Snippy New Year 2008

I fell today. We're talking help-me-I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up. My cell phone flew out of my purse, and when I hit the ground I heard someone yell "Goddammit" at the top of her lungs. As I felt the dull thud of frontal lobe damage, I realized it was me. Oh great, I thought, now I'm going to have to wear a helmet and take public transportation. And I still won't qualify for food stamps. A kind stranger suffocated his desire to laugh at me and instead asked me if I needed help. I appreciated that because I know I looked hilarious. The sidewalk wasn't wet, I wasn't wearing heels and I didn't trip over anything. In short, my fall probably looked like a metaphysical phenomenon. Like I was mugged by the Invisible Man. I politely declined the kind stranger's offer to give me mouth to mouth resuscitation and attempted to recover my dignity. The kind stranger smiled at me. He said, "You just need to get out of 2007 and into 2008." I couldn't agree more. So, under the influence of more than one glass of ginger ale, I bring you the year in review -- snippy style.

1. Last year at this time I was living with two housemates, three cats and the realization that I do, in fact, have it in me to murder people in their sleep. I discovered what I don't like about a house share -- the sharing part. It was like being on The Real World without the hot tub. Each of us assumed she was the hot one as opposed to the crazy one. To be clear, I wasn't kicked out after a heated drunken house meeting. I left on my own to move into a studio. It's true that my apartment is is so tiny that I can saute onions on the stove while sitting on my bed. It's also true that I have more than enough room. Lesson learned about people: If you're not having sex with them, don't live with them.

2. My arm/shoulder continues to heal. I've reignited my yoga practice, which has helped me way more than simply taking pain pills and crying. I'm still being treated like a crack whore by the powers that be in workers' compensation. The so-called neutral doctor told me that I can go back to being a massage therapist if I want to. He said, "You won't make the injury any worse, you'll just be in pain." Um, yeah, and losing the ability to pump my own gas again won't hinder my lifestyle at all. How am I supposed to fight the war on terror by shopping if I can't carry my own bags? Nevertheless, I've seen improvement, so I'm keeping hope alive. Like Terry Schiavo.

3. I completed another semester of school, which means that I am that much closer to infiltrating a media outlet near you. Once I've secured my writer's paycheck and stocked up on my favorite hair conditioner you can be sure I'll start asking the tough questions. For example, I want to ask Mitt Romney if he wears that special Mormon underwear. I'll ask Hillary why she voted in support of the war in Iraq. And I won' let her say, "It depends on the meaning of in." And of course, I'll respond to pop singer Fergie's demand to know why reporters keep asking her about plastic surgery. (Because before you were Fergalicious you were Snuffalufagus maybe?)

4. Dating? Dating-schmating. Let's not even go there. Except I should give a big Thank-You and-Thank-the-Lord to the guy who brought me chai. Thank you for not traumatizing me and thank you for not giving me a reason to use my bunny rabbit-shaped taser.

5. My father bought a handgun this year. I bring this up only because next year at this time I will probably be sending a shout-out to him in prison after he accidentally shoots a neighbor. Fortunately, my law officer brother talked him out of buying a shotgun or I'd be phoning in anonymous tips to the authorities. Freaked out after a petty burglary, my father decided to upgrade his security. Some of us were concerned. A niece asked him why he didn't just get a dog. My father replied, "Because a gun won't take a shit in the middle of my living room." Caught with no counterargument, I laughed. Sometimes that is the only option.

So, I fell hard today. I swore like a sailor with tourette's syndrome and road rage. And then I laughed. I laughed because it hurt so bad. Laughing distracted me from thinking that I might have broken my good arm. The arm that carries the heavier bags of groceries and pumps gas when the other one can't. It was like my life flashed forward to me in a housecoat being eaten by my cat because nobody knew I died. Yeah, I went to the bad place. For a split second it made sense and seemed likely even. But still, I laughed. What else could I do? Another year has ended, and I expect to be here next year -- laughing.

Oh Holy Night

As most of you know, I do not celebrate Christmas. I don't care if it is Santa Claus' birthday, I have better things to do than pretend to be grateful when somebody gives me a coffee mug with a wreath on it. Fortunately, my friends and family gave up on me a long time ago. They consider it another one of my charming quirks that they tolerate, much like my refusal to answer the phone before ten a.m. Nobody ever thinks it'd be a good idea to spend the holidays with me. I won't give them any presents because I don't like a calendar telling me what to do. (Plus, I'm poor.) My studio is too small for even a bonsai Christmas tree, and I am fairly allergic to sugar and alcohol. What's the point? My spiritual life is private, and I express it in ways that don't seem to make sense in the little town of Bethlehem. But I did sort of celebrate this year, and I think I've started my own tradition. For the past two days I've been cleaning out my apartment.

The season of Solstice is the true inspiration for my Christmas purge. I found myself depressed and seemingly friendless just a few days before Christmas. Because I am a hermit this normally doesn't bother me. I usually meet my social needs via safe and predictable relationships with bank tellers and the cashiers of grocery stores. Not much chance of betrayal and heartbreak at Safeway. (Although, I am pretty upset when I can't find the half-n-half.) Still, once in a while I would be willing to suffer the inevitable emotional consequences of interacting with humans to go to the movies with somebody. Currently, my friends fall into one or more of three categories: 1) They live far away and can only kick it over the phone. 2) They are married with or without children, which means all social plans are likely to be cancelled (or simply forgotten) at the last minute due to pressing needs like buying a napkin holder. 3) Their new and fabulous soul mate forbids them to associate them with me. If I strike you as wallowing in misery, don't worry. I consoled myself by watching a series of A&E Biographies about serial killers. And then I started cleaning.

Determined to turn my frown upside down, I decided that I would honor the longest night of the year by diving into the darkness that is my storage space and doing a ruthless inventory of my belongings. I lit a seven day candle that I bought from the Mexican aisle at the grocery store because nothing throws down the juju like a candle that claims to be able to dispel demons. I said a small prayer. Scrutinizing my stuff for the fluff, I found that I no longer needed a whole carload of crap. The lamp with the crooked shade, a microwave oven and a collection of junk jewelry that I forgot I had all got tossed. I even said goodbye to my high school year books. I mean, do I really need a reminder of my Belinda Carlisle haircut? That's what my sister is for.

The more I removed the objects of my past, the more ready I felt to embrace my present (as opposed to my presents.) Yes, I did throw away the framed photograph of the friend who has decided that her mate really does get to tell her who she can be friends with. I have fond memories, and I wish her well, but I have no room in my house for dead plants or dead relationships. And it feels better to admit this and move on than to wait for her to come down my chimney like Santa Claus with a bagful of the gifts of Christmas past. In this way I did make my peace with several chapters of my life. Why, for example, did I still have a boxful of massage linens? That career ended two years ago when I hurt my arm. My attachment to it ended two days ago. The empty spaces left behind can now be filled by finishing my degree as a writer and being willing to meet new people, despite my fear of them and their weaknesses. Despite my fear of myself and my own weaknesses. And in this I do feel renewed -- like somebody up there likes me even though I won't join in any reindeer games.

Down the Tubes

I guess you wonder where I been. I searched to find a love within. I came back to let you know. Got a thing for you, and I can't let go.

Not really, but I'm listening to Bobby Caldwell circa 1979 and I'm feeling kind of sentimental. I found the video on You Tube by accident. One of those random links that somehow popped up as they do only on You Tube. You start out looking for the Smiths. That turns into guinea pigs dancing to Jungle Boogie from Pulp Fiction, which leads to Filipino prison inmates doing the Thriller dance complete with a man in a halter top playing Michael Jackson's love interest. That led me directly to the Bollywood version of Thriller, which was actually really scary. I don't think they were faking being dead.

I've learned a lot since diving into You Tube four years after everybody else. Apparently, I am not the only person who thinks her cat is way more fascinating than she actually is. My cat really is spectacular, despite her crossed eye. And those who've seen the photos on my cell phone will back me up. Making bird noises at a moth, however, is not what I would consider post-worthy. Neither are the clips of meows with subtitles that translate what the cat is supposedly saying. To the person who showed video "proof" that his cat meowed a cover of Gimme More while he shook the bag of Meow Mix: What your cat actually said was "Dude, put down the pipe." Nevertheless, I watched about a mini-series worth of cats mewing in tongues. Loser? I prefer the term media anthropologist.

I never did watch that Chris Crocker guy cry about Britney Spears' disastrous performance at the VMA's. I'm so sure. I was busy watching the Bee Gees perform Jive Talkin' in what looked like white full-body Speedos with plunging necklines. Tragedy indeed. I'm pretty sure no one was wearing underwear. That led to the obligatory walk down Saturday Night Fever memory lane. What exactly is someone if she is More Than a Woman? A hermaphrodite? Sensory flashbacks of my stepfather dancing to Donna Summer forced me to move on or I would have been in the disco round all night.

When I see children at Target I usually despise them. If they aren't already screaming, they or some close to them will surely start within seconds. And when one starts they all start -- like all the neighborhood dogs barking simultaneously when they hear a siren. It's just what Target does to children. Like the moon and werewolves. I want no part of it. On You Tube, however, people post their kids being hilarious, precocious and just straight up crazy. Why do we think it so funny when kids swear or slap their fathers across the camera? I admit I was laughing. But I also saw stuff I don't think Children and Youth Services should know about. Then again, teenybopper slut pageants are legal, so what do I know? Besides, the secret to success for girls these days seems to include telling the press you're a virgin while simulating sex onstage.

I admit I haven't actually looked for anything of real educational or spiritual value, so I don't know if it exists. Of course, I do place value on things like being able to watch Tim Curry belt out Sweet Transvestite while I'm at the library studying. And Jesus singing I Will Survive inspired me -- as an artist. When I was in ninth grade my mother decided that our illegal MTV had ruined me. Madonna. My mother was clear. I wasn't supposed to be like a virgin. I was supposed to be a virgin. I was forced to wear pantyhose and attend a Christian youth group where nobody would talk to me. I sat there silently, trying to memorize bible quotes, playing with my black rubber bracelets. I knew that one day I would grow up and say whatever I wanted to say even if it was stupid. Okay, not true. I always thought my running commentary was brilliant. Like a cat who meows Britney Spears on the Internet. And I guess that's what we're all doing these days. We're having our say and convinced that we are fabulous.

Day of the Dead Dates

Not to be a culture co-opting gringa or anything, but the Day of the Dead rocks. I did not go to a cemetery and pour a can of Schlitz on my grandpa's grave. Nor did I make an altar of tuna fish in honor of Mama Kitty. In fact, I failed to follow the dead-honoring tradition at all. Instead, I chose to acknowledge those who should be dead. If you read my comic book Dating Sucks My Will to Live then you know who I am talking about. Cheapskates, haters and spiritual terrorists a.k.a. my would be suitors. And truly, I don't want to give them any more attention than I already have. As it is I probably owe at least one of them a settlement because he recognized himself as the star of my other comic classic The Break-Up Diary. Still, I recently found myself haunted by memories of men who put the dis in dysfunctional. And I realized I had to do something about it.

Bad memories are bad juju, and I've got more than a shoeboxful. Maybe I don't need to rent a storage unit to hold mine, but I probably need an extra bookshelf and some Tupperware. The guy who divided our cafe check in half after he'd not only ordered for me, but eaten half my food reminded me to "leave a little something for the waiter." Another guy complimented my choice in wine by saying, "Not bad for the two or three dollars you probably paid for it." Rounding out the list is the man who stood me up, the man who gave me a used negligee and the man who said he could never get serious with a cat owner because he doesn't believe in "that lifestyle." Add to that the speed freak who thought he was Jesus, the Jesuit who thought I was the devil and the Svengali who tried to make me start a cult with him. It's enough to traumatize even the most optimistic of daters.

So imagine my dismay when an actual nice guy makes himself known to me in a charming, can-I-carry-your-books-for-you kind of way. He takes me out for dinner. And then again and again. He tells me right up front what I can expect from him -- endless foot massages, access to his film collection and a reason to shave my legs on a regular basis. And while he is not pushing for a commitment, I find myself already committed -- to the ghosts of dating past. I find myself cringing in anticipation of the insult or the disappointment. At any moment he will ask the question: This isn't a date, right? Except he doesn't. His ex-girlfriend doesn't make the operator do an emergency interrupt during our phone calls. He doesn't tell me my breath "smells like a rotting animal." He doesn't go home early to have cybersex with an underage online hooker.

Dating without drama? I am disoriented and afraid. Like a lab rat, monkey or bunny that never leaves the jar or the maze even after the lid is taken off the lipstick or whatever. I am conditioned for the bitchslap. I need to be exorcised of the demon dates of my past. I need those memories to die their good deaths and be gone. I am even willing to sacrifice excellent satire at their expense in the name of freeing myself. I write to the misogynist monk and the nutrition Nazi. I write to the tweaker, the cheater and the cat hater. The movie star, the rock star, and the pirate. I knew I was making progress when my chest no longer burned and it seemed reasonable that I might no longer desire to stab anyone in the heart with my pen. I burned these letters to ash and then threw them into the garden to give them a chance to reincarnate as something good for me -- like chard.

All of a sudden I remembered how uniquely and beautifully human each of us is. I felt each of my offenders for a moment and remembered details of their lives that made them feel small and mean and ready to lash out at other people -- women in particular. I believe that none of them actually meant to hurt me as much as they did. And I never meant to hurt them. Except when they deserved it, of course. And except when I was being as human as they were. I know for sure that one of my former boyfriends sought therapy due to the pleasure of knowing my love. (In fairness to myself, he's a psychotic loser, but still...)

I don't know how many people I killed today. It was a bad memory massacre. I hope that I have freed myself. In order to get my freak on I had to get the freaks out. And like all good ghosts, they may return to haunt me occasionally, but I will gently remind them (and myself) that they are dead. I will encourage them to go into the light already. Maybe next year I'll pour a Schlitz on their graves. If I'm lucky, I won't remember where they're buried at all.

Not So Snippy

I'll just go ahead and tell you. You'll find out anyway when I accept my sparkly statue at some televised awards show where I'll be stuck sitting between Kid Rock and William Hung. I'm trying to make a deal with The Man. To sell out, preferably to the highest bidder. We're talking syndicated column. There have been lunches. There have have been half-caff au laits and a few hallelujahs. There have been tentative offers, but not without a few catches. The main one being that I need to find a way to tone down the snippiness just a bit. Maybe stop mocking religion. (Calling the Pope a drag queen did not go over well anywhere outside of my gender studies class. For the record, Margaret Cho said it first.) They asked me to consider limiting the use of certain words -- words like dickhead and panty wad. (There goes the recap of my summer fling.) So, what I am saying is that I need to find a way to pay for my hair conditioner once and for all. In all likelihood I will be published in a respectable paper near you, provided I can become a kinder, gentler Kerry. A Ker-Bear who maintains the mockery, but stops just short of endorsing workplace killing sprees. So, this is my experiment in toning down my Tourette's. You be the judge.

So, this morning I was thinking about my Grandma and the Lord. No, for real. My Grandma Grace used to read a tiny paperback book about Jesus every morning while she smoked her cigarette and drank her Folger's instant coffee. Sometimes she would read the lesson of the day to me. It was my first exposure to the self-help/spiritual genre. Jesus was all positive, of course, so what could you do but remind yourself how lucky you were because you were, for sure, going to Heaven? Even if you stole your sister's Sugar Babies, all you had to do was say out loud, "Forgive me, Jesus." Done. Hellfire averted. Jesus was awesome. I just wish he didn't resemble all the guys who stalk Whole Foods forcing people to sign their petitions. Seriously, they will tase you if you say no. And you do not want to die in the Whole Foods parking lot. Those people will eat your skin off like cats.

I found the Bible quotes boring because I didn't understand words like anoint and lo. Still, now that I am supposedly a grown up I find myself praying every morning. Doing yoga and invoking the Divine before school makes me feel fabulous. Like I totally understand that song Dust in the Wind. Like some of humanity might actually be worth saving (as long as I get to pick who.) I drink my coffee and breathe in the beauty that is a caffeine buzz. Is it just me or does the Lord feel just like a whole lotta latte? I decide that I can have both a bad attitude and a heart that loves. In fact, I'm feeling so inspired that I suspect that I can string a series of sentences together without swearing, over-sharing or hate criming anybody. In short, I am sanctified and renewed with a purpose. In fact, I'm writing a new book. It's called The Power of Not Right Now, and I'm going to get to it, but just a little later.

New Age Mutant Ninja Turtle

Recently I was poring over several magazines in hopes of finding one or two that might publish me and pay me with more than a laminated bookmark. I was looking at magazines with a distinct new age feel because in my non-writerly life I have somehow acquired twenty years of experience in the healing and esoteric arts. I've shaken my groove thing with shamans, meditated with medicine men and choked down more wheat grass than Deepak Chopra. In short, I put the woo in woo-woo. And through no real fault of my own, I find myself sort of an accidental expert on just about everything you can conjure in the metaphysical section of the bookstore. So, imagine yourselves in my flip-flops for a moment as I am forced to realize that I actually despise much of the New Age and its shiny accouterments.

Maybe I'm just pissed because I found out that all that meditating and talking about meditating doesn't actually allow you to wipe away your past like they said it would. Finding my power animal only gave me something else to take care of -- badly. And who has the room for anything with hooves anyway? I envisioned my chakras spinning like fabulous thrift store Fiestaware and I forgave everyone I knew -- even the ones who didn't deserve it. I knew I was a being of unconditional love, despite being surrounded by pigs. My heart center was more open than a 24-hour Wal-Mart selling iPhones. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. Unless you count a high tolerance for men in skirts as an accomplishment.

I considered that maybe I just needed to work harder. It's true that I refused to take off my clothes and um, sweat for an hour in a flaming hole with other sweaty naked people. Somehow this did not seem "cleansing" to me. I did, however, date the reincarnation of Rumi, who in this life could control the weather and assimilate methamphetamines for healing purposes. I devoted myself to years of study. I read the Hindu scriptures, did yoga and practiced food combining. I felt extremely healthy, and I felt extremely superior. Like I was special without the ed. Holy without the shit. And if I have ever had an addiction it would be my long term relationship with all things new age. It promised me all the things I never got and all of the things I never got over with the added bonus of playing dress-up.

I see myself as an intolerant recovered addict. Having been hypnotized by the empty glamours of the New Age, I am fairly intolerant of those who are where I was a few years ago. They watch films like The Secret, demanding to know where their share is. They know their angels on a first name basis, and they send them to run their errands. "Hey, Archangel Michael, while you're out could you bring me back a boyfriend and get rid of my cellulite?" And I do get that. I'd rather read books than exercise, and dating is what I do when I want more material to write about. There is only so much room on my hardrive for black comedy. Who wouldn't want an angel who doubles as a benevolent gopher? Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. We actually have to, you know, work at it and dive into our own shadows to find out what we were missing when we were renaming ourselves after rocks and drinking our own piss. The point is that tattooing oneself with the Japanese word for peace means less than actually making peace with that neighbor you hate.

I read an article about fairies written by some angel lady. She gave advice as to how to attract fairies into your yard -- music, tiny lanterns and flowers big enough for them to sleep in. Then she warned of fairy danger. I thought she was going to advise against hanging up those sticky flypaper things. Nothing could be more gross than a dead fairy mobile. Instead she insisted that the fairies deserved a heads-up before you mow the lawn. Why? Because they are too stupid to move out of the way of the mower, resulting in a yardful of shredded fairy? Or because they need time to pack up their tiny fiddles? I didn't understand. I mean, if I never knew they were there in the first place, why do they need me to take care of them? Especially if their main purpose is to play tricks on me and hide things. I had a housemate who did that. It's called kleptomania. I don't want Papa Smurf in my yard either. And for that I am called "negative."

When money is tight I consider starting a cult. I'm fluent in new age philosophies and I look good in a nosering. With people eating up things like Fairy Farming for Dummies and Chicken Soup for the Shaman's Soul, there's a lot of money to be made off of the new age. I could get people to cook for me and send me money. I could have minions. Our power animal would be the slug because I would promote laying around. Enlightenment would be noted by the ability to leave behind a trail of slime. And salt would be forbidden. It would cost a lot of money, of course, to meet with me in private where I would divine your past lives as a maggot and encourage you to do a ritual to embrace your inner fly. I could cure your negativity. Of this I am positive.

The Red Tent

At the risk of alienating my teeming mass of male fans, I'll tell you right now that I've had PMS this week. And I'm going to talk about it. The good news is that the volatile/weepy part ended and I'm now happily skipping through the wildflowers in all my tampon commercial glory. I wouldn't say I feel super fresh, but I probably won't cut off your lips with my nail clipper either. I couldn't say that yesterday, which is why I avoided driving, speaking and interacting with humans as much as I could. I did, however, put together a little list of PMS survival tips that I have found helpful now that I don't have any more pain pills left.

It's important to monitor your exposure to the media. Watching films like An Inconvenient Truth or The Accused is a really bad idea. Now is not the time to reinforce your thoughts of the-planet-is-doomed-and-unworthy-of-saving-because-people-are-horrible-grubby-things. Don't make it worse. You're in no shape to go to a Greenpeace meeting, trust me.

On the contrary, some media does actually increase the peace. Tonight I watched Divine Trash, a documentary about filmmaker John Waters. I found it inspirational as an artist, and it made me laugh. Granted, watching the director who convinced his leading lady to eat dog poop may not be every gal's idea of a good time, but that's not the issue. The point is to find some medium that inspires you and uplifts you even if you're carrying an extra ten pounds in water weight. Provide yourself with the films, books or TV shows that remind you that you're a worthless, greasy slug less than six days a month. I downloaded several episodes of The Office and laughed my bloated ass off. Plus, I created my own media by posting on my blog and journaling for hours. I also spent a couple days re-reading much of Augusten Burroughs' work. No other author makes me laugh as hard as he does. In fact, I think he cures PMS.

Media tips for extreme PMS emergencies only: 1) Watch The Joy Luck Club. You'll be bawling the second that swan feather hits the screen. Go ahead, let it carry all your good intentions. I did, and I never looked back (within that month.) 2) Check out trashy online gossip sites. The worst (and my favorite) is awfulplasticsurgery.com. You will feel superior. You will feel smug. This is all that matters. Consider it your own Extreme Emotional Makeover. Note: Not recommended when you don't have PMS. LaToya Jackson won't seem funny at all, and you'll realize immediately that you are a bad person.

Limit your exposure to big box stores. Fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers and loudspeaker cacophony cause your hormones to wreak even more havoc on your temporarily limited ability to make wise shopping decisions. In fact, shopping at all is ill-advised. You will regret the S'mores Pop Tarts and the low-rise jeans. The best time to shop is when you're riding that postmenstrual wave of estrogen empowerment like you were Sara Maclachlan at the Lilith Faire. You choose vegetables high in anti-oxidants. You buy kale and you actually eat it. And you buy new sponges because you can't wait to clean up the dishes you avoided for three days when you were Courtney Love.

Driving under the influence is never a good idea. I already dislike driving, but only because I have to interact with others who are also driving. I do not trust the thick-necked yahoos in their loud monster trucks or the massage therapists in their powder blue Vanagons powered by biodiesel and bumper stickers that say things like "Breathe." I've been nearly rear-ended or run off the road repeatedly by these people for my excellent skills in impersonating an old lady driver. Add PMS, and I suddenly have the desire to go Road Warrior on people. I want to be the Punisher, the one who truly makes them Fear This. Unfortunately, I never do this because I don't own one of those blade boomerang thingees. Plus, I am so hurt that no one's being sensitive to my needs that I have to go home and lay down with my cat.

Eventually, the tides shift and the moon begins to wane. Just before I get my period I snap out of it and remember that I am a goddess with special powers. All of a sudden I remember how much I like my boobs, my hair and that song Too Shy by Kajagoogoo. And, if that weren't enough, two of my books on hold at the library came in! I come to the realization that my life has become manageable again and that I don't need a social worker afterall. And I will feel grateful to be alive -- for approximately three weeks.