O. P. P.

Frustrated. Walked around town today. It's a Saturday. A friend remarked, "Why would you DO that?" Indeed. Trampled by selfish Bugaboo Moms who seem to travel in groups of two or three wide, selfish because none of them seem to be aware that there are other people on the sidewalk who may want to pass them. Tried tuning out the banal conversations everyone seemed to be having as they walked past stores: "Oh my god, Beckaaaa...? You would totally look sooo super-cute in that dreeeess...?" Just once I would love to hear someone in passing talking about how to reconfigure a warp drive. Or something to that effect.

Anyway.

I've been consumed by Other People's Problems. These are people that I love. And I am more than happy to help. I will roundtable anything. I have good ideas. I have a wealth of knowledge. I listen well. And, ever since I've been in town, I've "been there" for everyone. Everyone but myself, that is.

Last year, as I was preparing my portfolio for my final graduation project, which took months of work, my best friend at the time (who has since broken up with me) was having boy troubles. While I was busy with my project, she was busy falling head-over-heels with this boy. He said he was, too, but it was obvious that he wasn't. She finally realized this on the night before my project was due, a night throughout which I had committed myself to staying awake, a night I had told her about many times over, for example: "Boy, Thursday is going to SUCK. I hope I can get everything done in time!"

So late that night, they had "the conversation," and she called me. I was happy to help. But she was upset. It was 1AM and she needed to calm down with a drink. At my place. With my papers spread out everywhere and me binding a book. A night in which I had to squeeze out every second of time from for my project. Reluctantly, I agreed for her to come over. She stayed for an hour and a half. An hour and a half that cost me a few points on my portfolio (no worries, I still graduated with honors). But still. I don't think I would impose myself like that. No matter how much I needed a friend THAT SECOND. I would probably have cried myself to sleep and made a date to see her the next day. End of story.

Since that time, I seem to be stuck in a constant "I can fix you" loop. Hey, that's great. Everyone has problems. Some are stupid. Some are serious. But they all have one thing in common: I can't fix them.

It's funny, I just realized this in the last few days. There is one thing I can fix, however, and that's me. So, instead of burying myself in Other People's Problems, I am going to take some time and bury myself in my own problems, for a change! And, instead of boring everyone I know with all the details of every stupid problem in my life, I have this blog. I have gobs of emails, saved but unsent. I have lyrics. I have notes scribbled in notebooks. I have this outlet that I love, this outlet being that of the written kind.

So then, what are my problems?

Being a hopeless romantic, I would like a boyfriend. I don't have one. I love men, and would like to find "that special someone" to share everything with. All that companionship, the errand-running, the movie-going, the tv-watching, the dinner-making, the bike-riding, the shopping, the family-event-attending, the cuddling and waking-up-with, of course there's the sex, the security of knowing someone is always in your corner and is excited to see you, all of it. I love that stuff. And I want that stuff. And I will have that stuff again. If it's right.

But before that even happens, I need a JOB. I need to submit myself to the gray masses of commuters. Sure, I will be the one wearing bright orange and pink, but I will be among them. The payoff? Being paid to do something I genuinely love on a daily basis. Advancement opportunities. Paid vacations. Paid sick days. Health insurance. A steady paycheck that will allow me to pay off my debts and start saving. A retirement plan. All of that. Being a bartender is mostly a lot of fun, and I've met a lot of great people, but it's ultimately a dead-end job. No raises. No advancement. No paid anything. If I ever want to live in a loft with a giant kitchen, I need to seriously start saving.

What else? Hm. Get the divorce finalized, enjoy my Nana as much as possible before she kicks, and a bunch of little things that can be dealt with after or during the first few big things.

So, because I am antipathetic to chaos, here's a nice tidy list of problems I need to deal with:

1. JOB
2. Boyfriend? Not necessary, but preferred. And can I possibly do this without actually dating? Is this possible? No? Damn.
3. Divorce.
4. Pay off all debts.
5. Save some money.
6. Need vacation. Nantucket. Must.

That should about do it for now. Stay tuned for more problems in the future. I can't wait!

So it goes.

A friend just texted me that Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday. Complications from a brain injury sustained in a fall. While I regrettably admit that lately, I haven't read Vonnegut, let alone much of ANYTHING, I'll never forget the first time I read him.

I was in high school, a time when open young minds were frothing with ideas and being blown by philosophy. I was a naive child in a rural town surrounded by mountains, both literally and figuratively. The mountains provided a very real buffer from the world-at-large, and the idea of going to The Big City was a scary prospect, even ignoring the fact that, at the time, it actually kind of was. My parents, before giving in to convention, took us regularly. We were the fortunate ones. Many kids my age never saw The Big City, and I wonder if those same kids ever made it. Probably not. And a note to the reader: The Big City was only an hour and change by car.

Keeping this fact of isolation in mind, there were a handful of us, only a handful, that found inspiration and humor and worshiped the absurd. We played ridiculous records and laughed on someone's living room floor and played instruments (very badly) and wrote each other very sick poems about how great it would be if everyone suddenly dropped dead of some ridiculous disease. Or if aliens came and gave Ronald Reagan an anus probe. We were silly and dark and tested boundaries and hated religion and broke into the art rooms after hours to make mysterious sculptures. It was a grand time. And we were reading.

A friend of mine was reading Cat's Cradle. "You should definitely read this," he said and placed the tattered red-covered book gingerly onto my eager palms. It might as well have been a shard of Ice-9.

Kurt Vonnegut was instantly my Favorite Author of All Time.

Years later, I got a job in The Big City, working at a large ad agency. We were located on the East side, about a block from the United Nations (a fact that became very annoyingly apparent when there was some kind of world crisis, which was about once a week).

The copywriters and I were one day discussing our favorite authors. Inevitably, Mr. Kurt Vonnegut came up pretty quickly.

"Oh haven't you seen him?" One of them turned to me, surprised.

"Seen who?" I asked.

"Kurt Vonnegut!"

"Huh?!"

"No shit! He lives two doors down and stops in the bodega every morning!"

Well, needless to say, I altered my schedule slightly. Before long, I began to see Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. He wore a cardigan. He had wiry gray hair. And he always had a smile on his face.

Eventually, I worked up the nerve to speak to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Vonnegut," I said.

"Well, good morning!" He said back, a smile on his face and in his voice.

And then I got all embarrassed and went back to my regular schedule and only saw him once or twice over the next year. And then, as ad agencies go, we were absorbed by another agency and a became Agency Colossus, and I quit and went to a small design firm way downtown and never saw him again.

Knowing he is not in this world anymore makes me sad. Knowing he is in this world forever makes me happy. When I return to the land of Hoboken, I will pay a visit to the library and begin my own journey of appreciation to a great man, a man who squirted a shitload of colors into my young mind.

Player Piano here I come.

Complexity.

I've always known I was a little... complex. There are days that I feel wildly inspired and creative and misanthropic. There are other days in which I yearn for something easy and normal. Perhaps yearn is too strong a word. Perhaps it's something I merely fantasize about. Interestingly, as soon as the fantasy begins, I mentally slap it away and know in my heart that the easy and normal life is not mine to live.

I know this first-hand. My recent and doomed marriage was more like an experiment in the bourgeois. Could I do it? Did I want that? I thought so. After years of volatile relationships and with nothing to serve as any kind of bouyancy, I mistakenly thought I would be happy in a nice, normal relationship. He was wonderful. Stable, handsome, supportive, family-oriented, career-driven, and put up with all my absurd projects and flights-of-fancy. The future was clear and bright: career, house, family, all of it. Ultimately, it wasn't enough for me and I was pulled away by a constant tugging at my heart; I felt something greater for me lurking in the shadows of my dying marriage.

At first, I thought it was Hoboken. I initially left Hoboken to be with my husband. A perfect suburban life! But in suburbia, houses only mask the things that twist inside.

Though I left Hoboken, Hoboken never left me. It came to me in fitful dreams. It drew me to it as I met with friends for nights out. And each time I passed through it, on the way to school or work, the urge to wander out of the train station and onto its streets was oftentimes too strong to ignore. When the marriage finally ended and I made trips into town to find my apartment, I always felt I was coming home. Something about this town always drew me back to it.

Now, again newly single and exploring my new self and new people, I find that I inhabit a like-minded counter-culture that has purposefully eschewed the lifestyle of what I now consider a mundane existence. This is not to say that it is mundane for everyone; certainly there are people out there that embrace this lifestyle and live it well. The mortgage. The JOB. The kids. And to them, I'm sure it is anything but mundane. To me, it will be nothing but. The bottom line is, if I wanted all that, I'd have all that.

What is it then, that I want?

The perfect life for me, which has eluded me thus far: being myself, being in L-O-V-E with someone who matches my complexities with his own, building and sharing a life with someone who is as wildly misanthropic as I am. Everything else is frosting and sprinkles.

While there are obvious benefits to being single (the excitement of the "new", doing what I want when I want, having no one to answer to but myself), I've found that, even though I've been privy to (and involved in) many failures in the land of love, I have always loved the idea of sharing. For me, there is nothing greater than sharing it all. The L-O-V-E. The way it grows into something greater and deeper than the two people who are involved in it. The partner-in-crime feeling. The knowing that, no matter what, there is always someone in your corner. Even the working through the tough stuff. I love all of that. But on my terms. I won't make the same mistake of unenthusiastically accepting a lifestyle that is at odds with everything I believe.

And, ultimately, if this doesn't happen for me, I won't be sad. Not at all. I know that I have a great life all on my own. I am perfectly happy in my own skin. I have a great family. I've found some fantastic friends. I've met a buttload of incredibly inspiring people. I know that each day will bring me something new, and I look forward to it all.

And off I go.

Treats.

Today I heard an expression, one I've heard so many times before, one that is culled from bible-lore and hoisted like a morality flag in many a religious sermon, and hearing it today, I realized how stupid it was.

Treat others the way you'd like to be treated.

You've all heard it, right? Sounds like a perfectly righteous thing to say to people, or to keep in mind when making decisions about things. Hm. Should I kick that bum? Treat others the way you'd like to be treated. If I were a bum, I wouldn't want to be kicked, so.. no. I won't kick that bum. Simple enough.

But, taking into account the wild differences of culture, this simple catchphrase of virtue becomes Exhibit A in the continuing chronicle of the Western world's sociopathic imposition on humanity.

I will plead my case using (what else?) an episode of ST:TNG, called "Ethics," wherein Worf becomes paralyzed. In the proud tradition of the warrior Klingon race, one rendered incapacitated shall not live on as an object of pity or shame. Worf, being the proud Klingon that he is, believes his life is over and asks Riker to assist him in his ceremonial suicide, which actually would have been a high honor for Riker. However, the very Western and righteous Riker refuses to assist him, no doubt imposing his own beliefs on the proud traditions of the Klingons. Treat others the way you'd like to be treated.

Of course, the first time I watched the episode, I was all like, "Yeah, Riker! Don't let Worf kill himself!" But now that I'm older and more sensitive to the differences of culture, I realize how egomaniacal Riker was. He completely disregarded the powerful Klingon tradition to die as a warrior and not as a nuisance to the community in which he or she lives. And considering he is an officer in Starfleet, Riker's pomposity was unfortunate. He chose to treat Worf the way he'd like to be treated, and ultimately, disrespected the entire Klingon tradition.

Treat others the way you'd like to be treated.


I'd like to amend this phrase. We should all learn to treat each other with respect, not with a respect we think they should have, but with a respect they think they should have.

Treat others the way they'd like to be treated.

If we turn ourselves around and start hoisting this flag, perhaps our world might be a little more hopeful. Perhaps this administration's bloodbath of democracy would be a foreign concept (no pun intended). Perhaps we'd all look at each other through eyes of understanding and respect, rather than assert our own beliefs on everyone else.

We are all different. Gloriously, marvelously, beautifully different. And we should treat others the way they'd like to be treated by us.