Admit It

 In 2008 I asked my friend why he was voting for John McCain. He said he believed it was important to end wars we start. I was like, "Yeah, what would an end to war in Iraq look like to you?" He said he didn't know. Then he said he didn't want to talk about it anymore. I said, "I'm genuinely trying to understand. You care a lot about this. I don't see how this war will end in a successful way. What do you know that I don't?" He said, "It's my opinion." I said, "But what is your opinion?" He said, "It's just my opinion." We sat next to each other a few tense moments while waiting for a few other friends to meet us in the dining hall. In hindsight, I know he didn't actually know much about that election, but his parents were/are adamant Republicans, so he assumed theirs was the superior worldview. Maybe he would have sounded a little ignorant if he'd said, "Look, I don't know much about John McCain, but my parents love him, so I'm going to assume they're right." But that type of honesty would have been so refreshing. I also think it would have opened both of us up to a frank conversation about what we know or what we don't know. It's not like I was some political genius.

As a vegetarian I don't love when people say, "I know eating meat is wrong, but I can't stop because xyz" but I understand it. Because who doesn't have their faults. However, I DESPISE when people say, "Eating meat isn't actually bad." Even when met with evidence or unable to provide their own. Just admit that you're wrong. Or at least that you don't know. I admit I'm wrong all the dumb time. It can be embarrassing, but it's also consistently not as bad as I think it will be. People aren't usually that mad at you for not knowing something. Often you can even get a pretty reliable pass for being trash. Sometimes I'm really hard on myself about not acting in total alignment with my understanding. And sometimes, through honesty with myself, I find grace. And betterment. Maybe you're not selfish. Maybe you acted selfishly.

This week a friend betrayed me. She wasn't trying to hurt me personally, but she did. I thought we were in this together. We aren't. I was transported to a beach several years ago. A very different situation but one that felt the same. My friend had lied to me and then belligerently insisted she didn't. I shut down. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say anything. Then, out of what felt like nowhere she started sobbing, telling me she knew she left me alone and she was sorry. It was so strange. To be gaslit and then vindicated in less than 24 hours. The whiplash was an earthquake. Even after the truth had been uncovered the plates had shifted. It would never be the same.

Mal

A good thing to know is that I'm not mean. Sometimes I'm about to share something with Puhg and preface it with, "Can I share a troll thought?" Code for, "Here comes something judgey or perhaps cynical." But never a mean thought. Most of the time I'm sharing said thorn because I want to know why it cuts me so deeply. Why do I care what some other dumb dumb does anyway?

At a former job this person gave a coworker and me a lot of grief. I suggested to my coworker we have a candid meeting, the three of us, and discuss her attitude. My coworker said she shouldn't. She was afraid of what she would say. I was like, "Why don't we plan what to say?" And she was like, "Right, but she'll say something I won't like and I'll say something really inappropriate." I heard her, but I couldn't relate. Still can't. She even told me a story about how she blew up at her roommate once. Screaming over a collection of small issues. She described it like a weird exorcism. I don't think that's ever happened to me. I've been mad and I've been sharp, but I've never just said things.

Or my friend Lav explaining that in the midst of arguing with her boyfriend she will deliver low blows. Harsh bullets, secretly stored away. The opinions may or may not even be true. It's no big deal to her. "Oh I said xyz because I was mad even though it's actually abc." Huh?

I think I could make something up that would really dig into a person's insecurities? I've seen it done on teen girl shows for sure. In political dramas. I have been brutally honest. Even though I didn't mean to be. But it was never malicious. Do I get points for this?

Lucy The

Is everybody special? Lo was irritated with the guy she dated this winter because he thought he was so unique. A 30 year-old white dude who loves movies. When you put it that way of course he's not different from a billion other former film majors in America. But probably in his little Midwestern town he stood out. I remember my friend Fletch went to a Christian college in Missouri and she was known as that "indie artsy girl" because she had "Wes Anderson movies" in her interests on Facebook. In her annoyance with this troubled soul of a man, Lo asked me "Do you think you are normal or weird?" And it felt like a trick because for the context of our discussion it's clear she was saying, "Everyone thinks they're weird when they are actually quite normal." But the honest truth is I do think I am weird. I figure there are more players in the NBA than working writers in Hollywood? I am an adult woman with a hamster? I just bought a non-ironic Hello Kitty face mask? And these are just three surface level examples. I dare not even begin spelunking into the depths of my (I think) weird brain. Doesn't seem normal to me?

I don't think there's anything wrong with being normal, and I don't really wish to not be it. I would like to be normal in more than two dozen ways.

How often should we expect to feel special? I think if you don't feel special sometimes you die. I really do. The magnitude of the specialness differs per person per day, you know? Sometimes you can ride a week off some itty bitty kindness. I bounced for a couple hours after my local barista made my cold brew before the sidewalk hoards' lattes. Like who is she? That mysterious girl in sweat shorts getting her order like Megan Markle? Or maybe it's just having a birthday--even if no one knows it's your birthday. Or maybe it's winning a huge award or getting a great compliment or posting a viral tweet.

Do we top out at feeling special? There are celebs who need far less special than others because they are secure and cozy in their bungalows. Or maybe they just osmosis the special in and don't need to think about it. There are also esteemed heroes who need oceans of special, I'm sure, as they've become numb to the daily joys we plebs have to get by on.

How much is enough? I'm wondering.

church folks had a fish fry, mustard, hot sauce

Saturday. I woke up concerned. The insomnia has been killing me. I think it persists because it knows I have no good argument against it. Nevertheless I did two tough workouts back to back. I felt good after, chemically for certain. It's too hot in LA, but our new AC hides it. Puhg lifted weights on the balcony and came in drenched in sweat. He suggested we go down to the pool for a morning swim. Clear blue water and blazing sun. I felt refreshed and like my head was my head.

I spent most of Friday revising a play to send to a colleague. I sat down at the table with an oat milk coffee and gave it a final once over before attaching the email. I was tired and deserved kettle korn. I ate two bowls while watching the Merrily We Roll Along doc, which I, not surprisingly LOVED. That's a good afternoon.

And then it was time to lay down and play Animal Crossing for the first time in a month. All my fake fruit trees were ready for harvest, and I found an acorn in the forest. I muted the sound to listen to the Invisible Brain podcast about preconceived notions. Also for the first time in a month (much more?) I got dressed up. I wore my leopard unitard and put on some makeup. Puhg and I went to a drive-in concert. It was free for customer service reasons, including a generous menu comp. We danced and danced because although the temperatures were high, the sun was low. Fitz and the Tantrums isn't a band I would have chosen to see, but in some way that made it even more fun. I legitimately forget they sang Moneygrabber, so it was like a surprise right in the middle of all these songs I maybe had heard once. Plus the hits. Obviously the hits. The family in front of our blocked off space brought a tent for their kids to poop in. We scuttled inside our cool car while the manager made them disassemble it and chuck the bag of feces into their trunk.

I got a gigantic lemonade in a souvenir cup and jumped around sloshing it over the asphalt. Puhg got a beer and, being deal-lovers, we ordered exactly three soft pretzels with jalepeno cheese to meet our coupon amount. The bandleader asked us all the scream on three because this has been the most stressful year of our lives. There were two songs in the encore and we clapped, honked, cheered heartily for both. I kept thinking I caught the moon out of the corner of my eye, but it was a Shell sign in the distance. Right as we were about to pull away the real moon made her debut--just as bright yellow as the mistaken moon.

The long drive home was a comfort. A time to reflect and share and laugh. We stopped for Taco Bell and I ate it while watching an episode of 90 Day Fiance.

Mipso

I hate you for not thinking it through. For not planning. For assuming you were doing me a favor when I never asked for one. The favors you do in your head. Still! Even still.

The greatest thing we can do is love ourselves. People excuse personal selfishness beyond selfishness by batting around the old "put your mask on first" metaphor. But conveniently the whole "plane should be crashing before it comes to that" bit is forgotten. The self-care movement has become a fountain of excuses to spend exorbitant amounts of money or disrespect the environment. I see full relationships that exist to affirm one another they deserve to do whatever they want. But you shouldn't have a workout buddy who gobbles up every excuse you chuck at them.

Nevertheless, self love is more than booking stupid frivolous vacations that look good on Insta and feel bad on the soul. A person who is so in love with themself doesn't have as hard of a time abstaining from evils in treats' clothing. A self-loved person isn't so empty they're tempted all day every day. A person who loves themself wouldn't need revenge or greed. I mean, there goes war and poverty.

And I know I have a long way to go when it comes to how I see myself, but I am certainly still angry you don't even know you're further behind than I am. That you're not even on the path. And yet you demand to run all over mine, to mess up my campsite, to set up tents I didn't want. You built a fire pit where there was once a clearing.

The thing about people is they change when they walk away.

Henry Ford

 Are we even here to make progress? It's been so syringed into me that Progress is Good I have never questioned it. Maybe we don't need progress. Progress of what? For who? Why?

Work smart, not hard. Should I keep calling my trash congressman? Part of me thinks it's human and True to never stop saying the right thing to power. But if the power never listens, should I instead conserve that energy for something more beautiful? Even if it's not progressive or "important"? If it's just a journal entry or lining a cheese plate with raspberries just so?

When I canvassed this past February for Elizabeth Warren and a local candidate, we we taught if anyone comes to the door and doesn't agree with you, just say thanks and leave. You may want to inform or educate but it's likely not going to work, so just move on. We ourselves, the canvassers with clip boards, are finite resources not be be squandered.

Last week I spoke with any angry Republican on the phone for twelve minutes while banking for my hopeful Democratic rep in Illinois. I gave the brief platform speech and he was immediately peppery. So full of confusion and victimization his voice was trembling. All these corrupt democrats! He started grouching. He didn't actually have anything against the platform I described. He also didn't specifically ask to be taken off the list or even say that he wouldn't vote for my person, so I asked him some follow-ups. What issues were his concerns? I could be a resource. He parroted back a handful of disjointed Fox News sound bytes. None of them were finished ideas or logical. Most importantly, none of them had anything to do with the district's Congressional race. Truly none. He asked things like "Does she think police officers should not be allowed to stop fights?!" "Does she think Chicago should get a playground!?" I mean. Sir. I was very calm and briefly summarized my candidate's viewpoint, reiterated these are more philosophical and local issues, and added a piece of her platform he might like. About defunding billionaires and adding more sustainability options to our farmlands. He raged on democrats who are funded by corporations and I gave him the data about the Republican running--how he is funded by hundreds of thousands of oil dollars. Twelve minutes later this man said he may vote for a democrat for the first time in his life. This makes me feel good. But I'll never know how he actually votes. Or, to be honest, if he actually votes. It could have been a waste of time.

But that returns me to my first question. What is a waste of time anyway? Maybe it's just about cleaning souls. Including my own.

Puhg and I were driving by a huge maskless picnic the other day. "I've decided not to think about them." He said. "They're so self-centered. And then when I think about them, I am just adding to that, thinking about them even more." It made sense to me. I'm trying to do it too. But it's hard when a free-faced runner is barreling toward me on the sidewalk, huffing like mad, and I have to all but dive into a rose bush to avoid their spittle. I posted on social media in May what am I supposed to do with all the hate I feel for people, specifically our leaders, specifically the orange? Malt reached out. We don't talk much. He said, "I think we're not supposed to think about him." His answer felt comforting to me. And also a little squishy. To ignore feels wrong. Feels apathetic. But maybe only if I ignore and sit in a floatie. Maybe if I ignore and make art and walk the neighborhood hanging fliers for a new City Council candidate and pick up fresh local pies that's okay. Or even good.

Dreams Are Painful

 Been watching Encore on Disney+ again. There's always at least one kid in every high school musical who wants to go to Broadway. Sometimes they go and fail, sometimes they don't go at all, sometimes they think they're still going to go with truly no plan or plot to do so. Dreams are dreams I guess.

There is pain in those teen dreams. Big, unnamable pain. To watch the touring production of a show from a balcony and think "I could do that and I want to do that but I have no idea how to do that and part of me knows I never will and that world will always be, exactly as I see it now, another world." There were other people who watched from the same adolescent cheap seats and thought, "I can't wait to do that!" With abandon. And maybe they did or maybe they became barbers. (According to Encore, at least.) Or maybe they got really close and are inching closer, but there are still always going to be people, usually unintentionally ignorant, who don't understand how incredible being so close is.

I knew that pain and absorbed it and decided to be small because that's what seemed realistic. I met with an advisor for ______ and said I was interested in the theatre conservatory, which was supposedly TOP NOTCH. The advisor, without knowing anything about me besides the fact that I went to public school in St. Louis and had no summer stock credits or New York workshops under my belt, told me I wouldn't get in. And I believed that stranger. Why wouldn't I? She had an official polo on.

The good news is I don't like acting that much. I did then, but I think this turn in tide was inevitable, so I am grateful I wasn't in the deep end, potentially in mountains of debt, trying to make that adjustment. Instead I stayed in the kiddie pool, wading for what would be suitable for an average person like me and gradually walked forward until one day my toes didn't touch.

And now I am full-out swimming, which can be exciting, but brings a whole new level of pain. Pain that couldn't have been considered at 17. Pain of almost getting a dream job and not and then seeing billboards for that dream job everywhere. And then asking yourself if you're going to masochistically watch the dream job or ignore it at let the dream die. There's a whole THIRD level of pain to GET said dream job and fight inside of it about what should happen there and maybe you don't win and you have to be part of a thing you end up not even loving the way you thought you would. Or worse yet, you get the dream job, you fight for your voice in it, you win, you share the dream job with the world, and they DESPISE IT. I mean! Dreams are painful!