Musing: About a Boy, About a Girl, About Everyone, Really

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about geeks. Not necessarily bottle cap glasses and metal mouthed ones, but rather the quiet, a bit awkward ones. Like the pudgy girl in Little Miss Sunshine, or the boy with the bad bangs in About a Boy. Or, more pointedly, about one of my friends who shows up to parties two hours early toting "You've Got Mail" and a bag of Snickers. Or, about my elementary school friend, the one who wore itchy and striped sweaters and orange corduroys year round.

I'll begin with the former. For the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to him as Evan. I thought that I met him officially sophomore year of high school in orchestra class (yes, I am an "orch dork"), however he apparently sat next to me in Geometry the entire year. My recollection of seating assignments were vague; I only remembered ogling at the tanned and toned soccer player to my left. By logical deduction, I assumed then that Evan sat to my right. He said he always liked my belts and shoes (at that point in time, I was rail-thin with blonde hair that hung to my waist, with an affinity for silk printed ribbons, cherry blossom body spray, and every shade of pink). I looked at him, smiled awkwardly, and said "Thanks, uh...what's your name again?" And without any pride, he cracked his name. And then we played Brandenburg.

Evan was the one boy whose hands always hung awkwardly at his sides; his pale and skinny calves creating a stark contrast from the dark wash of his cargo jean shorts. His mouth always rested in that position of "I-want-to-say-something-but-feel-like-I-can't," and therefore no one really ever knew when he was or was not going to speak. Consequently, when he did speak he was often cut off. Not just because of his awkward lip composition, but also because he was soft spoken. Evan was the one who, when we would prank call people, would call them later and apologize for our brutish and uncouth behavior. Evan was the one who donated his hair to Locks of Love, exposing his knotted and rather pointed skull to everyone for about six weeks later. Evan was the one who actually enjoyed Wayans brothers movies, and the one who cracked himself up at calculus jokes regularly.

Example:

'There's a big calculus party, and all the functions are invited. ln(x) is talking to some trig functions, when he sees his friend e^x sulking in a corner.
ln(x): "What's wrong e^x?"
e^x: "I'm so lonely!"
ln(x): "Well, you should go integrate yourself into the crowd!"
e^x looks up and cries, "It won't make a difference!" '

I suffered through this at least three times. In high school, we all threw parties and get togethers, and when Evan threw them, only a few people would show up. He had the place immaculately set up, even catered to vegetarians, and maybe two people would come. Evan was the one who, despite my cynical remarks and actions, saw a good side of me. He was also the one to ask me to prom via text message, when only moments before he helped me up from the skating rink when I fell hard onto the glossy wood in front of everyone. I turned him down.


The other boy was Justin Buchanan. Throughout elementary school, he had no friends, except for me. He was always fascinated with chess, fighter planes, and he was the only person I knew who knew what a Libertarian actually was, even though I'm fairly certain it was only due to the fact that Pat Buchanan shared his last name. But that's neither here nor there. He had pale, pale skin and numerous moles and birthmarks. He gave them names. His teeth were crowded and the size of Chiclets, but that did not stop him from laughing. At P.E., Justin stood proudly, his legs splayed shoulder length apart, and hands firmly placed on his copper corduroy shorts. But when we had to run a mile, he would suddenly have a "migraine" and need to sit underneath the pavilion. I did too, but that was mainly because I preferred playing in the computer lab during recess. Justin was the boy, who, when hot, took off his striped sweater rather inconspicuously and continued to write his D'Nealian alphabet bare chested. I thought he was great.

Most mornings, Justin's mom would drop him off at our house in her cobalt blue Toyota. She worried about him being picked on at school. She always said that whenever she told Justin that she'd be dropping him off at my house in the morning, he would sleep in his school clothes because he was so excited. Whenever he came to our house, he'd always remark about the "wild jungle theme" of our front yard. The truth was that our hedges need to be trimmed, and our flowerbeds needed to be weeded.

He was a sad boy, though. Looking back, I'm fairly certain he had some kind of social anxiety disorder, for kids liked to do little things to hear him scream. They'd draw penises on his notebooks, call him a girl, and he would cry and carry on like there was no tomorrow. I remember one day he went to the bathroom (this classroom had a restroom in it), and the kids thought it would be funny to lock him in it. And then we left for recess. When we came back, Mrs. Hannan, my teacher, finally heard the banging and screaming of Justin from the bathroom, and then unlocked the door. In an instant, he came running out, sans corduroy pants (and underwear) and tears streaming down his face. All of the boys and girls laughed at him, and he hung his head in embarrassment. His eyes met mine, and then I looked away.

During the next few days, kids kept calling me Mrs. Buchanan, and I found myself becoming embarrassed of him. He would try to play Oregon Trail with me in the computer lab during recess, I would agree, but then go to the playground instead. I told my mother I was doing safety patrol at school in the mornings, and Justin couldn't go with us to school anymore. It was a horrible lie, only the sixth grade elite were eligible for the neon orange vest. But it didn't matter to me, I didn't want to be associated with the "geek" any longer. I no longer spoke to him at soccer practice (we were on the same team), and instead of going easy on him while he was playing goalie, I made it a goal to score every time (no pun intended). And generally, I did.

One night as we were finishing practice and I had just downed my last Capri-Sun, I lackadaisically kicked the size 4 ball toward the line of lawn chairs where all of the parents would sit. I saw my mom talking to the real Mrs. Buchanan. She said she received a phonecall from Mrs. Mentillo (the computer lab teacher) earlier, asking about Justin. Mrs. Mentillo said that he had been upset lately, and that I hadn't been around. When she asked why he was upset, he put his hands over his head and began to cry, and said that he felt there was something wrong with him. Mrs. Mentillo asked about me, and she said he began to sob. "She's my best and only friend," he said, and then he was unable to speak anymore. Apparently I had stopped in my tracks listening to the story, for Mrs. Buchanan and my mom stared back at me. I pretended to be looking at something else, and then walked away.

On the car ride home, my mom asked me about Justin. I lied and told her that everything was fine, and we were still friends at school. And then, I never spoke to him again. In truth, we were soon in different classes, and he quit soccer, so opportunities to see him were slim. But, when I did, he was always alone and always trying to erase various reproductive parts from his composition book. Occasionally we would make eye contact, and I would nervously smile, but then I would always walk away. Each step I took placed him further, both literally and figuratively, from my mind, until the point where I forgot how cruel I was to him at all.


The other day, Evan invited a group of people over to his house for a memorial day cookout. Knowing it was in the afternoon, I still decided it was necessary to drink myself stupid with my girlfriends the night prior to it. Knowing that nearly everyone would cancel on him, I decided to cancel on him too in order to nurse my hangover. Closing my eyes and placing my head on my goosefeather pillows, I felt immediately absolved of any guilt.

My point is, I guess, that no amount of steps or pillows can erase an action. It's still there, and the Justin is still there, and Evan is too. I still remember what I did, they still remember what they did, and people who saw what I did remember what I did, and for that matter, didn't do. I still remember when someone told me that I had a lot of "pork and meat" on me, and so I stopped eating. I was labelled as "fat girl," and therefore it was OK to call me names. I labelled Justin and Evan as "geeks," and made fun of them accordingly.

Who knows what became of Justin. I'm not going to be so bold as to say that my words changed who he was as a human being, but let's be honest--when kids in high school made fun of two boys every day, they came to school in trenchcoats with machine guns and killed said kids.

We take away names and replace them with labels, because labels aren't as personal. I find myself doing it daily. The mother in the minivan driving the speed limit isn't a concerned parent, she is a soccer mom with little to no interests except living vicariously through her children. What scares me most is its effect on the individual. American pragmatist George Mead would say that the self is socially-constructed. Well, shit. Does that mean that if all one hears is that they are geeky, a loser, and pathetic they will feel all of the above? Yes. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. You don't have an "a priori" self, it's all a posteriori and composed of ignorant stereotypes of a bunch of assholes. See, I'm even complaining about labelling, but calling all people who label "assholes." Fuck. But if this is true, then, one's self isn't concrete, it's completely subjective and not up to the individual. Maybe Justin thought of himself as "cool," but what did it matter? Everyone else still thought he was a dork.

The point is that nothing good comes from them. I will always regret kicking the ball extra hard and extra fast into the goal because Justin was a geek, and I'll always regret cancelling on Evan because I'd rather hang out with my societally-constructed "cooler" friends. I hate it when people label me as a bitch, but what can I expect when I've already done the same to them? I strive to act as if my actions could be universal law (thanks, Kant), but if that was the case, there would be no people, only labels. I'm not hopeless, though. Although I'm a cynic, I think people can change. Emotions and attitudes are not static, and that is thrilling and terrifying.

Commentary: Bridging the Gap between Intent and Perception!

I feel a bit small and boring when I begin almost all of my posts with a gripe from work. However, I think about it, and, if it weren't for work, I wouldn't have anything about which to complain. Imagine that. So, I won't begin with an anecdote from work. I'll talk about my shower this morning.

I woke up around noon, (Ah, how the summertime sloth has taken hold of my being--its claws are a bit sharp, though, and begin to sting when I sleep later than 11:45) and stepped into the shower, and then turned the water on. Believe it or not, I prefer to be in the shower as the water regulates. Gives me a bit of a jolt to wake me up and, hopefully, kickstart my metabolism. I'm not a fan of green tea or the elliptical, so I get my help wherever I can find it. Does it work? I doubt it.

Anyway, as I'm sitting in the shower, washing my face with my Noxema (yes, I sit in the shower, I have since I was little, I call it a "shath." Deal.) the warm drops of renewal granted me an epiphany in addition to clean and eucalyptus-scented skin:

We, as human beings, only have a 25% chance of being understood by a person with whom we are interacting!

How did I come to this conclusion, you might ask?

(Now is the point in time where I must delve into a Paul's work story, my sincerest apologies for my predictable blog patterns)

So, yesterday was quite crowded. I stupidly chose to wear long sleeves and pants as my work garb (Oh, how I rue that decision), and suffice it to say I was quite pink and miserable. As was everyone else in the hothouse. A woman comes in, with a very large proverbial bun in the oven, very porcine and glistening in her own sweat. She drops a package of green beans on the steel counter. "These," she gestured down, "I bought on Friday. They're all brown, and just not looking very good."

I'm polite (as usual, mind you), and proceed to say the usual "that's not a problem blah blah blah." Remember, given that she is not old and yellow, I am more inclined to be amiable. And to be honest, I knew if I committed a faux-pas, the result could potentially be fatal. In my nineteen years I have learned two things: always show your work, and never upset a hormonal pregnant woman.

A few minutes pass, and she returns to the counter. As usual, we're swamped, and I'm trying to help the fossil with a walker remember to sign her name on the credit receipt. She begins to speak, "I'm the woman with the beans."

Growing rather red at the decrepit miser's pace, I don't look up to her. I just say, "I know."

Looking back, I think I recall her muttering something under her breath, however I was unable to hear her, thanks to the noxious noise of the B-52's "Loveshack" playing in the background. I finally am able to look up, and I'm surprised the store sprinklers haven't turned on. She is seething, smoke piping from each ear. Her eyes turn blood red, and her ponytail turns scaly, two horns grow exponentially from the crown of her head. And then she opens her mouth, and I am scorched by her fiery tongue, and also the fire emitted from her throat. Ah, the joys of pregnancy.

None of that actually happened, but she did call my manager. And I received a "talking to." Stupid excessive fuck takes me outside, and tells me that we "rely so heavily on our customers," and that I should be more polite. Oh, really? Wait, I thought we relied on someone else to be successful. Certainly it's not the people who buy our products.

I was hot, miserable, and moody, and just generally tired of seeing his wrinkled countenance. I explained to him the situation, and his sage advice was "Well, next time you should say 'I remember.'"

What the fuck?

Being a spineless and lowly peon, I lowered my head in shame and returned to the hothouse. And then I got to thinking. I didn't intend to be rude by my apparently "short" and "rude" 'I know,' but she perceived it as such. And then I began to mull over all of my other moments of misunderstanding, and realized that I am misunderstood more than I am understood, especially by strangers.

My theory: if you think about it mathematically, there are exactly four possibilities of being understood, and conversely, misunderstood.

The first: Your intent is A, and it is perceived as A
The second: Your intent is A, and it is perceived as not A
The third: Your intent is not A, and it is perceived as A
The fourth: Your intent is not A, and it is perceived as not A

So if you look at it, the chances of you being understood by someone point-blank is only 25%. Granted, there are certain situational factors, like familiarity, tone of voice, etc, however the point remains the same. Scary? Yes. A little liberating? Of course.

In this situation, I didn't intend to be rude, but she perceived me as being rude. And really, neither of us are at fault; I made the choice in my intent, however she chose to perceive it oppositely.

The question is, then, what is there to do about the numerous options in this veritable punnet-square of intent and perception? After talking with my hairdresser today (I was getting my roots done), I came to the conclusion. We need to be more direct. I used to be infatuated with the mystery and ambiguity of the word "maybe," but "maybe" does nothing except catapult one into this awkward limbo of uncertainty.

You see, Amy (my hairdresser), has recently taken up a hot summer romance with a man named Jay. He came in one day to get his chest waxed, and she had the pleasure of doing so. He came in a few more times, and then, just very straightforward, direct, honest, asked her to go to dinner with him. And, she responded with a very matter-of-fact and emphatic "yes." No beating around the bush, no sweet nothings (although I admit I am quite skilled in the art of being coy), just honesty. Less room for errors, misunderstandings, and broken hearts. And guess what? They've been together a month now and he makes her pot roast. I don't like it, but they take time to make; and hey, you have to admire a man who will deign to wear an apron.

An ENTJ, I don't have a too-tumultous time being blunt; however for my sake, I think I should do so with a bit more tact. Everyone else, though? Stop worrying about beating around the proverbial bush; speak up, and say your mind. If you're scared, don't be--chances are you won't be understood anyway. It is all up to you.

Commentary: People Who SHOULD Get Swine Flu

OK, so.

The other day I was doing the usual at work--sighing, slightly frowning, and "greeting" customers with a melancholy and relatively rote "hihowareyoutoday." You see, I rarely gaze beyond the screen, especially that day. The truth is that I genuinely don't care to connect with anyone that buys things from our store, except for the woman who wears fabulous wedges and sun hats on the regular. She came in that day. As we spoke, we discussed Swine Flu and how awful it was, and how she actually knew someone who had it. And then I thought about people who I wouldn't want to ever have it, and then I got to the more fun part. People who, really, I wouldn't mind not ever seeing again. People who could potentially contract swine flu, and I wouldn't necessarily lose any sleep over. Obviously, the list was quite lengthy. To constrain my sampling group a bit more, I decided to confine it to the regulars. And so, my "Top 5: People Who Should Get Swine Flu (but not necessarily die, just never come back to the store)" are as follows:


1. Mr. Dunaway and Old Bag Mom.

I despise them. He comes in with his hideous scourge of the underworld mother at least twice a day, every day. He always wears the same grey Thornton's shirt. His eyes are beady and close together like a mole, except he is far less endearing in that he is not hairy and cuddly. He is bald. The hair he does have barely covers the sides of his knotted head, and is dull and greasy. And suffice it to say, his beer gut that protrudes over his brown highwaters (and black belt, mind you) is not in my schema of "cuddly" things.

He used to sub at my high school and middle school. I'm going to be cynical here (surprise) and say that there is nothing more pathetic than an overly enthusiastic substitute teacher. The bottom line is that you aren't good enough to be hired full time, and the kids have even less respect for you. You aren't first choice, you are a substitute. You are second rate, not even at best. Don't get any big ideas.

Anyway, in middle school, he subbed for my eighth grade social studies class. I hated that class with a passion. My teacher, Mrs. Grow, was a rather husky woman with short hair and a long Meryl Streep-esque nose. When she spoke, spit collected in pools on the sides of her mouth, and when she got really into Alexander Hamilton, like really into him, the spit would do a little dance, bouncing from her upper lip to her lower lip in a rhythmic fashion. But when she talked about Molly Pitcher, it was over. She pursed her lips a la Donald Trump, and the white spit literally dribbled down her jowls. It was disgusting. Even moreso was the fact that her camel toe was available for our daily viewing pleasure thanks to her tapered khakis. Another thing about Mrs. Grow. It really pissed me off the way she ate her string cheese. Quite bovine, she bit into the stick, guzzled some of her Chek soda (remember that?), and then took two more bites. The cheese was gone. It's called string cheese for a reason; you don't bite it, you string it. Fuck.

But I digress. Mr. Dunaway, or Mr. "D" as he wanted us to call him (in hopes of being "cool" to the 13 year olds) tried to teach us about Manifest Destiny. He took one look at the overhead screen Mrs. Grow left us, and then tossed it away. That's right, Mr. D was going rogue. Trying to appeal to us, he said he just wanted us to "discuss" what we thought. No notes, just talking. Like real, live people!

Sullen, cocky, and cool in my hot pink and black Vans, I looked to my friend Elliott. He looked back. We raised our hands. "So, uh, Mr. D....what are your thoughts on Rogaine?" I took out my disposable camera and smacked it on my hand, blinding him with the flash.

The class erupted in laughter. We both knew that's all it took for our "discussion" to turn into free period. Just like that, that sad sap Dunaway lost control of the class, and in the process, his bald forehead turned pink. Elliott and I proceeded to throw coins at him, and joust each other with swords made of Crayola markers. We were gems.

Back to the story. D and Mama D come in everyday, and they eat all of our samples. They'd probably suck the juice off of the plates if they could, too. They're nothing more than scavengers. Sometimes she'll buy two sticks of celery, and then complain about paying thirty cents. She is the one who says that she could buy a car with "these prices." She is the one who asks for over ripe tomatoes, and then complains that they're soft. She is the one who dumps her lint and grime covered pennies on the counter, and then finds a dollar at the last minute, and asks me to give her the 97 pennies back.

I do not deal with these cretins.

2. The Purple Lady

This one is terrible. She comes in, usually on Sundays, at 6:50. She leaves around 7:30. We close at 7:00. She counter shops. She buys purple potatoes, red grapes, plums, and eggplant. And black raspberry chip ice cream. She wears frosted purple lipstick, eyeshadow, and blush. Her nose is beaklike, and her eyes are dark and close together. Her voice is abrasive. Imagine a crow in purple. That's her. Oh, but with cankles. Sometimes she'll buy purple sugar cookies from the deli, and specifically ask me to be gentle with them. I break them regularly, and let me tell you, there is nothing more satisfying than hearing that initial SNAP of the icing. Oh, whoops. You're right, they are fragile! Oh, there aren't any more back there? Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Maybe they would have held up better had you come in before we closed.

3. Mandi

Q:What do Curves and waterparks have in common?
A: Fat, tacky women in spandex.

This is Mandi. With an "i." Mandi is the epitome of tacky. She is a pig with lipstick, in this case frosted lipstick. Mandi wears denim cut-offs year round, and struts about the store in her black tank tops, as does her gut. Her arms swing front to back, and her belly swings from left to right. Sometimes, if we are so lucky, we are able to catch a glimpse of her emerald belly ring. I'm assuming this is her birthstone. Somehow, she seems the type to be really into horoscopes. Maybe it's her tattooed eyeliner a la Amy Winehouse and platinum blonde hair with skunklike roots. Or, you know, what? It could be the acrylic nails. With rhinestones in the center. And the hideous Von Dutch trucker hat she still sports, even though that trend died out several years ago. I guess the good thing about being tacky is that you never have to feel like you have no clothes. To me, it's like filling your wallet with a bunch of ones. You feel nice, like you have a lot of money, but really you can't even buy a frisco melt at Steak and Shake.

Mandi likes to buy smoked ham. How fitting.

4. Cross-eyed Bastard and Equally Incompetent Wife.

Honestly, I had some trepidations about putting them on the list, but now that I think about it, they deserve it. This one comes in at least once a day as well, and also brings in a haggard significant other that should not be allowed to be seen in public. She's so advanced in osteoperosis I wonder why she is even in the States; shouldn't she be in Notre Dame or something? Anyway, she isn't the one that bothers me so much, it's him. As always. He only ever wants blueberries. A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please. But sir, we don't always have pints, and we don't always carry that brand. A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please. Sir, did you not hear what I said? A pint of Naturripe blueberries, please.

This is when I imagine his head turning the shape and size of a blueberry, and then exploding, covering the store in sweet, blueberry mush. Like what should have happened to Violet Beauregard, except this would be much sweeter. Mainly because he is old and has no potential anymore, is wiping out Social Security, and the only thing he is capable of producing is carbon dioxide.

I understand that when you're old you can't hear as well, but by no means does it make it OK to be obstinate. That's my job. When I have to SHOUT THAT THERE AREN'T ANY NATURRIPE BLUEBERRIES RIGHT NOW for the thirtieth time, the problem doesn't lie within me, it lies within you. You know what else should lie within you? A HEARING AID. That's right. You're old, you're wrinkled, you're grey, get over it. Now get the CIC and a better attitude, or get the hell out.

What good will anti-oxidants do him, anyway? From the looks of him and his Quasimodo lookalike wife, that bell should be tolling within the hour.

5. Egyptian woman

She makes the list after a more recent run in. The other day I was PMSing and felt as if my face was a veritable petri dish. No, I wasn't completely broken out, or broken out at all (in addition to Spanish, I'm fluent in hyperbole) but I definitely had some spores going on. Anyway, this Egyptian woman comes in, to my side, to check out. I look up. "You are beautiful," she says.

Paranoid, insecure, and cynical (OK, neurotic), I figure she's making fun of me. I scowl, and mutter "Thanks."

"You are in college or high school," she asks. She's examining me. She's staring into my eyes, I'm nervous. Walls are beginning to close in on me. The lame Fleetwood Mac song on the radio is growing louder and louder and louder until all I can hear is Stevie Nix's obnoxious twang. I think I'm beginning to cross my eyes. I can feel new cultures sprouting on my face as we speak.

"Er, 19, I mean, college." I look to her yukon potatoes and quickly act concerned at their texture. Anything to avoid looking into Nefertiti's gaze.

"You are 19?" she looks at me quizzically. I've been finished with her two item purchase for one minute now.

"Yes," I say.

Her eyes look me over once again, and then she stares. What does she want? I feel weak, and fear that at any minute I will melt and turn into some primordial ooze. "That is shame," she says, "you would have made perfect wife for Ahmose."

And then I turned into Alex Mack. Not really, but I wish. I try to laugh, hoping that she was merely kidding. She continues to stare. "A real shame," she sighs.

I hand her the bag of potatoes and squash. Her gaze lingers. "You know, you look like Jewel. You know her? The singer? Real pretty."

Yeah, homeless girl from Alaska with a snaggletooth. Real cute. At this point, I'm still shocked that she was considering me to be a potential wife of her son whom I'd never met, that I was relatively unphased that she said I looked like the girl who wrote that kitschy classic "Who Will Save Your Soul." Stupidly, I nodded my head.

She leaves, and suddenly it's hot in the store. I go to the cooler and hang out with the Benedictine spread for about ten minutes until I'm no longer in liquid form. One of the worst days of my life.

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.