Grace and Dignity

There is a phrase called "hate read" and I totally do it. There are blogs written by people with whom I vehemently disagree. I read their blogs anyway, even though the more I read, the less I respect them. Or each blog post that I read makes me want to send them a long email detailing my stance on whatever topic they wrote about. You might ask why I read if I hate. There are two answers. One is that I have a lot of downtime at work where I need to appear busy. The other is that I don't only want to read about things I relate to and people I agree with. I want to see different ways to think about things. I want to understand why people think about certain topics the way they do.

There is a blog I read written by a woman who could not be more different than me if we tried. Opposite ends of the country. She works from home, is a former drug abuser and alcoholic (personally she comes across to me as a dry drunk, but who knows if that's accurate?), grifter, etc. Anyway, her mother recently lived with her for the better part of a year, through some medical difficulties. This week, the mother moved out.

Throughout this experience, the blogger wrote about her difficulties with her mother. Including feeling like she couldn't have sex with her husband because of her mother being in the house. Which I didn't really understand since she made it clear the bedrooms are on a separate floor upstairs and the mother was living in the basement. And since the mother went places during the day while both this woman and her husband ... well he doesn't work, but they're both home during the day. They could have fucked worked it out.

The most recent blog post is about the relief felt now that the mother is out of the house. Like many (all?) of the blog posts mentioning the mother, it's painful to read how much she hated having her mother there, and equally painful to read how relieved and happy she is to have her mother finally gone. It's cruel to the mother. It's sort of cruel to all the people whose mothers have died and would put up with any inconveniences to have a bit more time with their beloved relatives.

I didn't realize this until recently, but here is what happened in my house between December 1994 and August of 1995.

1. My grandmother died unexpectedly. 
2. I spectacularly failed out of college and had to move home.
3. Golden Boy moved home after being away for four years.
4. My grandfather, devastated by my grandmother's death, moved in with our family.
5. I fell ill, with difficult symptoms that included passing out, unexplained rashes and screaming in pain, then needing to be taken for medical tests numerous times via backboard and ambulance. 
6. My father was working at a job almost two hours away from home (each way).

That's what my mother was juggling in 1995. I was stuck in my bedroom, and each night around 11pm my mother would bring me a bowl of cereal so I could take the really strong pain killer that let me sleep for a solid four hours on good nights. She would sit in the rocking chair near the foot of my bed and tell me all the things my grandfather, her father, did that annoyed her. He wanted the thermostat turned up higher, he wanted dinner to be before my father got home, he wanted to put garlic in his oatmeal for breakfast and microwave it which stunk up the house (I didn't smell it, but I never left my bedroom).

For Father's Day my parents solved the garlic problem by gifting my grandpa with garlic pills. My grandpa, despite being quite good to me, always viewed and treated my father like an evil son-in-law. I have never once heard my father say anything cruel about my grandfather. As frustrated as both my parents got with my grandfather, even while dealing with one sick kid and one boomerang kid, they never would have done what this woman does had blogs existed then.

Can I Play?

When I was a little girl, my grandparents lived in Queens, NY. There were all these projects surrounding a playground, and I loved that when I stayed with them, we could go on a playground walk, and just a short walk away we could run across three or four playgrounds.

To me, this is the all-time best kiddie exchange to ever be experienced:

Kid walks up to group of kids already playing...something.

Kid: Hi, can I play?
Other kid, looking you up and down: How old are you?
Kid: Five ... and a half.
Other kid: Okay. Go stand over there.

And you run off in the direction they pointed, exhilarated, and only thinking two words as you run to your spot. I'M IN!

Then you start worrying you can't figure out what the hell game is being played, but console yourself with the plan that if the ball (because there's always a ball) comes near you, you'll catch it and start running and listen for the other kids to scream directions at you so you know where to run.

Meanwhile your grandma or grandpa sits on the bench, talking to an old-people friend who is there watching their grandchild while doing a crossword puzzle.

To me, that entire experience was the best part of staying in Queens. Making friends in the span of ten seconds, being accepted by 10 kids who've never met you before, simply because you tagged someone on the other team out or caught a ball or ran fast. This value system was so black and white, and worked well for me. On the bitchy, haughty part of Long Island where I grew up, there was a completely different value system, and it didn't work for me at all.

(I have been keeping an eye on what's going on in New York this week and wanted to write something positive about the city. This is what came out.)

Parking Wars

I love this show. Here's the premise: a camera crew follows a parking enforcement officer (or two) around a city as they give tickets and boot cars. It's always in what I think of as second tier cities - Providence, RI, Detroit, Philly, etc.

I love this show because I am fascinated by people's reactions to getting a ticket. I got a ticket once. Yes, once. I was 20, and illegally parked outside of a restaurant to run in and pick up my order instead of trying to find a parking spot in a mostly full parking lot. Do you know why I did that? Because, like the guy who recently jumped into the tiger den at the Bronx Zoo, I momentarily lost any semblance of common sense. Thank goodness my lack of sense simply resulted in a little embarrassment and a loss of $25 or whatever it was, and didn't result in multiple broken bones, and national public humiliation. I don't know why I thought my desire to save some time was more important than following laws, but it's over 15 years later now and I've never done that again. As someone who spent a good portion of 1995 being carried on back boards in and out of ambulances, I should really have known better.

When the ticketing officer came over to me with the ticket, I tried to talk my way out of it. He politely but firmly refused my (admittedly very lame) excuse. I mumbled a thank you while taking the ticket, because while I may have been a horrible kid, I was at least a horrible kid who learned good manners.

I am amazed by all the people on Parking Wars who scream, curse and threaten the parking people. I guess that's what makes for good tv. I wonder if they act like assholes because there's a camera crew. Ten years ago, when reality shows were newer, yes maybe. These days, I am guessing having a camera in your face is simply not as big a deal.

Though I have still not been able to wrap my brain around how people can behave so badly, treat others so poorly, and not be horribly ashamed of their behavior. The other thing I don't understand is the sense of entitlement so many of these people have. I want to understand the psychology behind being angry at yourself for a stupid decision and taking it out on the person who forces you to acknowledge those stupid decisions.

Hey all this talk of driving reminds me - can I borrow your car for an hour or so? I like to drive every few months. I'm terrified of forgetting how. Thanks, and I promise not to get any tickets.

Spinach Tortellini - Good as Eating Spinach

If you'd guessed what I'd turn out like as an adult based on how I was as a kid, you'd have never in a million years come up with Type A. Every single thing has a place, and every single thing has a well-thought out reason for that place. As a kid my room was a total and complete wreck. My idea of cleaning my room was to squish the clothes on the floor into a smaller pile and then throw an unfolded shirt over the whole thing. Wow, kids are so stupid. (What? Just me? Oh, okay.)

I was forever being sent to go clean up my room. At one point in fifth grade, my mother decided I was allergic to jelly and forced me to take plain peanut butter sandwiches on rye bread to school for lunch. I may or may not have thrown a few of those into the depths of my closet. I may or may not worn gloves and run screaming through the house to the garbage pails in the garage to throw out those sandwiches when my parents found and demanded I dispose of them.

My parents tried everything to get me to clean my room. Every time they sent me though, I just sat around reading my books or writing. They tried telling me firmly. They tried yelling. Threatening. Fining. Oh yes, my mother would charge me $2 or whatever every time she walked by my room and saw it messy. I argued this (and to this day, maintain that I had an excellent argument) but my mother would just randomly fine me. I claimed this was completely unfair as my bedroom was at the end of a hallway. It was physically impossible to stand on either side of my doorway, let alone walk PAST the door to ascertain whether my room was clean or dirty. Solid logic, right?

One day, when I was ... some older age but not yet moved out, I was cooking pasta while my mother was reading in the kitchen. She asked me to not pour boiling water over the wooden spoon used to stir, when I was pouring the pasta into the strainer. She claimed it wasn't good for the spoon. I nodded, and said I'd try to remember. I did try, and forgot sometimes, but remembered more than I forgot.

Tonight I was cooking pasta, and watched the boiling water flow into the strainer as I held the pot in my left hand, spoon in my right. Can't help but wonder if my room would have gotten cleaned if my mother had just come up with an equally logically reason for why I should do it.

Probably not...

Thanks

Preface #1: I've been a little emotional lately.
Preface #2: In case you're new or slow or something, I'm the Family Fuckup. I know - in other families the fact that I've got no tattoos, all my teeth, a piddly associates degree, and never served hard time would make me the family golden child, but not in my family. There are people in my family who've won Emmys and written books, directed plays, birthed beautiful children, traveled with famous people, and done it all with a smile.

I've never even directed a sports play, and the one time I traveled with someone famous I didn't realize it until the plane had landed in LA, and once told the famous person had been on our plane, I'd never heard of him. Some things are wasted on me. Like good sushi.

My parents took mental breaks sometimes in their raising of me, but one of the impressive things about them is they never stopped trying. Sure they lost their shit on occasion, took some bad advice from professionals, but they were always game to take a deep breath and dive back in. One of the things not so impressive, is that they never allowed my history to stay in my past. If I lied this week, I was branded a liar for life, because I'd lied last week and the week before too. What was the point in telling the truth all the time when at least 75% of the time I could get away with lying, especially since they never believed me anyway? (I just forgot the point of sharing this.) (Oh yeah.)

Nothing ever felt truly forgiven because past offenses were brought up time and time again. Even in my 30's my mother has brought up the fact that I pushed a lamp off the piano when I was four years old. Since I'm an adult now, I can say with full authority that if she's still bitter enough (or anything enough, really) to bring it up, then she's got more problems than Four Year Old Me.

It wasn't until my late 20's that I understood how true forgiveness works. It slayed me when it happened, and it still slays me each time I think about it. I basically never talk to the person who forgave me, teaching me about forgiveness through her actions, but think of and appreciate this person all the time. I try to practice her style of forgiveness when other people hurt me. Of course, I'm a bitter bitch who holds grudges so I'm not as good at it as she is, but the point is that I try and that's better than not trying, right?

Anyway, there are so many people (and by so many, I mean like four - I keep my world small) who are truly open to letting me be however I may be (quirky comes to mind when I'm in a kind headspace, batshit crazy comes to mind when I'm not) without making me feel ashamed. And, see Preface #1, but I appreciate this more than I can say. Even more than a Hallmark AND Blue Mountain card combined could say.

I view my strain of crazy as a well. You know, like in a forest, with a bucket and shit? And I feel like I sit on the stone wall of the well. Or I walk around near it in the clearing that's in the forest. Yesterday was a particularly bad day and I dipped into the well.

My most important rule for myself when feeling that way is to not make any big decisions. Any email with the subject line "Hey, you know what I've always wanted to tell you?" should be discarded. Calls to people not spoken to in a long time should be avoided. Wait for the storm to pass. It always does. I am stronger than my crazy, and will use incredible upper-arm strength to pull out of that well.

Once out, you look around at the world. It's the same, yet slightly different. Well, the world isn't really different, but how you view it is. For me, I'm just appreciating those four a little extra right now.

Probably Not What My Parents Meant

As a kid, I had no friends. Far to often for my enjoyment my parents would give me big speeches about how I needed to have friends. This was talked about a lot, and it made me feel like shit, because I didn't feel in control of the ability to make/keep/have friends. It apparently comes naturally to some kids. Not me. Even as an adult, it still doesn't come naturally. Now I'm pretty good at it, but it takes an inappropriate amount of effort and thinking. I am fascinated by people that make and keep friends without blinking an eye.

When my father was in San Francisco last year, he gave me a backpack he got from his company that he didn't need anymore. This was great, because I'd wanted one for years. At first I was overwhelmed by the choices, and then I wasn't in a position to buy one. So for someone else to take the decision-making away from me by just giving me one was perfect. Sometimes Tim, you really can just make it work. Now when I have to take my laptop somewhere, I'm not wrapping it in the towel I use after showers and sliding the whole thing in a tote bag. It's great. I love it. I thought seriously about sending my father a formal thank you card in the mail.

Then he came back to San Francisco this year. He had another extra backpack. Same as the first, but in another color. I told him I didn't need it. He said it was okay. I told him I might be tempted to give it to someone else. He said it was okay. So I started with my brother, since he'd shown interest in the first one. Golden Boy wasn't interested.

Every day on the way to work I walk past a homeless guy who stands on the corner near my house and has a big black dog. The dog is so mellow, that sometimes the homeless guy has to go somewhere, and he leaves the dog on the corner, and it just stays there. Sometimes the homeless guy ... receives guests on his corner.

I decided to see if this homeless guy was interested in the backpack. Then I realized saying, "Hey, you're homeless; want a used backpack?" probably wouldn't go over too well. I don't know why this guy is homeless. Usually most homeless people have obvious mental problems and it's easy to assume they're too nutty to hold down a job that would afford rent.

This guy doesn't seem crazy at all. Which is actually really impressive, when you think about it. I mean, screws were falling out of my head left and right when I was just contemplating becoming homeless!

So I spent a few days letting it roll around my head. How do you ask if someone wants something without implying you think because of their circumstances, they might need it? Finally I came up with something I thought might not be too insulting. So last Monday when I saw him, as I waited for the traffic light to turn green, I tossed out, "Hey, I have an extra backpack. Do you know anyone who could use one?" He immediately responded with, "Sure. We can always use extra backpacks."

Whew. Not only did he get my point (that thankfully didn't come out too clunky), but he responded in kind. Relief! So I said, "Okay. Tomorrow?" as in, you'll be here tomorrow, and I'll bring the backpack. He nodded.

The next day I brought the backpack and he wasn't there. So I hauled it to work. The next morning, when I saw him, I gave him a look like, "what happened?!" and he said he was sorry, but it was raining, and gestured at the dog. Okay, that makes sense. So I told him the backpack was at work, but if he could be in the area that evening, between 5:30 and 6, I could bring it by then. He agreed.

I hauled the backpack on the way home from work. He wasn't there. I was sweaty and frustrated and pissed. With him, for not living up to his obligations, and with myself, for assuming a homeless person would have a watch and be able to honor commitments. I thought about it all day, trying to see things from his perspective. Maybe I was making assumptions. Maybe there is a line in his eyes, between his people and other, non-homeless people. Maybe his people make plans in a more vague way, like "tomorrow" or "next week."

Maybe whatever it is that holds him back from being ... homeful, reared its' head in making regular plans, and it was just too much for him. I still wanted to give him the backpack. I didn't want to carry it to work yet again. The decision I made was to take a day off from making arrangements, and then just spring it on him. Maybe that would work better. The next morning as soon as he saw me, he started apologizing. "Sorry about yesterday; I had to meet with the police..." I waived him off and told him it was no problem, as if my plans often fall through due to police meetings.

The following morning, I brought the backpack with me. I guess the homeless guy's dog had been following our interactions, because it shoved its face in my hand and wagged as soon as I walked by. The guy was there, and I gave him the backpack finally. He thanked me. He stuck out his hand, and then ... kind of pulled it back an inch or two. The only thing I could think of was that he thought maybe I wouldn't want to touch him. I'm prissy, and I'm sure it shines through. But there's Dial soap at work, and I grabbed his hand before he could pull it back any farther.

Since then, every morning the dog wags each time I walk by, and the guy says hello to me, and we chat if the traffic light is red. I guess I'm kind of friends with a homeless guy now.

So I'm a Little Weird

But this is not new. And it's in a different way. I used to be weird in the bad way, like that girl in third grade who licked walls or whatever. I was weird in that way where you can't help it, and you want to be like everyone else but just can't swing it.

Since moving to San Francisco, home of people not just representing the quirk factor, but competing and winning the quirk factor Olympics, ironically it's gotten me to be more normal. Partially it's because I've spent years shaking off the weirdness of my family, and partially it's because my parents were so particular with how everything had to be done, everything that should be said, and I was perpetually nervous. In San Francisco, it's okay to be weird. Hell, it's practically encouraged. When it's okay to be weird, you're not so nervous you'll screw up being perfect.

At my temp job, there is a weird lady who delivers the mail. I like her! Find her amusing as all get out. She comes up the stairs, and in her little accent sing-songs, "Here is your mai-ail!" Mail is two distinct syllables. She likes to wait to be acknowledged before singing, "Goodbye! Have a nice da-ay!" She sings her sentences in such a way that you expect her to skip instead of walking. That's funny enough, but what cracks me up is the fact that it's all an act. I've run into her on the street a couple of times and she talks normally there when I've asked a mail-related question.

After work on Friday I went to a store nearby to look around, and while I was standing near the stairs she walked in to deliver the mail. When she sang about the mail to the shop employees, they smirked and rolled their eyes to each other. As she walked out she saw me and did a double-take. Any time someone sees a person outside of their element, I always think of my first grade teacher Mrs. Friedman, and how she was so mean and yelly to me, but when my mom and I ran into her at the supermarket she was so nice to my mom. It totally disgusted me that she pretended to be a nice person and didn't let my mom see her true mean side.

We said hi to each other, and chatted for a few minutes. The mail lady didn't sing while we chatted; she was a normal person finishing up her job for the day. Now I don't remember what we talked about, but it was very casual chit-chat stuff, and probably just two or three minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the employees looking at me confused. Why would anyone be talking to the mail carrier?

As I walked out of the store, I felt ashamed. I did something by accident that made me look weird. But then I changed my mind. Fuck them and their pretentious hipster judgments. I saw someone I knew, and talked with them. That's normal. If they wouldn't lower themselves to talk to someone, then they should feel ashamed. Not me. I'd rather be thought of as weird for chatting with someone than normal for not lowering myself to talk with someone.

High School Revisited

Just want to preface this entire blog post by saying it can be summed up in two words: Hot Mess.

So thanks to that modern wonder we call Facebook, I am "friends" with a couple of my old teachers as well as some of the kids I went to school with. Speaking of kids, does anyone else get surprised for a second when they see a picture of someone they haven't seen in almost 20 years and all of a sudden that person has boobs? No? Just me? Oh.

Anyway. So a former teacher of mine named Sara and I became Facebook friends, and right away it was weird. I was born in 1976. Sara's profile said she was born in 1972. That would mean that in 1992 when she was my marketing teacher (and also the art and Spanish teacher - it was a very tiny school), while I was 15, she was 19.

I happen to think it's lame to lie about your age to people. It's one thing to lie to get into a club or to get drinks, but another to lie about it regularly to all who (rudely) inquire. If you think you can get away with telling people you're 38 when you're really 46 then you should be PROUD to say you're 46. Then it'll be more impressive that you look so good, rather than people looking at you and thinking you look like a haggard 38.

So while I know that just because someone's a teacher it doesn't mean they're by any stretch a perfect person, something about Sara seems off. Firstly, she seems obsessed with finding this girl Jen who is my age and was a student there when I was. When I initially accepted her friend request, I clicked on Sara's wall and she'd pretty much "friended" every kid in my year that she could find, and had asked ALL of us if we were in touch with Jen.

Of course sometimes teachers and students form bonds or whatever, in fact just yesterday heard about a teacher mentoring a little boy whose parents are going through a divorce, but this set off a warning bell in my head.

The other thing I noticed about Sara is that she spoke out negatively against all police officers. When I looked at other comments she'd made they were all in a negative tone. While Sara was my teacher she was married, and she's been divorced for quite a while. I saw her ask a girl I graduated with, who now lives in Madrid, to hook her up with a Spanish man. I don't feel like I'm adequately describing Sara, but she just seems like an angry person now, which is very different from who she used to be.

Jen was found. Jen and I became Facebook friends. It turns out that right after high school graduation, she lived out here in San Francisco for a while. I am not clear on what she has done with her life since then. If she went to college. How she's been supporting herself. Why she seems to have zero relationship with the little sister I remember her having. Why every status update seems to be an extreme problem involving police, violence, hospitals, courtrooms, restraints.

Jen told me she wants to come out to the Bay Area, she has a cousin in Oakland. She got an offer to intern at a record company in San Diego (which is not in the Bay Area). I was not clear if this was a paid internship or not, but when I asked Jen if she's aiming to be involved in the music business for a career, she explained that she wants to work in prisons.

She made a joke about sleeping on my couch the first time we chatted. I haven't had a couch in over a year. I told her this. It was clear what wasn't being said. She was asking if she could stay with me. I was saying no. My guess is everyone who lives in a major city gets asked to host quite a bit, since hotel rates are higher there than in smaller areas.

Last night Jen called me shortly after 10pm. She's on the East Coast, so that's shortly after 1am her time. Told me she had HPV but is not contagious, in case I want to sleep with her (I hate when people think everyone who lives in SF is there because they're gay. I'm not gay, I just like it here). Told me she's getting a pap smear tomorrow. I said good luck. Told me about a future landlord she gave $1600 to, who was supposed to renovate before she moved in. He hasn't renovated, she hasn't moved in, and he's had her money since the fall. Jen told me she has to get a lawyer; I told her she doesn't need a lawyer for small claims court.

Again last night she talked about coming out here. I (thought I) very clearly said that I do not live in a place where I can host people. Jen reminded me she'd been homeless, said she can sleep on the floor.

It was a two minute conversation. Jen told me she was at her best friend's bar, but they were closing and she had to go. Now, I am very logical and kind of anal and focused. If I call you, it's when I have time to give you all the attention in the world. I call you from a quiet place, so you'll be able to hear me, and won't feel like I'm distracted by whatever you hear going on in the background. I was a little confused as to why Jen was calling me when she couldn't really talk.

I was 17, I was not so great at asserting myself, at setting boundaries. This has changed a lot. Jen would be an idiot to come out here assuming she could stay with me, indefinitely. She's very smart, and understood what I was saying, even though I didn't flat-out say the word no. But she seems to have some steamroller qualities, and I could see her choosing to ignore what she doesn't want to hear.

Hot. Mess.

Shit You Might Like to Like Too

I started writing out this whole big story involving going to the bank on Saturdays with my dad, and rolls of pennies from the penny jars my grandparents would give Golden Boy and me. This story was linked to my creativity, but I erased it upon realizing I couldn't find the connection anymore between that and the title of this blog post. I got lost. I changed the title. I watched a Friends rerun, because when is it not funny?

Anyway, hi. I'd like to let you know about some stuff I like.

Maven of Savin' is pretty rad on the store and coupon deals. Very corny name, but all is forgiven when you look at the stuff she comes up with. Also, she updates her site multiple times a day.

On a more local level, I like Jeremy's, even though I can't afford to shop there. But you can! Plus it's still fun to go in and touch all the stuff. If I ever do have money again, I will want to hire a professional clothing shopper to take me shopping there.

All the books by Lisa Lutz are amazing, and I tore through them to keep finding out more about the Spellmans, ignoring the inner voice telling me to slow down so I couldn't cry when they'd all been read. It's fun to read books that have the story take place somewhere you live. I mean, she writes about the Philosopher's Club, and okay, while I can't say I've drank there, I have been at the train stop you'd get off at if you were going to drink there, and that's practically the same thing. Anyway, my point is, Lisa, please hurry up and write more soon. Thank you.

I don't think my parents would tell you they were awesome. They're not braggy in that way. But some people think their parents were awesome, and they sent pictures in to a website to prove it. This website makes me cry. I am dying for more information. It fascinates me to see people with decades of giving other people advice ahead of them. (It horrifies me to have terrible sentence structure.)

Lastly, these bowls are awesome.

So yeah.

Phoebe Prince

So this girl in Massachusetts, a 15 year-old ninth grader, hung herself. Supposedly it was because of relentless bullying. I think we can all agree bullying is terrible. Wrong.

But what defines bullying? If you say anything that's mean is that bullying? So if a girl in the lunchroom asks if her outfit looks good and you say, "No, it makes you look like a fat cow," then have you just bullied her? Lots of people use the "but I was just being honest" stance as an excuse for being mean. If you bully someone, does that make you a bully? I really think all these questions need answers.

I bullied a girl in high school. For about a week. She did something trivially unfair to me, it flipped my rage switch, and I went on the attack. A teacher I liked pulled me aside and told me to cut it out and get ahold of myself. I felt ashamed, and stopped. The following year, after I'd graduated, I went back to the school to visit. The girl had changed, gotten tougher, marched right up and confronted me about what I'd done. I told her she was right, apologized to her sincerely, and she nodded, satisfied. Over a decade later she friended me on Facebook, and one night when she told me another classmate of ours had died in a car accident, I brought it up. Apologized again. She said she couldn't remember that happening. I don't know if she was lying or not, but either way she's clearly moved past it.

Honestly? If she'd killed herself over it, I never would have gotten over it. I remember everything - I remember friends' outfits from second grade, how your sister met her husband, everything. Luckily, she didn't kill herself. Luckily in the above instance, because I'd been bullied in the past, when I got called out on my actions felt guilty to know exactly how horribly I'd been making the girl feel.

An investigative reporter named Emily Bazelon has been writing for Slate about the Phoebe Prince suicide. She doesn't think Phoebe Prince was relentlessly bullied. Not by six kids. The district attorney is going after the six kids full force. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to have a history of being (what I think is) needlessly harsh on teenage defendants. If you know me, you know I'm pretty black and white on breaking the law. Unless you were literally saving a life, breaking the law is always wrong. That's how I feel. It's fair to get in trouble when you break the law. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to think you should get in more trouble than I do for breaking it though.

There's no question Phoebe Prince was what you might call "a troubled girl." She'd tried to commit suicide before, she was a cutter, etc. Girl had problems.

Several years ago, when I'd first moved to San Francisco, I was walking somewhere during my lunch hour when a homeless man made a rude comment to me about my body, the skirt I was wearing. Basically, he called me fat. To be honest I haven't worn a skirt since, so I can't say it didn't affect me. At the time, I don't think I told anyone, didn't cry, or do anything. Except never wear a skirt again. Adults are better at letting cruel comments roll off their backs than teenagers are.

As a kid I thought being an adult would be great, because adults were mature. They wouldn't bully or be cruel for the sake of hurting someone. Oh, how very wrong I was. I was shocked and so disappointed to find out that mean kids often just turn into mean adults.

It seems like at Phoebe's high school bullying was a bigger problem than at other schools. Is Phoebe responsible for all her own actions? Is the school responsible since she knew the kids who bullied her through school? People in this country like to blame. People like things to be somebody's fault. I think it's everyone's fault and nobody's fault, all at the same time. Is Phoebe responsible for deciding to kill herself? Not really, since she was mentally unstable. Are the kids who bullied her responsible for Phoebe killing herself? If you believe that if you aren't part of the solution then you're part of the problem, then yes, to some degree they are. Is the school responsible for not doing enough to protect Phoebe? Emily Bazelon seems to think so. So does Elizabeth Scheibel, the district attorney, which is why she went after the six kids so harshly.

The whole thing is a mess, and sad. Very little happened to the kids who bullied me in public school. Despite the fact that I graduated in 1994, it has stayed with me. I am hyper-aware of when I am not wanted somewhere. Nobody ever wanted to be associated with me in any way, and because of that to this day I am still hesitant to call anyone my friend, lest it embarrass them. Yes, I am a sensitive snowflake.

I definitely think bullying needs to be taken seriously in schools. At the same time, kids need to be reminded that high school is all bullshit. That they can and should move on from it, and I think kids should be encouraged to have a lot of things going on outside of school, in places where they are interacting with peers they get along with. Poor Phoebe Prince. And Poor Phoebe Prince's little sister, who not only has to deal with her parent's separation and moving to a different country, but now also has to deal with her big sister having killed herself.

Fucking With You Through Facebook

In high school I was best friends with a girl named Lauryn who was devious, manipulative, and, I eventually realized, basically a sociopath who never tired of fucking with people, though I never saw her abuse any animals. Lauryn was also tons of fun, which was why I liked her.

Also in high school, I had a huge crush on a guy two grades ahead of me. He of course, had no interest in me at all. He was a huge player and hooked up with pretty much every girl in the school including Lauryn, except me and Gara, the girl who once had a temper tantrum so dramatic that she stepped inside a garbage pail of her own volition.

Even after I switched to a different high school towards the end of tenth grade, I still maintained my crush. I don't know where (or if) he went to college. I'd heard he knocked up a girl a few towns over. When I lived in Florida, at one point I reconnected with Lauryn, we got together two or three times, and one day she told me she'd bumped into my crush and he was married with a kid.

She asked if I'd talked with him and I said no, not since high school. Lauryn seemed a tiny bit triumphant that she'd had contact with him and I hadn't. I didn't like the person Lauryn had (not) grown up to be, and when I moved to San Francisco I didn't tell her and we haven't had contact since.

This afternoon I logged into Facebook and saw a friend request from Lauryn. I actually wasn't sure who she was at first, because I'd forgotten her married name. My usual M.O. is to accept a friend request from everyone I know, whether or not I want to be in touch with them, to be nice. If I don't really want to and am doing it anyway, I just block them from being able to see anything in my Facebook profile or wall, and let them think I'm simply not very involved in Facebook.

I was so surprised at seeing Lauryn's name that I didn't accept her friend request this afternoon. Tonight, I logged into Facebook again, and again, saw her name. I clicked on it to see who else she is friends with. Only one person. I'll give you one guess who. I almost wonder if she did that on purpose. Once again proving she can get what I couldn't. Weird.

Things I Remember

I was just reading a blog post asking what you remember. I remember everything. Well, that's not true. I remember everyone, and everyone's stories.

I remember that girl Nikki from second grade who had a little brother Tony and then abruptly moved after the year was over. I remember where we were sitting when you told me how you and your husband met, and where we were standing when you told me why he spells his name that way. I remember the lattice design in front of my grandparent's kitchen sink in Queens, and the pebble-y feeling on my white baby lamp.

I remember my blue Pinocchio book bag that I took to baby nursery school on the farm in MA. I remember the pattern of the flooring in elementary school, and not just because I threw up on it standing in line for gym in first grade, the day we were going to drive to New England for vacation (we still went). I remember second grade, when Julie and I had the same turtleneck with trios of balloons all over, and that I wore mine with purple corduroy pants. I remember Keri asking to be excused from class in fifth grade, so she could go call her mother to bring her a different outfit, after arriving at school and seeing I was wearing the same one.

I remember laying at the top of our staircase next to our dog and talking to her about what she saw out the living room windows that faced our street. I remember being spotted for a back handspring in gymnastics and one of the coaches criticizing me, saying "Every time you get up here, you have a shit-eating grin on your face," and feeling thoroughly crushed that she didn't share my enthusiasm for the greatest sport ever.

I remember when I figured out which identical twin was Heather and which one was Jennifer. I never sorted out Evan from Brian, but remember that one of them won best looking, and thinking that was funny. I remember Heather offering to go tell Charlie I liked him during travel camp the summer before ninth grade. I remember Charlie was nice enough to talk to me about it, and how he explained on the bus that he didn't like me, because he was busy liking Jill. I remember not censoring my answer and bursting out with, "Why? She's such a bitch, to everybody!" and Charlie shrugging his shoulders. Later that summer Jill broke up with her boyfriend and Charlie did get to go out with her. Then he dumped her for being a mean person.

That was the same summer I went to Los Angeles for the first time and I didn't see any famous people.

I remember when I worked as a cashier at Foodtown on Long Island in ninth grade, and I sneezed and my customer said the customary god bless you. As I looked up to say thank you, my words trailed off as I saw the person blessing me was a priest. I remember at that same job, seeing my social studies teacher whose class I'd cut that day, buying apples. I remember that one of the front-end managers at Foodtown was named Marguirite.

Two years later I was working at a shoe store in the same strip mall. I don't remember doing this, but do remember my mother telling me she'd seen Marguirite at Foodtown who'd told my mom that when she came into the shoe store I told her, "You always used to help me; now I finally get to help you!"

I remember that when my father would bring me to work with him, whether I was seven or 17, my mother would always call me there, so I'd have gotten a business call at work. It was the time I went to work with him at age 17 that I remember him taking me to lunch. That was the day my father taught me that if there's nothing on the menu you like, you can ask them to dumb down something, as long as it's on the menu. I have used that tactic ever since, and it's worked well for me.

I remember when I was 22 and working at a law firm, when a temp named Lisa saw our boss, a mean partner also named Lisa, and asked how she was doing. Lisa the partner replied, "Fine thanks, how are you?" and started to hurry on her way but was forced to stop as Lisa the Temp actually answered her question.

I remember at that same job when Andrea dropped the keys to her brand new car down the sewer grate, and that Lisa the Partner never let me come to departmental meetings, even though I was part of the department. I remember the girl I trained to take over for me after I'd given notice was named Pia.

I remember when I had to call my boss at the tennis club to tell him one of the tennis pros had sexually harassed me the night before, and that he said, "Why?" and I was embarrassed as I answered, "I guess he liked me." I remember all the free tennis lessons other pros would give me when the club was quiet, and how I got a thrill out of using insanely expensive tennis racquets laying around for said impromptu lessons even though I wasn't a "tennis player."

I remember everything. Just not anything actually important.

No Midgets Involved (Though They Are Welcome)

Brandy put the call out to ask questions of people, and I answered. So, in the particular order they were asked, here are her questions and my answers.

1. Both of your parents recently friended you on facebook. Did you accept their friend requests, and would you rather give up facebook or twitter? (And yes, I know that's really two questions disguised as one, but let's not quibble about numbers).

After a careful review was done, their request was sent to the board, the board discussed it at their semi-tri-annual conference, a vote was taken, and the friend requests of both parents were accepted. My mother always told me as a child that she hoped we would be friends once I became an adult. Now all her hopes and dreams have come true. Or whatever.

If I had to give up one, I'd give up Twitter. I agree - quibbling about numbers is so bourgeois - let's quibble about letters instead.

2. Who are your role models?

I've never really been into the concept of role models or idols. There have been famous people whose careers I've enjoyed following, but there's something about it that strikes me as unhealthy. Both for the admirer and s/he who is being admired.

Having babbled about all that, the answer to your question that you'd like more is, my friends. They all have different things about them that I admire and strive to emulate. One friend told me once that she doesn't like drama in her relationships, and over the years I have seen her sidestep drama when it's come up. She is very direct in her dealings with people. This impresses me. Another friend once said what I consider the most brilliant statement of the 2000's, which is that people are not all good, or all bad. It's such a simple thing, but very important to keep in mind. Nobody is perfect. Expecting perfection from people sets you up to be disappointed. Someone can disappoint you and still be a good friend; they're just human.

3. Would you rather have to chew a sandwich left on the counter of a public bathroom, or gum you found under a seat on a bus?

This is a tough one. Gum found under the seat of a bus was probably only touched by one person, thus rendering it cleaner than a sandwich touched by a bathroom counter which was (hopefully) touched by many. My first instinct was to say I'd go for the sandwich, thinking I could just chew on the middle of it where it didn't touch public bathroom counters, but the gum would probably be cleaner.

4. What do you think your blog readers would be most surprised to learn about you?

I'm not sure. Maybe that despite how critical I am of how others dress, I tend to dress like a slob? Hard to say really, since I've written for a few years now.

5. If you could have any job in the world, what would you like to do and what would be your salary?

When I was a toddler, I wanted to be a bakery. Not a baker, but a bakery. Luckily I got over that before embarrassing myself even worse than I did on a daily basis in elementary school. As a child I once told my mother I wanted to open an "in-between store" which would be a clothing store for kids who were in-between two different sizes of clothing.

You know what? My ideal job would let me do a different job each day of the work week. I'd love to run a school for kids with learning disabilities. I'd love to be a liaison between doctors and patients, stepping in to explain to patients and their families about what's going on after the doctor delivers his/her rushed speech, holding hands of patients who are getting spinal taps, etc. I'd love to be a professional problem-solver in business settings. Also, I'm excellent at decorating and designing spaces, and would love to walk around a person's house and help them move furniture and knock down a couple of walls to maximize space and things like that.

A cool quarter of a million dollars each year would be fine with me.

No, It's Not Mother's Day

1. I inherited my soft skin from my mother, who inherited it from her father, my grandpa.

2. When we were first moving to New York, we stopped in at a local drugstore. My mother ran in to get something and I followed her while my brother and father stayed in the car. I was three and a half then, and my favorite colors were pink and green (hey, some things don't change). While in the drugstore, my mother bought me a little hand mirror that said SMILE on the back and was decorated with pink and green. I loved it.

3. I got busted by my father for sliding down our banister and after he finished yelling at me I went to my mother, crying. After I confessed what I'd done, my mother smiled, put her brush down, and took me by the hand into the study, where she pulled out an old photo album. To show me a picture of her own mother, sliding down a banister in the late 40's or early 50's.

4. In second grade when I was sick and out of school for several days, I got sad and started crying one afternoon. When my mother asked why, I said it was because nobody from school had called to ask after me. She nodded and then excused herself. A couple of minutes later the phone rang, and my mother yelled for me to answer it. When I said hello, the person on the other end was my mom, calling me from our other line to ask why I'd been out of school, expressing how sad she was that I wasn't there, etc.

5. My mother will claim that all the animals she draws look exactly the same (except the pig, which gets a squiggly tail), but I claim that she used to draw beautifully. For every single holiday, even the ones nobody celebrates like Groundhog's Day, my mom would draw some cute little design on paper with different colored markers and leave it on my place-mat for me to find in the morning before school. I loved those.

6. My mother was willing to spend hours after school sitting on the couch, watching me do handstand after handstand, critiquing me so I could reach my goal of being perfect.

7. Just like they do in regular public school, my hebrew school also took yearly pictures. One year I'd really liked how my picture came out, but I couldn't find any of the pictures and got all upset about it. I worked up a whole speech in my head about why I should be allowed to have one of my pictures, and launched into it in front of my mother, trying but failing to hold back tears. After a few minutes she interrupted me, took me by the hand, led me into the den where she sat me down on the couch, and she sat down on the piano bench. With a little smile, my mother said, "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" There on the piano was that hebrew school picture, in a white frame that had a pink and green design.

8. In seventh grade my mother taught me five years worth of math in one week. Because she really is that good of a teacher.

9. When I was 18 and very sick for months and months, my mother got a Carvel crunchy cake for me that said, "Feel fine fast."

This Pretty Much Sums Me Up

Years ago, when I was a little girl, my mother made some comment about me going to Israel some day. We're jewish, and jews are supposed to want to go to Israel.

I confessed to my parents that I wasn't really interested in Israel. No, what passionately fascinated me was Russia. That's where I wanted to go.

My mother didn't understand. Why? Why would I want to go there? My parents tried to explain how miserable it was there. The long lines, the weather, the lack of privacy and freedom. All of it.

But I was intrigued by all that. Convinced. That's where I wanted to go. Dark and depressing? Sign. Me. Up.

Today I spoke with someone visiting Israel. Are you going to float in the Dead Sea*? Are you going to the Wall?

It's only because of hebrew school that I know of these places. I still have no interest, no desire, in going there. And I'm still intrigued by Russia.

*I think I may have accidentally called the Dead Sea the Red Sea.

Resurfacing

There were two middle schools in my town, and then just one high school. Richie came from the other middle school, not mine, and he hadn't been popular. He hadn't been unpopular, but he hadn't been one of the popular kids. When he arrived in ninth grade, everyone from my middle school thought he was outrageously cute and funny and nice, and we all promptly got a crush on Richie. When the girls from the other middle school realized what a diamond they'd had, they immediately all developed crushes on Richie too. He got voted school treasurer. Richie became popular overnight. For his birthday, my friend took him into the woods behind the school to give him a birthday blowjob.

Richie had two secrets though. He began working at the supermarket where I worked and that's how we became friends. One day my father drove me to work to pick up my check and Richie was there for the same reason. As he pretended to put money into the candy box he winked at me as he took a handful of candy. Exiting the office, paycheck in hand, we headed out of the supermarket together. It was pouring, and it came out that Richie was about to walk home. He lived in the opposite direction from my house.

But somehow, knowing it would be okay, I breezily said, "Oh, my dad will drive you home," and Richie followed me to the car. Leaning in, I introduced my father to him, explained he lived down near McDonalds, and asked if we could take him home so he wouldn't have to walk.

It was less than a five minute drive, and I don't remember what was talked about, except that Richie called my father sir, and I giggled (hey, I was 14, these things were funny then).

One day when we were working, I asked Richie if I could call him Dick. "Only once," he responded. I promised him I'd save the honor for a special occasion in that case.

In tenth grade I worked at Haagen Dazs. A kid named Michael also worked there, and he'd gone to Richie's middle school. He told me Richie's first secret, that his family was very poor. I never would have guessed. Partially because we lived in this upper-middle class area and barely anyone was poor, and partially because Richie and his older sister never gave any indication of being poor.

As Michael and I worked together longer, he told me Richie's second secret, which I found much more fascinating than the first - that Richie was a dancer. At some point when Richie and I were alone, I made some joke that involved some ballet words, and he laughed, but then looked at me like, "how did you know I'd know what that meant?"

Richie was actually popular enough that he could have told people he danced and not had his stock go down, but as far as I know he never did. Towards the end of 10th grade I left the high school, never to see Richie again.

About two years after graduating, I was in a composition course at a local college and ran into a boy named Andy from high school. Andy and I caught up during breaks and he told me Richie's life had gone downhill since we'd last been in touch. He'd developed a drug problem. A pretty severe one, that caused him to wind up in jail, in rehab, in a world of trouble.

Sadly, Andy showed up to class one day and told me he'd gone to the dentist for a routine checkup to be told he had a huge tumor in his jaw, and after that day I never saw him again.

Then I was working as a teacher's aide in the same high school I'd left in 10th grade, and who pops up in one of my classes, but Richie's little sister? When she walked in and told me her name I asked if Richie was her brother, and a horrible look came over her face as she confirmed. What Andy had told me came rushing back and I never brought up Richie to her again.

A few months ago, a girl I grew up with posted a photo on Facebook (where else?) that included Richie and I sent her a message, asking after him. She knew nothing. Two days ago, Richie's big sister commented on that photo. I followed her link, and there's Richie, alive and in his 30's.

There's a weird pallor to his skin now, and the light I remember being in his eyes is gone, even in pictures with family where he's clearly trying to present as happy. He just looks ... not like the same boy in ninth grade. The boy who was overwhelmed and flattered to have his own Sally Field moment, and totally ran with it and rocked it.

Myriad of Stuff

*Today on the walk to work I saw a bald guy wearing a mezuzah. This is worth mentioning simply because it's so unusual here.

*Next week I have to sit at a different desk every day. Yes, I know that's exactly what I signed up for when I agreed to be a floater, but it's like being a mail-order bride. It'll be a better life than what you previously had, but there'll still be complaining to do.

*The attorney I'm working for this week has the strangest way of wording her instructions. It frustrates me. And you may have noticed, this is not my best week. "I need one copy of this, front and back." Any normal person would think that means to copy the front and back of whatever she just handed you. But what about when the back is blank? When you review the instructions you were given, she clarifies that what she meant was, it's currently a one-sided document, but when you make the copy, make it two-sided.

*During July I've been finding a slew of new blogs to read and that really excites me. Keep writing, people - I have 7.5 hours of downtime each day and reading your blogs gets me through the workweek. One of you people wrote something about liking the = sign, so I've included it in this post for you. You're welcome. Now update your blog again.

*9am and I were having a discussion last night about the people who grade bar exams. He told me sometimes they are given actual bar questions to practice their grading capabilities. To which I said, "Yeah, from prior years" but 9am insisted sometimes it's questions from upcoming exams. (I discussed this with Golden Boy - 9am is wrong, and it's prior tests.) 9am then went on to say if I know anyone who'll be grading the bar and thus, has access to what questions will be on it, perhaps I could just jot those down on a post-it, and maybe leave it laying around where he might see it... Lovely. I would like to think he's just going slightly crazy from the stress of such an important test in the near future.

*There was something I was going to say about how I viewed my father's shoelaces when I was little, but can't recall the details or the point.

*I have been a bit out of sorts since late last week, when some basic things I thought were a very obvious given were not only questioned, but argued against, vehemently. The thing about getting into a bad mood over one thing is, then you start viewing every other little thing as a terrible disaster. Everyone around you looks at a baby and agrees he looks just like his father. I think he looks like a meatloaf, and want to cry. Turns out the socks I wanted to wear are dirty? Shit, why does life have to be so cruel? Me + upset = ridiculously dramatic Green.

*The water at home is no longer cloudy and can now get hot.

Blue

Last Friday I accidentally said some things to someone I shouldn't have. Not mean or hurtful things, just over-sharing things. A friend suggested some specific damage control, which I did Sunday night, but it included using the word estranged, and that makes me really sad. The person hasn't responded.*

It's not a big deal in the scheme of things - it's someone I have never been close with, I didn't hurt her feelings, I didn't ruin her life, and this won't negatively affect my life.

Except that I can't help but think she hasn't responded because she doesn't want to be involved. Which is fine. That's her right. Absolutely her right.

It just makes me sad. On multiple levels.

1. I very badly need to talk about, and talk through, some big things. And I can't. Because there is noone there to listen. As that need builds and builds like a snowball falling down a steep hill, I wind up accidentally talking about these things to people I shouldn't, which is what happened on Friday.

2. I hate that people only want to know you when life is good. Nobody ever wants to be involved when things are difficult. On one hand I understand - I don't want to get involved with people who have big problematic dramatic lives. (I do not have a big problematic dramatic life.) But on the other hand, it just sucks to be disappointed in people. Maybe I'm expecting too much, and should lower my expectations. California is so damn hippydippy, with "if you put it out there, the universe will bring it back to you." And I really, really want to believe that. So I put it out there all the time. Because I could really use it coming back to me. Only it almost never does. And that really bums me out.

3. I don't like thinking of myself as estranged from people. I don't like being unable to resolve the estrangement. I don't like the phoniness involved in pretending the estrangement is not there.

To recap. I am feeling sad. I am feeling alone. I am feeling sad about feeling alone. Which makes me feel even more sad. And it makes me sad that nobody seems to care enough to do anything to help me not be sad. Not that it's anyone else's job but my one. When I worked in downtown Fort Lauderdale, across the street from my building there was a church. It had a daycare with a yard, and a few steps leading up to the door. A homeless man was often sitting on the steps asking for change. "Change comes from within."

Some changes do. But some don't.

*I wrote the above at work this afternoon. I do that often - write at work and e-mail it to myself, and then post at home. Tonight I found that the person I'd written to had in fact written back. Her very first sentence was an emphatic apology for having taken so long, and despite not knowing me well, immediately addressed my core feelings, saying she never wanted me to have had second thoughts about the note I'd sent.

Other things were said too, and ultimately I got all teary over it. In a good way. I feel better now.

There Are No Little Birdies

When the Golden Boy and I were kids, we'd try to get away with having not done something by claiming we did not know. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law, and that was true in the Yogurt household as well. To this day I can still see my father standing over my brother in the kitchen yelling, "No little birdie is going to come and tap you on the shoulder..."

I think our parents wanted us to be assertive. Not with them of course, because that was not allowed. But out in the world. With other people. In other situations.

This evening 9am and I were standing in the kitchen eating blueberries as he told me the following story. He is deferring law school loan payments for a while, and to do that he needed to fill out forms through the financial aid office at his school. While he was waiting for his appointment he flipped through a brochure that's meant for prospective law students.

9am says the brochure boasts that 59% of all students receive scholarships. The minimum scholarship given out was $12k for each year (3) of school. 9am also says that his LSAT score was in the 80th% for his year. He worked as a paid associate the summer he was a 1L, and worked "for the god damn United Nations" the summer he was a 2L. Thus, he believes, he should have gotten some scholarships.

I inquired, "Did you apply for any?" The answer I received?

"Well no. But enough of my professors knew of my accomplishments that they could have recommended me..."

Dude. Are you fucking kidding me?! THERE'S NO LITTLE BIRDIE! I don't dispute that it's impressive to work for the UN. I don't dispute that there are very few 1L's who get associate positions in law firms. However.

Being in the 80th percentile for LSAT grades at a school that's like third or lower tier is really not all that impressive. It's certainly not impressive enough that a scholarship birdie is going to personally come crap money on your shoulder.

In a way, this kind of reminds me of those people who are out of work and say, "Because I believe, God is going to provide." I listen to them and think, "God *DID* provide, you idiot! God provided you with the ability to use your brain, which you're supposed to utilize in order to create a resume. God provided you with the gift of communication, which you're supposed to use to talk to prospective employers. God provided the tools, not the results the tools can provide."

Why did 9am not apply for any scholarships? He has no reason. In that case, I do not think he deserved one. You might say, "Don't be so harsh. Maybe he's the first in his family to go to grad school. Maybe he just didn't know." To which I say, "Maybe, except maybe not. Both his parents have PhDs, and are professors, he has as many doctors in his family as most jewish people do, and he himself already has a masters degree."

When my parents gave their birdie speech, the way they delivered it always made me think everyone else knew already the birdie didn't exist. I guess no little birdie tapped 9am on the shoulder to let him know there are no little birdies.

So, to anyone reading this blog who is about to attend college or grad school: there are many scholarships out there. You must apply for them in order to be considered. The scholarships will not come to you.

In Which I Spread the Word About Jenny

That year of 1995, when I was having physical therapy three times a week? I hadn't been diagnosed yet. We didn't know why I couldn't walk, why the muscles in my calves had gone from being rock hard to being complete mush, why I was in excruciating pain.

Ultimately I got diagnosed, and over time I got better. Not perfect, but significantly better. Not knowing what's wrong with you is very difficult. Doctors not knowing what's wrong with you is very difficult. Doctors generally have big egos, so if they can't figure out what's wrong, they like to say it's all in your head. Psychosomatic.

Bullshit. Sure, there are some people who are depressed and feel physically unwell. At the time less than six months before I'd gotten sick, I'd failed out of college and my grandma, my biggest cheerleader in life, had died unexpectedly. It would have made sense if I had been depressed. I might have been. But my pain and weakness were separate from that.

Am I going to die? When will I get better? Should I give up this summer? This year? Being 18? If I will get better, will it come back?

These are all questions I asked that I needed answers to. When I finally got answers, I couldn't believe them, due to the way they were delivered. My belief then, and now, is that the doctors gave me the answers they hoped would be true.

It sucks to not have answers. There's a new Little Green, but her name is Jenny, and she needs answers. Please read about her, and after you're finished reading, please do what you feel right doing with the information you will then have.

I am a bitch. I hate swiftly and easily. And I would not wish what I went through in 1995 on anybody, not even if I hated them.