but i digress...

email therapy: dear ali

I often sit down to write an email, and by the time I look up to hit send, I realize I've just composed a rant that serves as more therapeutic for me than informative for the recipient. We all do this at times, but in my case, 90% of these emails end up in the lap(top) of my sister. And almost as often, they result in the exposure of some real (albeit really ridiculous) raw truth about mankind, society, life, and/or frustrating family member. Hence, the following email...

                              *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Just need to vent about our mother's like-clockwork communication pattern of completely disregarding the fact that you're pissed at her bc she completely disregarded you when she ______(fill in the blank)_____.  Please note: none of the below is a reenactment, but actual footage from actual events.

#1 - She texts you from a family gathering or public place where others are around, with some sunshiny, bi-polar chirping bullshit, jam-packed with text-junkie shorthand, symbols for words, and some expression of feigned confusion/ignorance. For example, "R u there?? We r @ Matt + Pat's house playing pinochle. Send me a msg when u get this!!!"

#2 - She follows up a couple days later with an email that completely waters down any feelings of dismay or annoyance or hurt. Always about something superficial, usually shopping, more specifically shoes. Subject line usually looks something like this: "Look what I found for you at Bluefly!". You open the email to be greeted with more chirping in the text of the message, which is half automated, but intentionally punctuated with some sort of look-how-well-I-know-you! personal nod. Perhaps to ever-so-slightly tug on your already worn-down heartstrings. I dunno, something to the effect of...

Dear    erin* ,

I thought you'd like this item that I found at Bluefly...

Nanette Lepore sand perforated leather 'Dotty Dame' pumps

these look like you! *

*You can always tell which part she added bc the writing is off in some way or the sentence structure sounds stilted. Like when you call your bank and have to answer the automated bitch's questions or finish her sentences with your own voice.


#3 - She musters up about 5 pounds of attitude, puts on her best I-can-say-or-do-whatever-I-want-because-I'm-the-mother face and picks up her cell phone (the one she still doesn't know how to use, which is why she can never figure out how to work the ringer or how to actually answer it, yet she can surf the 'net on it, add smiley icons to text messages, and download Britney ringtones). After you watch her call go straight to voicemail (cue a Carrie Bradshaw moment: "oh, shit! can she see me?!?!"), she leaves a curt, bothered message saying, "You know, you really are strange. There's something wrong with you. I can't believe you still act this way at your age, you should be ashamed. I don't even know what you think I did wrong, especially since I am concerned about the enlarged lymph nodes in my abdomen and pelvis, and am having another C-scan this week."

The entire dysfunctional process usually goes on for a couple weeks, exhausting both parties involved and wasting extra time, energy, and emotion with calls to friends and other family members venting about how ridiculous it all is... 

Cuz, you know, "I'm sorry" would've been way more work.

to the beat of my own conundrum

Go ahead, call me a simpleton. Because lately I'm realizing that simple is where it's at. Less is more, good things come in small packages, and don't show too much skin because some things are best left to the imagination (ok, a bit far-fetched, but way more interesting). Sometimes the most profound thoughts are generated by seemingly effortless statements. One of the most creatively inspiring books I own, Not Quite What I Was Planning, is a collection of six-word memoirs written by a mixed bag of people, from Joan Rivers to Moby to little old ladies in middle America. I laud it as "creatively inspiring" for many reasons, one being the little nuggets of truth, wisdom, and humor that can be extracted from a handful of the most mundane words in the English language. When asked to describe his life in six words, one man writes, "I colored outside of the lines." Another one I love: "I still make coffee for two." In these statements, I can't help but notice how six simple words have the potential to weave a story of six thousand words in their wake. And every reader who ponders them will each intertwine six thousand different words to create his/her own story. Damn, that's a lot of words. From only six.

I also value the importance of complexity. It can be layman-friendly language describing lofty logic, or exactly the reverse: layman-friendly logic expressed through lofty language. And whenever I read/observe/obnoxiously eavesdrop on the sophisticated someone who can accomplish such a tedious juxtaposition, I think, "totally cool". (Then I immediately feel like an idiot who should take her Hubba Bubba and Teen Beat, and hit the road. On her Big Wheel.) This same book of mine that showcases complex messages derived from simple statements also accomplishes the opposite: basic content by way of witty verbiage. It has been said to "thrill minimalits and inspire maximalists". Case in point? One of my favorite straight-forward memoirs, costumed in a clever labyrinth of words: "Soul'd out so I could prophet."

Simplicity and complexity can stand on their own, but prove even more effective in a co-dependent relationship. They feed off one another; the former is a straight line that needs the latter's complimentary angle to take shape. That which is complex often requires its simple counterpart for the purpose of clarity. Consider how we use analogies, metaphors, and similes every day to elucidate an idea, to provide a more comprehensive grasp. We hated them on the SAT's, but now? CEO : corporate ladder :: orgasm : sex. We fully understand that analogy, now don't we? In fact, we'd like to cut it right off the page and try it on for size, now wouldn't we?

Simple and complex: good alone, great together. It's like one day you're totally into your hooker red, let's call it "form-fitting", mini dress. It's completely inappropriate for work, 80% inappropriate for brunch with Republicans, iffy inappropriate for everywhere else on earth, yet oh-so-apropos for your mood du jour. Conversely, the next day you crawl like a wounded bird into an oversized pilling pile of wool that looks comfy, feels cozy and always, push-up bra or not, begs the question: he or she? Then bam! A couple seasons and multiple issues of Vogue later, the androgynous slouchy sweater worn over the sex-kitten dress is the paradoxical trend of the moment.

The same way we adhere to minimalism one day, we could just as easily be craving the complicated choose-your-own-adventure book of life the next. Each concept folds its way into our comings and goings, and can alternate dominance on a regular basis. Think about your emails to your best friend. Monday: "Nothing new. Trying to decide between egg salad or turkey for lunch. Hmmm..." Tuesday: "Can't chat now, my boss' sister's boyfriend's twin just cheated on his wife with her boss' boyfriend's sister! Presentation at 2, MRI at 4, dinner with my ex at 7."

And just like that, a 360 of your mood, your mind, and your mantra. As you can see, the simple/complex paradox exists in every corner of our little worlds. Confusing, I suppose, but I kinda like being "simply complex", if you will. Lets me get away with bold fashion choices, gives me creative license with my writing style, and yet I still get giddy over a brilliantly banal six-word sentence. I am quite content to find truth, wisdom, and humor in both worlds, either sleekly separated or all mashed up together. After all, sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. And sometimes I'll take both the almonds and the coconut, thank you very much.

hello my name is narcissus

You know that feeling you get when you're in the presence of someone who's just said something so ridiculously ridiculous that you are embarrassed for that person, even if the subject matter has nothing to do with you? It literally makes you physically embarassed. Anatomically, physiologically, and bodily embarrassed. You exhibit signs of bizarre corporal discomfort. Some people avert their gaze, hunch their shoulders, cringe uncontrollably. Other people go into fight-or-flight mode, their eyes on a high-speed chase for something - ANYTHING! - to avoid this veritable verbal nightmare. And then there are those who freeze immediately and can do nothing but fall victim to a torturous, redundant chorus of ohgodpleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstop. You get that squeamish sensation that riddles your body with uncontrollable, jerky movements, as if ants are crawling up your inner thighs. Kinda like rigor mortis, except you're still alive. And pretty much wishing you were dead.

Yeah, so that's how I feel - alternating somewhat equally between the three reactions - when I hear myself talking* about myself for longer than should be legally allowed. Now, this isn't necessarily a crazy-long time, but everyone's world has its own laws, and in mine...well, let's just say the legal limit is slightly less than the time it takes a 17-year-old to pound enough Red Dog to defy the legal DUI limit. (Even less time if said 17-year-old is a big, meaty football player...or just a really, really fat kid.)

But I digress. As I often do. You see, I have this stream-of-consciousness tendency that I just can't shake. In some writing arenas it could be considered a forte, but...damn, there it is again! Anyway. In this voyeuristic age, where "Peeping Tom" is a term that benignly connotes any prime time reality show (not even just cable anymore God I feel old), and Facebooking has not only become a verb, but a verb that even my mother is aware of...and routinely practices.** In a time when e-narcissism reigns, MySpace is ubiquitous and my weird uncle in Utah can secure a domain name to sell his fetish toys and ad space simultaneously, it is perplexing that I still have difficulty with the concept of blogs. Correction: the concept of me writing a blog. Don't get me wrong, I regularly enjoy the waggish rants and witty rhetoric of other blogs, but every time I sit down to write my own, I cringe, flee, or freeze. And pretty much wish I was dead.

However, not this time. I must face facts: these highly personalized forums are omnipotent, especially if you an aspiring writer (whether by trade, by hobby, or by the seat of your pants). Thus, I have forced myself to saddle up, face the music, and not write. If I am lucky (and by "I", I mean "you"), I will happily type my fingers to the bone by not writing about what I ate for lunch or the really nasty thing growing on my sister's toe. I won't yammer on about how a good man is hard to find (I'm certainly no Flannery O'Connor) or a penchant for sex on my desk (it's a blog on iVillage, gutter-minds). No one wants a lengthy description of my friend's creepy Oedipus complex (barely a friend, more like an acquaintance), or the bus route I take to my gynecologist's office.

Now I cannot promise that these dysfunctional - yet highly relevant, I swear - tidbits will not be peppered throughout for use as analogies, hyperboles, or desperate subliminal pleas, but so help me God, I will not allow myself to write about myself in the aforementioned ways. (Hmm. This is starting to sound eerily familiar to some sort of contract...no, this is not a self-fulfilling exercise assigned by my therapist. I don't even have a therapist. Yet.) But I digress...again...which doesn't really matter because I'm almost done. I'm not completely sure what will come flying out of my mind or mouth on any given day, so I predict a bevy of posts with varying topics and tones. There will, however, be one constant: I'm gonna end up saying some bad words, it's inevitable.

So I think I've covered it all. And in case I ever cover a little too much, hit "post", and then suddenly find myself sweating profusely while chanting, ohgodpleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstoppleasemakeitstop, there's always a way to delete. And for that reason alone, you gotta fucking love a blog.

*Also applies to writing.

**Apologies to any of my high school classmates whom she has felt inspired to contact simply because she recognizes your name from our graduation program. Don't feel obligated to reply, she just feels cool because she knows how to "friend" someone. Much like her 90's matching flourescent running suits, this too shall pass.