//++ tender

UNFLATTERING

Google is the worst thing to happen to self esteem since Seventeen magazine.  The irresistible urge to know any and all details of someone you are curious about usually comes at 2:30 in the morning when you’ve given up the dream of having well rested skin in the morning and a less than totally psychotic mind.  According to my history my most common searches include things like:

“best drugstore hair dye”

“uses of apple cider vinegar”

“Rihanna”

“How to self publish”

and last, and most embarrassingly but probably most relevant:

“quotes on being strong”

I like knowing things.  I like pushing at the feeling at the bottom of your stomach when you want to know the answer to something.  It’s why I’ve sat in the visiting cell of the Oregon state pen.  Why I’ve buried my toes in the sand of Miami Beach.  Why I went to college.  Why I have an assortment of small handmade miniature clay pastries.  And why I can explain to you how to make a lattice for an apple pie in under 10 minutes.  I am hungry.  Hungry to know.  Hungry to understand.  Hungry to solve.  Hungry to study.

I regard this hunger with tremendous tenderness and love.  It is something within my spirit I hope to never lose.  I would like to be curious for as long as I am alive.  But sometimes, this curiosity bleeds into other parts of my spirit and they get tangled together and I start walking a tight rope I don’t even care about.

I googled a person.  A person I don’t know.  Who I will probably never know.  But I wanted to know what this person looked like.  And what they did.  And if the internet recognize their name. 

Duh.  Bad idea.

Our internet personas are as bleak as a strip mall in phoenix.  The whole idea of internet personas bore me to death, and yet, they intimidate me and make me feel insecure and impossibly mixed up.   Maybe I feel this way because as a blogger human writer person who publishes primarily online I feel massively vulnerable, because instead of having light hearted things to fall back on I tear open my heart and share every detail with thousands of people I don’t know.

 There are all types of personas..  LOL ones.  Glamorous ones.  Intellectual ones.  Normal-target-shopping-has-date-stamps-on-every-picture ones.  And then there are my least favorite ones:  the super self aware, stylized and vague ones.  The ones where everything seems like an ad for a brand I cant afford and wouldn’t know how to wear.   With white backgrounds and ironic backdrops.  Perfect pictures.  Few smiles.  Helvetica.  Stainless steel.  Designer education.  Model looking friends. 

Who are these people?  Do their houses really always look like that?  Are their friends all really that attractive and successful?  Is that their real hair?

As I step back and look though my social media profiles I realize my “persona” is a mix of teenage girl meets some weird middle aged man with a touch of 1960s Mom.  Who the fuck am i?  Will I ever feel cool enough?  Will I ever stop categorically comparing my successes to theirs?  My hair to theirs?  My friends to their friends?  My abilities to their abilities?  My cat to their cat?  My dog to their dog?

THE INTERNET IS MAKING US ALL AFRAID OF ONE ANOTHER.

Because online you can just brand the fuck out of whatever stupid concept you’ve idolized.  And what the fuck is any different about what I’m doing than what their doing? 

Well for starters I’ve never been composed.  My instagram has about 37298089032580 selfies.  And I do it because I like to see how my face looks.  And I do it because I like to think my hair is as golden as Amaro makes it look.  Because on a day when I haven’t hung out with a single human being it feels good to know “22 people like” that picture of me I took in the hallway of my house.  It makes me, for a second, believe I am not alone.  That I am not invisible to the world. And this world and living can sometimes make you feel like you are constantly working to never be forgotten in a world that will, most likely, forget you.  Which reminds me of that documentary I watched about a woman who died in her apartment and slowly decayed over the span of 4 years before anyone noticed she was gone.  But that makes me too sad to think of, and so I’ll just have to keep on keeping on with this.

Pinterest.  Instagram.  Facebook.  Google.  Twitter.  They all make me feel like I’m not gonna be good enough.  That everyone’s on a better vacation than me, has a sweeter boyfriend than I do, a better job and a prettier life all around.  And it just sucks.  And what sucks ever more than that is that I sometimes play into this insane game of buying and selling ideals.  Ill find myself adjusting my instagram or rearranging my credentials on facebook.  And if you’re rolling your eyes right now, check yourself because every last person reading this has compared themselves to whatever perfect image they’re staring at on that screen.  And it sucks and you know it.  But it doesn’t make you stupid.  It doesn’t even make you weak.  It just means you’re human.  A human in a culture that is wholly addicted to technology, image and power.  So no shit you’re feeling kinda fat dumb and ugly. 

Of course, I don’t feel this way every time I’m on these sites.  In fact, most of the time I just love looking at what you guys are up to.  What videos you like.  What song made your morning better.  When you’re expecting your first baby.  That you are now “in a relationship”.  And all those wonderful pictures of all your lovely adventures and faces. 

The bottom belly of this is the same as it always is:  I don’t want to be a mediocre person living a mediocre life with mediocre fulfillment. 

So tonight, as I felt that creepy crawly spider web feeling in my stomach as I looked at the information on the screen in front of me, instead of adjusting my instagram or taking a selfie or fluffing up my work or education or involvement with any one thing in particular, I decided to be honest and tell all of you that I just kinda felt like crummy and confused for a hot second.  Confused about whre my life is going.  Confused about which parts of myself I still need to work on and which ones are perfectly weird and imperfect.  Confused about if I’ll have the success I am so hungry for.  Confused about if dying my hair blonde was a weird decision.  Confused about if I’ll be published this fall.  I’m just confused, you guys.  Because I want great things.  And the idea of failing is terrifying.

Not because  my own self worth and beauty is iinvisible to me.  Or because I believe in anyway that this person is better than me. Or that any of you are better than me.  Or that I am better than you.  Or that anyone it better than anyone. Or more important than me.  Or more beautiful than me.  But because sometimes you think you want to know something but after you know that something you sort of just wished you never knew any of it at all.  And that’s a lesson on interneting.  If I am feeling wobbly and kinda weird- maybe I should go for a run.  Or call my Grandma.  Or make popcorn.  Or sit at the piano.  Or go to a garden.  Or take Vern for a walk.  Or organize my dresser.  Maybe all that scrolling and double tapping and straining your eyes is a lot more damaging than we all realize.  Maybe we’re all on the same boat.  And we all don’t want to be mediocre people living mediocre lives with mediocre fulfillment.  And we don’t want everyone to be our competitor  And we don’t all want to love Helvetica.  Some of us can love courier even if it is a little contrived.  Some of us can take less than artistic photos of our everyday lives.  We can have zits.  We can have messy rooms.  And friends who are awkward.  And fuck, we are awkward, too.  We can not always get invited to the party.  We can follow more people than follow us.  We can be whoever the fuck we are and we don’t need to feel weird or misplaced or insignificant. 

I have this nervousness that I’ve been too tender.  That I’ve opened up too much.  That few of you will even relate to this.  That I sound crazy and too sensitive.  But my gut tells me otherwise.  My gut tells me we’ve all felt a little shitty after a facebook or instagram bender.  So maybe that means something.  Maybe that means instead of taking time to make things always look “a certain way” maybe we can just post an unflattering photo of ourselves.  Or post a status update that is sincere.   Or like a picture even though it has a date and time stamp. 

 This isn’t a race.  This isn’t a beauty pageant.  Be yourself.  You’re great.  I mean it.

CRABBY

THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRABBY

Tangled Necklaces

People who follow a status update/posted photo with “sorry not sorry”

Bad tippers

Getting called into work

Being one ingredient short of the perfect sandwich

People who don’t say “thank you”

Pushy and impatient people

WHY NONE OF THIS REALLY MATTERS:

Because I am not the center of the universe.  

Anonymous asked: How do you fold a quilt?

You call your Mother.  And if you can’t call your Mother you go to the store, buy a plant and take extremely good care of it.

MOPPED

I am afraid to talk to you

because my hair grows too fast

and I worry you will forget my birthday

I am nervous to kiss you

because my teeth are all adult

and I sleep in too late

I am shakey to lay next to you

because I failed algebra

and I don’t always do the dishes

I am excited to see you

because your hair is like a birthday party

and I want to tell you everything I know

I am expecting a parcel

because I have been very patient

and I am ready to feel what an ocean is

I am framing a picture

because certain animals are extinct

and I want to memorize everything that just happened

I am folding a blanket

because I need you to bring me flowers

and the floors are all mopped and animals fed

TIN HOUSE

Your watch was on backwards

and birds made nests

in your sisters backyard

You brushed my teeth

and i tried not to drool

when my hands fold

they are saying they are hungry, too

that every plant has a purpose

and children need not forgiveness 

How do I explain to you

the sickening feeling of exposure

the crooked way a person can

take your hair and wrap it

into a bun that will teach you

to always apologize

In winter ice can be 

as simple as breakfast

and the doors all open for you

because you’re made that way

I want a tin house

with tiny bells on each door

a garden where my feet can rest

and a hummingbird feeder

to remind me to eat

To watch the sun make sense

of all the clothes on a line

and bumblebees to make

bouquets for all the times

I forgot to be kind to you

Watch a movie

play cards

make love

skin your knee

and learn the alphabet

I have waited my entire life

to

finish that song.

TURTLE

When we were 13 your dog befriended a turtle we found.  I watched you hold it’s tiny shell, your hands were young.  Immaculate.  Like nothing had ever happened to them.  Like you had never carried anything beyond your ability. 

He turned the light off and I could hear his socks press on the oak floor.  Creaking towards a bed we shared.  “he isn’t going to leave me here?” I wondered in my sleep.  The night before we had laid, side by side, in grass that had a few memories of dampness from sprinklers that were set to go off each night at 6:20 pm.  His bones lay flat in his body and my arms stretched out over my head.  To kiss him was like starting a new book you knew you were going to disappear into.  Excited for all of the things that were going to happen to you in the time it took to read that book, you waited for every feeling to come out.  And it did.  And it would continue to for years.

We sat in the kitchen and our toes crept up to one another’s while we fidgeted with papers and mugs and pens.  We were happy but we didn’t totally realize it.  There is a way a person can love you that covers the entire surface of your spirit, so deeply and so freely that it begins to feel like part of you, and only in it’s absence do you realize how much you had.

How do you teach a person to love you?  Is it by tracing yourself over them?  Is it by baking them foods you used to love?  Is it by getting good rest & taking baths?  Is it by learning sciences and practicing grammar?  Is it by singing songs your Grandpa knows by heart?  Is it by blinking twice more than you normally do?  Is it by listening when they don’t expect it?  Is it by crying when your eyes feel too dry?  Is it by taking naps and stretching perfectly?  Is it by cleaning your room?

How long does it take to know somebody?  How many misspoken sentences and missed alarm clocks does it take before I can actually see you?  At what point am I certain of the lines in the corner of your eyes and have memorized what each of your birthday parties were like as a boy?  I am afraid to hurt things.  I have a heaviness inside myself that I bare at all times.  A cement block of concern.  I would never like to leave someone worse than when I found them.  And I never want to leave someone with less than what I came with.  I never want you to feel ashamed or ugly in front of me.  If I were a mirror I would only show you your tender parts.  If I were a watch I would only remind you of all you’ve accomplished.  If I were a calendar I would make them all holidays. 

The turtle lived for a decade.  Each winter burrowing into bark and dry dirt.  Waiting for the time it was allowed to exist again.  And each spring we would see him slowly crossing the cement.  Past a piled up garden hose, a watering can and a lawn chair with frayed edges.  It became part of us.  This process helped us understand when summer was about to reveal itself and when Christmas was not too far away. 

CHAPSTICK

In all of her life she had never seen an orange that shape.  Nestled in layers of fruit that made every bit of sense, she found her hands touching each orange.  Her hair wasn’t the color it should be, or was, or would one day be.  She missed all of the friends she never had.  Missed a mother who knew her favorite story and a sister who could braid her hair just right.  As simple as setting an alarm, she chose the perfect orange.

He, of course, did not return her call.  What a strange and lazy life to live- to simply set each component aside and wait in line at the bank.  How simple that must feel to neatly scrub your face, fold your towel and sleep 8.75 hours.  A world she would never be part of and one, of course, she detested, she still found herself make believing she was like that, too.  But not even the crickets in her backyard believed that.  

The dog had dreams all night.  She wondered what a dogs dream was like.  Did they dream of falling, too?  Did they remember their dreams?  They make toothbrushes for dogs, you know?  They cost more than one would expect and its difficult to believe they serve a purpose.  Though its fair to assume canine dental health is of significance.  Dog dentists.  Maybe that’s what she’d become- a dog dentist.

She always put chapstick on right before bed.

BOOBIES

The people sitting next to me are talking about Cabo.  I don’t really understand where Cabo is.  In fact, I don’t really understand what it is but I think It’s a city.  They’re talking about going on cruises.  This man seems to have been on multiple cruises.  He’s now talking about California.  “For $180 roundtrip it’s a great deal” he tells his company. 

I don’t believe that it’s $180.  The woman he is with hasn’t had much of a chance to speak but I’m not completely convinced she has much to say. 

Now he is asking about her dad.  “What does he do?” He sounds most sincere right now.  I think he genuinely cares about what her dad does.  She seems stressed explaining what her dad does and now she’s shuffling through her phone to show the man a picture.  Is it a picture of her dad? Is she googling “best dad jobs” to impress him?  Hes a contractor.  That’s what she said.  Now hes talking about his friend who does “cool kitchens and bathrooms”.

I don’t really get along with many people.  Which is odd, because I genuinely love everyone.  But I don’t really want to have lunch with most people.  I guess I prefer to be alone.  I used to think I wanted to be alone because I was too scared to be around someone but I don’t think that’s true.  At least, not anymore. 

You know those “BOOBIES” bracelets that mostly only bros wear?  I hate those things.  Ill never understand how wearing a wristband you got at Walgreens is advancing the cure for cancer.  I think it’s like the modern day puka shell necklace.  No one should wear them, but, they do, in abundance.

I wanna get really tan this summer.  But like safe tan.  I just have this image of me sitting in the grass with brown sugar skin and a really nice floppy hat.  Ima’ work on making all this happen.  I have a few months to prepare. 

That guys now drinking his iced coffee really psychotically.  Every time he sucks from the straw he makes a terrible face.  He scrunches his nose and puckers his lips and then shakes the ice around in the cup.  This woman’s really forgiving to not look annoyed. 

I’m about to smoke and I have a feeling they’re going to be really offended by this. 

Hmm they don’t seem to care. 

He’s talking about squats now.  She is fumbling through her phone.  She looks annoyed now.  The ice shaking didn’t do it but the squat talk did.  Thank god.  She has a backbone.

CHOICES

I saw a guy holding a bouquet of ranunculus and walking towards me while I walked Vern.  Considered grabbing them out of his hands and running but realized Vern would be the worst Clide and would probably hold our shit up for too long or worse dance out of his harness and run away forever to live with a weird old woman who makes beaded eyeglass chains.  

Choices.  Life choices.