Musing: Mother's Day, Cousins, MySpace

So, this past Sunday was Mother's Day. To all of you Moms out there, Congratulations. You've helped contribute to the overpopulation of the planet, and your spawn is probably ungrateful and most likely doesn't respect you. The sentimental Hallmark card is merely a ruse (a cheap one, at that) for when they ask for help with next month's rent. To all of you non-mom females out there, I also extend a fond congratulatory remark. You have been smart, you have kept your legs closed, and have contributed (hopefully) to the failure of the stupid new Hollywood trend of designer duds for snot-nosed toddlers. Sorry, but Tommy Hilfiger is tacky at any age.

What did I buy for my mother? What I buy for her each holiday. Flowers, massage, movie ticket, tacky book (this one was an epic Rita Hayworth biography with a 20 page pictography) and sentimental card. She likes those. Usually I choose the ones with the most floral decorations, glitter, and the most italicized font. I find there to be a positive correlation between degree of italics and the sentimentality of a card. Advice: if you want Mommy to cry, buy cards with phrases slanted to 145 degrees to the right. Tears will flow like the Mississippi, and you'll be in the clear for whatever you want within, I'd say, a 2 to 3 week time frame. A month is stretching it, though. You need your tires replaced? Give Mom a week, but then ask.

So, in order to celebrate the fact that women have ovaries and are therefore capable of childbirth, we had fried chicken and wings and macaroni and corn on the cob with the rest of my family. My meal was composed of bread and macaroni. That's not important, however even on one of these relatively anonymous blogs, I still feel compelled to make it clear that I do not eat meat. Because I am that pretentious--err, I mean--health conscious.

Anyway, the entire family comes over. I love my Louisville family; my aunt is a loud and brash woman, her favorite phrase being "Oh, get over yourself [insert cackle here]!" My uncle is a relatively subdued man who writes country music in his spare time, and my two cousins are spectacular. However, Cooper is currently in his "Identity vs. Role Confusion" stage, and this petite redhead has recently developed a taste for a certain "Thug Lyfe" myspacer named Malari. Suffice it to say, I will be spending a little more time with him this summer. Logan, a Scorpio after my own heart, is at a relatively awkward stage right now. He's twelve. That should explain it all. I mean, fuck. When I was twelve, I was fat with braces and butterfly hairclips. Tweendom sucks.

And then there is...my Lexington family. I view my uncle as rather tragic; he is probably one of the smartest and most well read men I know, yet he married the epitome of the blonde bimbo; except now she is rather porcine with dull and damaged brown hair. I heard a surprisingly funny and true saying the other day at work from a rather dull regular: "Women marry men thinking that they can change them, and men marry women thinking that they won't change." Well, Chris (Roy's wife) hasn't changed one bit, except for her ass widening to that of a large screen plasma TV. And, to be honest, Chris never wanted to change Roy. She wanted him because he was already perfect and she would never have to work. So I guess that customer is still a fucking idiot. See what happens when I try to be more open to others' opinions?

They have three miserable children. Nyal, the oldest, refuses to work part-time and wants to take a year off from school and then go to community college. He asked me what I thought. I tried not to be so vicious, however I said "Sweetie, you can mentally check out for a year and still get a 4.o at community college. Don't be lazy, go to school." And that's true, I know if I wasn't in school right after I graduated, I would most likely put it off one year, and then one more, and then I'd wake up one morning, 40 and fat, and wonder why the hell I'm still living at home. And then I'd switch the pillow to the cold side, and go back to sleep. At least I'm honest.

Autumn is the epitome of the twisted beauty. She is fifteen, and constantly stoned. She incessantly smokes Marlboro Reds and rubs the ashes into the ground with the toe of her well-worn black Converses. Her eyes are thickly lined with black kohl, which matches the roots of her peroxide damaged hair. Her 32 AAA breasts are constantly on display in her zebra print tanks, and her low-rise jeans showcase her newly pierced navel. She has no interests, yet the length of her "About Me" on her MySpace rivals a verse from a Faulkner poem. The entire time she was there, she said approximately three words, being "straight," "chill," and "nothing." She didn't eat, for fear of not fitting in to her size 00 Hot Topic skinny jeans. However, she was caught trying to steal money from my grandmother. Quarters from the change jar. On Mother's Day.

Hope is the third and final of the terrible trio. I find it tragic that her name is "Hope," and because I am a cynical and dark individual, laugh anytime her name is mentioned. Mainly due to the fact that considering that the older two are already lost causes, no amount of faith or positive thinking will change the likelyhood that she will wind up like the rest. And trust me, she is already on the path. Her parents care nothing about her diet, and consequently, she is seven years old and weighs approximately 80 pounds; cellulite readily apparent on her quite plump and pink arms. She is nothing more than a brat with an obnoxious obsession for the world's cutest chipmunk, Miley Cyrus.

So, we all interact on the deck. The remark is made several times that I must be hot, for I am wearing all black. As if I wasn't aware. Snarkly, I responded that I was making a statement about Mother's Day. The truth is that like my heart, my exterior is always cold. And also that I just like the color black. So, I was Greta Garbo, big hat, sunglasses, and sweater, lying on the chaise lounge, longing to be alone. Can you blame me, though? My lunatic aunt Chris was talking about kids with "ADHDA" (I'm assuming the ignorant bitch meant "ADD"), Hope was singing "Fly On a Wall," and Nyal and Autumn were chainsmoking. Cooper was talking about a dance called the Stanky Leg, and Logan was sitting by himself, picking grass. Obviously, this afternoon would prove to be intellectually devoid. Roy begins to talk about a Pat Conroy book, but is soon shut down by Chris' shrill antics concerning a new designer knockoff being sold at Marshall's. I'm surprised he hasn't killed himself; 45 minutes into it and I'm contemplating adding arsenic to my iced tea. Too bad he's Catholic.

So, they come and go as soon as dessert is over; yes, they are those people in the family. Cooper goes to his baseball game, and it's just Logan and me. He's in the driveway, playing basketball with my decrepit Chicago Bulls ball and rusty hoop. The scene is bleak. He shoots for a foul, and misses. He sighs, sits on the pavement. I go over, grab the ball, and as a conciliatory effort, intentionally miss the rim. I say "intentionally" lightly. The truth is that intentionally or not, that stupid ball was going to miss the hoop. I sit next to him.

"Do you ever think there's anything wrong with you?"

What a question. While I consider myself a rather fortunate individual, I don't consider myself part of the "bell" on the bell curve, (and yes, ye fellow neasayers, I have the test scores to prove it), I have just as many insecurities as the pasty and pimply dork playing World of Warcraft as we speak. "Of course," I said.

"Like what?"

He looks at me expectantly; I know my example has to be a good one. I rack my brain, and then I think of it. Last year, I had mono. Well, the doctors at the immediate care center said I had bronchitis, and treated me accordingly. Given that it was an ICC, they misdiagnosed me. Gave me antibiotics, and I broke out into a miserable rash, head to toe, that lasted for well over a month. I felt disgusting as my skin's composition was as pocked and ridged as an English muffin, and was more blistered than a bald man's head after a day at the beach. I had to apply a viscose salve to my body thrice daily, so not only was I blistered and rough, I was also shiny. Suffice it to say, I didn't go out much. Nor was I invited out much. I look back and am not really surprised that my ex cheated on me during this time. But that's another, far less interesting, story.

I told him about the rash, and how I felt hideous and worried that it would never go away. I told him how I worried and stressed so much, and really, it was all out of my control. Worrying would do nothing to change what was inevitable, how it was futile, blah blah blah. It was all very Zen. I felt so collegiate. I then asked him if he thought anything was wrong with him.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm not good enough, like I'm boring and no one likes me. And I want to know what happens when you die. What it feels like."

Good Christ. For a twelve year old, this is deep. Always introverted and imaginative, I have always known that Logan gets wrapped up in his thoughts, and sometimes they become so tight they are a strangling device. I didn't really know what to say. To me, that's life...feeling not good enough and being bored. Kierkegaard would say so, at least. Everything we do is out of boredom. God created the planet one day because he was tired of hanging out in space, thinking about his fantasy football team. So, from fantasy he created reality, and now we have the NFL.

Anyway, knowing that what I said to him would largely play into his following actions and thoughts (that is not conceited, mind you, but rather the truth), I regailed to him one of my favorite ee cummings quotes, "undead being is not living." I knew he'd be able to understand it, he's very bright, but at the same time, I couldn't help but feel sorry for a boy of twelve being so perplexed with death and the fear of not belonging. And then I thought about my other cousins, not even adults and already jaded with the world at large. And then I thought about myself, nineteen and wearing all black.

The next night, I went to a Veronicas concert with my gay friend. Do not judge me; my iTunes library still rivals the editor of Pitchfork in number of pretentious and underground artists. And yes, I still regularly listen to the Velvet Underground. We arrived promptly to see a pathetic band, "The Pretty Reckless" perform. The lead singer, a fellow tragic beauty, took the stage. Clearly a Courtney Love wannabe, she donned a white slip dress and black bra (ahh how weighty of a statement: I'm sure the white symbolizes her outer appearance of innocence while the black bra represents her dark, moody, and twisted soul), platinum blonde hair with teased roots and flyaways, and the typical torn tights and various black "punk" accessories. She crooned and wailed about being "so fucking in like with you" while the mediocre guitarist strummed power chords on his uber-trendy black and white guitar. The drummer, a Terry Schaivo lookalike, resembled said vegetable with his vacant and open-mouthed expressions while fucking up a most basic 4/4 beat. I mean, I guess I can't be too harsh; comatose people do have a hard time keeping beats. However, I nearly threw up when, after their first song, she licked her chapped lips, and said, "Yeah, we're from.....New York." She snickered, let out a coy look to the audience, and adjusted her lacy bra strap. "Oh my god, you guys. My outfit is totally coming undone." Suffice it to say, I was not impressed, and I did not clap. Poor thing, it's quite apparent she wants to be a heroin-chic Kate Moss, however she only comes across as a Hot Topic spokesmodel. I give her three years before her voice is gone and she's waiting tables at Applebee's. Not that anything is wrong with Applebee's, I like Ceasar salad.

Slightly interested as to who this band was comprised of, I googled them today. And then I saw it. That girl is fifteen years old. Yes, the girl screaming last night about love, lust, sex, cheating, drugs, and alcohol. Fifteen. What is wrong with this picture?

Why is my twelve year old cousin thinking about death? Why is my fifteen year old cousin chainsmoking, and dressing like some animal from the Serengeti in hopes of enticing a male mate? Why is my thirteen year old cousin dancing to songs about a woman's putrid nether regions? Why is my seventeen year old cousin concerned with taking a year off of school? Well, wait. The last doesn't apply. He's just a lazy ass that refuses to grow up.

But I feel like he isn't like most "kids" these days. I look to my cousins, and I see no "youth" anymore. No innocence. And those that have that essence of innocence are not youthful; they are serious. Girls are dressing "older," and by "older" I mean like prostitutes. Boys are proving their virility by learning and using slang and derogatory terms for girls and anything feminine. And it works. I mean, fuck. Seventh graders are sending naked pictures of themselves to their "significant others." It's a term now, it's called "sexting." If you don't do it, you have no one with whom to share your lunch meat sandwich in the cafeteria.

I'm wondering why this is. I want to blame the media for the various dreck they shove down our throats daily, but they merely broadcast sex. For me to say they shove it down my throat is ignorant (and oddly enough innuendo, my I am vulgar), and unfair. And then I look to parents. And it scares the shit out of me. Kids are now customizable accessories, and for some, pawns that are produced for the sake of extending a relationship. Cynical, yes, but you know it rings somewhat true. Parents do mold a child, but with all of the fools I see daily, I am absolutely horrified that they are given the rights to bear children.

I'm sounding a little like Plato here. He would say that children shouldn't be raised by their parents, but rather by learned individuals who can teach morals. Yeah, that's scary too, millions of little Platos who care about the care of the soul sounds incredibly boring, but I'd rather have boring people with morals than an a wild bunch of people with a lack thereof.

I'm pretty sure that my youth was an enjoyable one; yes I fell down stairs (I still do, for that matter), yes I had braces, and yes I fell on my face at the skating rink. But I also had that excitement, and that wonder of the world had to offer. I was whisked away to the West in "Little House on the Prairie," and taken away to the wizarding world in "Harry Potter." I wore polka dots with stripes, and pink corduroys with orange shirts. And I didn't care. I played with dolls, I wrote plays, I made movies in which I played a girl named Periwinkle, I did ballet until I was seventeen, and I sang, albeit badly. I had imaginary friends named Mobin and Klovich, and I wrote stories about a skinny detective named Charles Stick. I made concoctions of eggs, paprika, mint, flour, and glue, and baked them in the oven. I didn't care; I was weird. I am weird.

I feel like we're not allowed to be weird anymore. While we all want to have interesting "about me's" and "interests" sections, we conform to generational conventions, and subsequently fall beneath the cracks of individualism. And so we have pages that we dedicate to ourselves, we buy things to make ourselves look different than everyone else. And then we look in the mirror, and we don't recognize ourselves. And we think about what to add to our "interests," and we realize that we don't have any. And then we realize, we don't know who we are. And those that do fear being ostracized, and then succumb to the mass de-individualization process. And then we become the generation of the here and now, the hip, the modern, and the technological. And we are not weird. We are cool, we are mature, and if we aren't, we better damn well appear as such. We're shells of what we could potentially be, only to be stepped and cracked on by the mechanical drive of those who set the trends, those being just as vapid and empty as us but with a thicker shell. And then, there we are, scattered, broken on the floor, just waiting to be swept up from the trendmakers, and re-assembled to make more of us. It doesn't matter if the parts aren't from the same shell; we're all the same anyway.