks and the Jets. And then we start playing the “you had so much free time and still couldn’t find time to do ________ game.” It’s a classic.

I can’t stop the evil dish cycle, and I can’t take away the all-consuming rage that takes over when you come home and see the dishes stacked and last nights pots and pans on the stove. (When you’re expected to make dinner…) What I can offer is something to meditate on. No one wants to do any of that stuff. Ever. No one wants to do dishes. No one wants to do laundry. No one really even wants to go to work. But we have to do all those things. And nothing is apples for apples. The better question to ask yourself moments before you decapitate your spouse is whether you’re feeling slighted about the dishes specifically or the chore balance in general. Too many times I’ve found myself in the throes of a dish war when the mister ventures outside the dishes to remind me of the myriad tasks he’s completed that I’ve ignored. (We don’t have a lawn, but lawn mowing comes to mind. I’d do three days worth of dishes to get out of mowing the lawn one time.) In this marriage, it’s the litter box. I don’t touch it, I don’t see it, I pretend it isn’t there.

Now, if your spouse is a consistently inconsiderate asshole, you need to reassess. If appealing rationally doesn’t work, withhold things. Start with refusing to cook unless the kitchen is clean. Slowly build until a moment of passion ends in crossed legs and an apology that you’re not giving up your goods because he didn’t have time for the dishes…

3. Always assume your spouse is about to win the lottery.

This is a very sensitive topic. Every couple has a different idea about how to handle the money. I’m not saying there is a right way or a wrong way, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion. Doesn’t matter who makes it, it belongs to the group. (You may have a super prenup that separates it all very neatly if something goes wrong, but while you’re married…) I can sing and dance all day long when my financial contribution is winning, go around buying myself delights and bringing them home for the hubs to admire (want to spit on) and splitting meals that make NO sense for my other half to afford, but that parade stops like a car accident when he wins the lottery and suddenly I’m asking for lunch money while he drives his yacht to work.

We’re on the allowance system. Not always my favorite system, but I recognize the need for some thinking that extends beyond the next six months. When the man friend comes home with a $100,000 check for his super sperm, I’m not going to be happy when it’s designated for his urban treehouse and brews with some buds.

4. Close the door.

This was all the hubs. He felt really strongly that we should remind anyone who would listen that keeping the door shut when doing your business is the simplest way to keep a spark of romance alive.

Having said that, the romance is all but buried around these parts, but it doesn’t mean I’m not mindful of the sentiment. The reason people have affairs is because it’s new and exciting. They say things like “they made me feel alive” or “I finally felt sexy.” Truth be told, your secret lover isn’t going to make you feel so sexy when he/she gets comfy enough to drop a deuce with the door open while you order room service. Poop isn’t unnatural, but watching someone do their business has a strange way of removing the masculine and feminine qualities. This is my husband, he’s tall, dark, handsome, and has the sexiest poo position you’ve ever seen. No. Doesn’t happen. Don’t know why.

I suppose it’s about finding a line between the ultimate closeness and so close that you know to worry about poo crumbs during sex…

5. Be married. And tell everyone else to fuck off.

This is complex stuff, but go with it. There are a lot of days, months, even years when marriage isn’t your focus, it’s your existence. It’s like being male or female. Even when you don’t have time to cultivate it and focus on it, it doesn’t mean that it’s not part of who you are.

There is nothing worse than newlyweds. They make you feel bad about yourself. The same way hiring an entry level employee makes you feel old and bitter. You have to remember that more often than not, they are more envious of you than you are of them. Then there are the couples that are different than you, the ones who have the perfect dinner table marriage and make you and your husband feel like you should throw in the towel and start new lives.

It’s those times you have to think back to the perfect girls in high school who ended up with total losers or the nerds that became billionaires. But mostly, you have to play it out and your head and realize that if you ever gave your husband googly eyes across the table he’d think you had mad cow.

___

Tomorrow we’ll wake up and and it will be five years and one day. And truthfully, it will feel the same as today. And a couple of weeks from now we may be angry about dishes, or in an intense conversation about money. And I’ll probably stick my fingers in my ears and tell him not to ruin me with the facts. But it won’t matter. What matters is that we feel like we’ve got a system. And that being together makes sense to us, no matter how stupid or weird it seems to anyone else. For me, I just need to know that he’s still on board and that we’re on the same page about babies being scary and people who call each other “babe” being weird. And when I start losing sight of what’s going on, he’ll look at me and say something like, “Caroline, I think you need to talk to your doctor about your meds. I don’t think they’re working.”

The hubs is from California. I am from Texas. He thinks I had a mortifying childhood. I think his sounds like a tragedy penned by Eggers. (No death, just lots of sub-nutritional food, hand-me-downs, and horrors beyond my comprehension.) I’ve vowed to never live in California for a multitude of reasons, namely the people and the weather. And because I don’t feel good about the land mass after watching Discovery earth and taking my one and only post pre-med science class: history of natural disasters. (For an entire semester, I was required to gather twice a week and watch video, review facts, and discuss the ways in which the earth has either almost been destroyed or will be destroyed shortly. It was, for me, like being asked to take a conference call in a morgue. I dry heaved at least twice a class and introduced myself to Xanex.)

The hubs has refused to move to Texas for similar reasons. Only different. To me, California represents a country whereby people are not actually people at all, but golden coastal beings who are not at all panicked that an entire year passed with less than a ten degree deviation in temperature. They choose activities like surfing and abalone diving at the risk of being eaten by sharks (because what is a missing limb when you can experience mastery of the sea, dude?) and love the earth by driving everywhere to eat imported wheat grass and sushi flown in from one of the oceans that doesn’t actually touch their shores. I know that California is vast, and I know that there are parts of California that I’m being cruel to, but I’ve been to a lot of those parts, and there is still a lot of sunshine and tank tops. And strip malls with “bistros” in them. To the hubs, Texas is a mine field of poison-tongued beasties disguised as sweet old ladies, and racists who lure you into their theater of white supremacy by pretending to be liberal and open minded. He doesn’t trust people who feel like it’s okay to be nice to someone you don’t know (what if they’re a rapist?) and he truly, truly believes that we’re all running around with weapons, a hare trigger away from accidentally killing ourselves or someone around us.

I feel the same way about Californians. They’re just trying to get me to step into the sunshine to be warm and caressed by vitamin D in hopes that I’ll forget all about my phobia of looking like a purse when I am older. I will not wear sparkly sandals that go betwixt my toes! I will not wear white capri pants! And I will not adorn myself with a chunky turquoise necklace! Now get your children with gender-confused names and your husband in a penis-compensating H3 away from me so that I can buy a hat and some SPF 75 and enjoy my winter years!

At any rate, the hubs takes particular offense at the cunningly-Texas “Bless Your Heart.” While on the surface it seems genuine and sincere, a statement of mild pity, but also understanding that the world has not done right by you, beneath that shell is a silent bullet. Loosely translated, “Bless You Heart” means something closer to “Oh! You mentally deficient and intellectually grating fuckerface. I’m so sorry that your life is so overwhelming to you, but not nearly as sorry as I am that you decided to share your woes with me. You obviously lack the mental fortitude to do anything for yourself and feel it necessary to blame the universe rather than take a moment to reflect on your pattern of stupidity and incompetence.” Again, loose translation. But close.

For all the defending that I do of my home state– there are democrats there! Austin is nothing like the rest of Texas! There are lakes and trees and jobs!– it only takes one “Bless Your Heart” and the hubs is ready head back East. And I don’t blame him.

For me, dissecting the truth behind this commonplace phrase led me to understand how much of the culture of my childhood was rooted in commentary about others. Gossip and coffee talk are the fiber of many relationships. If you’re not sitting around talking about the emotional implications of Libya’s liberation on the children, or discussing the deeply philosophical questions that challenge your marriage, the next best thing is how fat your neighbor got. One of the most interesting commentaries about my time spent abroad centers around the lack of vicious gossip. People talk, and certainly old ladies do as old ladies will, but the desire to make oneself feel better by highlighting the physical or mental deficiencies of others is not acceptable.

Unfortunately, making fun of people can be really, really funny.

With this in mind, I began to take stock of my own behavior towards others. Invent my own form of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Rather than see something and immediately take it to my usual place, I tried (when possible) to take a step back and try to understand people’s appearances and behaviors. If you’d ever like to challenge yourself to test the limits of your humanity, I suggest you try this very thing.

This summer has been the Summer of the Hungry Butt. It seems like everywhere I look, someones shorts are being eaten by their crack. In it’s hasty starvation, the crack has paid no mind to the exposing of cheek, cellulite, or crack sweat. I walk the streets, bombarded by Hungry Butts, trying my best to stop, think, rationalize and accept. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt: she doesn’t realize how hungry her crack is, he doesn’t know that his shirt makes him look like a member of Menudo, that woman loves pirates and I’m glad she’s found a way to express herself, that man keeps his pants that length so that he doesn’t have trouble accessing his shoelaces… and on and on and on.

My pasttime of staring at half naked twenty year olds in whorish makeup and stripper shoes and commenting to Hailey about their futures as “Directors of First Impressions” at hair salons, has been replaced by a creepy 27 year old staring lovingly at these young women remembering how fun it is to be young and slutty and not know that you’re probably going to get taken advantage of in a bathroom.

As you can see, I’m working really hard. I’m trying to change myself. I’m trying to love the people of the world and give people the latitude to express themselves. But here’s the thing: everything comes full circle. I’ve found myself resorting to a very simple phrase to keep myself from making content out of other people’s misfortunes, “good for _____.” (Insert you, them, her, him, etc.) When loosely translated, means “I’m so glad that you were able to put that on and feel good about yourself knowing that every person you run into thinks you have a serious mental illness and is afraid to be alone with you. The fact that you squeezed yourself into those pants and allowed your ample body to pour from the waistband like a mighty rushing river is something that few women could do with such confidence, never mind being able to get a deep breath when your lungs are constricted like that. You have confidence, a style of your own, and an exuberance that many people can only hope for.”

And when you think about it, it’s just a Easterly way of saying what Texans have been saying this whole time.

Bless Your Heart.

I work with a lot of men. Good men. The kind of men that you want to work with as a woman in your twenties. I work with men who love women, respect them, but also feel like women need to sack up and play the game. A little less emotion and a little more “shut the fuck up, sir.” It’s not an environment for everyone, but having two brothers and lots of uncles, I will always be the girl that wins the game by playing the hand she has. Sometimes it’s wit and sometimes it’s much simpler: tits.

The value of these men is not lost on me. Every day I am given the opportunity to observe how men and women process things differently. We have open conversations about our genderly shortcomings. Sometimes we laugh and other times we look across the table somberly, too embarrassed that we’re bound by our respective genitalia to say anything. On more than one occasion I’ve found myself explaining through tears that I’m actually not worked up, I’m just a woman. I can feel tears prick at the back of my eyes and despite my internal screaming, they will make their way down my face. Derailing the conversation, discrediting me, and making a babbling mess of the men who are subjected to it. Definitely on my list of favorite things. Right there under shitting myself in public.

I, as usual, digress. In this period of my life that I’ve now dubbed the “Positivity, Solutions, and Adjustment Period” or “Fuck My Life. Period.” I’ve gained incredible insight from the men I work with. In times of trouble, women are prone to commiserating. We gather together to talk about how sorry we feel for one another and compare our respective shittiness. When a friend calls about a breakup, it’s rare that she wants a pep talk about next steps. She’s looking for affirmation that she’s not a total hag and a lot of “that’s terrible” “he’s awful” “I’m so sorry” and “I can’t believe that!”s. When men call, they generally just need to be reminded that shit happens and life goes on.

One of the biggest complaints of the gentlemen here at 727 is that women are often angered by solutions. If the wife is complaining about work and they offer a solution, it’s met with disbelief. “Do you not understand how unfair and terrible this is? Do you not know how awful my day was? Don’t you have any sympathy?” They thought what they were offering was better. A solution. A way to make the problem go away. A way to restore harmony to the household. What assholes.

I’ve never been known for my warmth and compassion. Whether it’s the prevalent male influence in my life or my “low frustration threshold” (I was “diagnosed” with that last week. I can’t believe I have a medical problem with stupid people. It almost makes everything seem okay.) I can’t say. What I do know is that I do not care for wallowing. If you call me for an opinion, ask me for my take, or seek my counsel, that is what you will get. I value emotion (believe me) and I think it’s important to go through the steps of getting through something and moving on, but I do not react well to emotional stupidity. Questions like “am I ugly?” should never be asked. You have a mirror. You tell me. Are you?

But recently I’ve found solutions difficult to come by. Not because they do not exist, but because they are challenging and multidimensional. They involve work or perseverance. Sadness takes time. Loneliness takes the making of friends. Boredom takes finding shit to do. (Because my system of drinking and or smoking randomly to overcome boredom is inadvisable. And awkward.) Tactical problems have tactical solutions, easily understood and fairly painless to implement. (Unless your hubs is IMPOSSIBLE.) Emotional problems have emotionally draining solutions. And those are not painless to implement.

Tactically, things are clipping along like gangbusters at the Beaulieu house. We’re a little poorer than we were this time last year so we’re trying to spend a little less. I’ve been in a dark pit of despair, so I have a few new BFFs that come in child proof bottles. One of those BFFs makes me hotter than a skillet in hell so I’ve taken to sleeping without clothes. The hubs refuses to buy a bigger bed because he thinks we’ll get lost or some romantic nonsense, so I figured out that if I sleept at the opposite end of the bed, it creates more wiggle room. I even had to get firm with the hubs when he decided he would sleep at the foot with me. “Get back to your end.” I told him.  He replied with some nonsense about love and cuddling. “Get back to your end now. The only reason I’m down here is because you’ve robbed me of my figure and my sleep.” He thought it was an actual fight. I just thought I was being clear…

The real moment of genius came last week when I lost the battle for the foot of the bed. The hubs INSISTED that we sleep at the same end of the bed. I told him that was fine, but he was not to touch me. The surface of his skin is the same temperature as the face of the sun. I know it’s because he is a Yeti, so I don’t blame him, but he has to keep his paws off me at night. I’m practically menopausal as it is. One touch from him and I feel like I need to kill him so that I will never feel that uncomfortable ever, ever again. Well, Casanova wants to cuddle. No. It’s not happening. If I wanted to cuddle with him I would have Zeus knit me a blanket of sunshine and I’d wrap it around my body and drink hot tea. Or run around in a Mylar sweatsuit and polyester. The man is a solar panel. Love may be patient and kind, but there is nothing in there about cuddling. Cuddling is clever and pessimistic.

He wasn’t giving up. A solution needed to be identified. A rule instated.

Rule: If you wish you touch my body while sleeping, there must be an ice pack between your skin and mine.

And so it was that the hubs got up from the bed, marched into the kitchen and retrieved the largest ice pack that we have, got into bed, put it on my back and cuddled right up to it. The big spoon and the little spoon. On ice.

Unfortunately, my 90 year old, sweating alter ego is the least of my current worries. Heat is a tactical problem, easily solved by a fan and an ice pack. Wondering what you’re going to do next with your life is not. That’s a real, life problem. The kind that can’t be solved. Feeling trapped is not cured by opening a gate or taking a walk any more than feeling confused is about drawing a life diagram. Sure, these are tools, but at the end of the day, they’re arbitrary. You need courage and confidence in those moments… the very moments they tend to disappear.

I haven’t been blogging because I haven’t had anything to say. The stories haven’t felt meaningful and the thoughts have seemed too trivial to make into entire posts. Staring at your life (whether you’re in your 20s, 30s, 40s, or 90s) offers perspective, and sometimes perspective takes away the humor. But there’s some hope.

In the fall (September 23rd to be exact), I start Teacher Training for yoga. I’m so excited about what it could help me bring to my own life, but I’m even more excited that we’ve got a whole new bucket of humiliating content coming our way. Maybe it’s just the thing. Maybe it’s the solution.