Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 9.0 // Critical Darling, Commercial Flop

I talk a lot of shit about my mom, but when it comes right down to it, you can't help but love your mother.

Geek talk with CB; lunch with Mom and Dad, because they think everything I say is hilarious and they make me feel like a standup comic; Hot Kathy (Demo) by Apes & Androids; EveryTopicInTheUniverseExceptChickens.com; Defaced; the photos of Franca Alejandra (warning: some are NSFW);The Scissor Sisters on Passions (which you've got to admit is just fucking weird; twitter (like having an AIM "away" message without the annoyance of actually using IM of any kind); “You move Smoothly!: Cute five-year old breaks out moves, kicks out jams, etc.” Let My People Come, The Musical; “Slab City. Several hundred people spontaneously built a city on desert land that was owned by the government, and continued to occupy it for decades despite the absence of any services that are taken for granted in civilization, such as water, power, gas, sewage, garbage, phone, postal or governmental authority.”

I walk into the room where my sister, Sarah, and my Mom and Dad are together talking.

“This is why I contend that demons roamed the earth before we were here.” says my father emphatically.

I assumed that I had simply come in during the wrong part of the conversation, by my mother and sister are just staring at him as well.

“Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, telekinetic movement, full trance mediums, the Loch Ness monster and the theory of Atlantis?”

It was a dinner party for my mother's birthday at my Aunt Tracy's. My Aunt Tracy is not really my aunt. She is not related by blood or marriage, but instead some 30-odd years of history and stories, first with my father, then with my mother as well. Tracy is kind and generous as well as loud and overbearing, which makes for an interesting circle of friends. We sat on the back patio, a mismatched lot with my family and Tracy's friends and neighbors who had been invited to the event. Among them were a couple that had just returned from living in New Zealand. They talked about the beauty of that place and the good nature of it's people. Living there was so different, they said. I couldn't imagine how New Zealand, what I think of as an essentially westernized country, could be so different from how I live. The man pointed out that there were no driers, so if you had to do laundry, and it was going to rain, you were out of luck. However, he always knew when it was going to rain, so they would just not hang out clothes on that day.

“How did you know?”

Tracy cut in as she cleared the plates. “Henry's a psychic.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an spiritual healer.” he said graciously, speaking softly in a strange Southern-cum-New-Zealander accent.

I nodded politely, chuckling to myself in my head. I couldn't understand most of what he said anyway and had to strain to hear. I decided I was better off. He was surely off his rocker somehow, not an uncommon theme with Tracy's friends. I mean, c'mon, she's friends with my dad. I could certainly humor this man long enough to make it through the evening.

The party progressed as every party I had ever been to with my parents progressed. My father played guitar through the light conversation. The adults gradually got more and more buzzed off of imported beer and margaritas. I smiled politely and choose words carefully when explaining what, exactly, it is that I am doing with my life—mainly, at this current juncture, being an IT professional, a web developer. And then, of course, I am always at some point asked to sing.

I ran through a couple of my standards with my father accompanying me. I received the usual accolades, and then Henry, our psychic, launched into his ‘predictions’.

“You know, I really see you becoming involved in music. Performing, on the stage, as your living.”

“Thank you, but I really have no interest in performing. My sister's the performer. I am interested in opening a record store someday—” I said obligingly, “—maybe that's what you're picking up on?”

“No, I definitely see you performing. You certainly have the gift for it.”

“Well I appreciate your compliments, but I have no plans to pursue a career in music.”

“You just wait and see. It'll happen. You're just going to fall into it.”

I was more annoyed than anything else by this. I do not believe in fate, because I believe a man should be able to make his own future, to be in charge of it. The abstract idea of destiny has always irked me, because I see many people take this idea and use it as an excuse to not make proactive change in their own lives while they wait for something to happen to them. I like believing that the only force in control of my future is me.

I just smiled at him, not acknowledging that last comment one way or another, and looked to someone to change the subject.

The evening wore on, and soon, it was time for guests to say their goodbyes. My mother and I sat at the table as Henry and his wife stood and waved, saying how-nice-it-was-to-meet-yous and we-should-do-this-agains. I was sitting at the end of the table nearest to the door, and as Henry walked past me he placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him.

“I just want to share one thing with you before I go.”

I grinned cheerily. “Of course.”

He looked into my eyes and spoke slowly, dreamily. “You just need to learn to love yourself. Once you do that, the weight will just melt away.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He waved at my mother, said goodnight, and walked out.

I was floored. “I really, really don't like him.” I said to my mother.

“Why?” She was absolutely incredulous. I was furious.

“Who the hell does he think he is, saying things like that to people he barely knows?”

My mother didn't understand, she thought I was being too sensitive about being called out on my extra baggage. But that wasn't it.

The reason that I can still remember this all so clearly, the reason this particular incident is still haunting me six months later, is because that ‘healer’, that ‘psychic’, struck a very sensitive nerve within my heart of hearts. It felt like being naked in a room of strangers, the truth of my real inner life, which I share with almost no one, revealed and let out for air.

One of the great ironies of my own life is the deep schism between my overabundance of confidence and my complete lack of self-esteem. It's a bit defiant of simple logic. One would think these things would not be able to exist together, but all you have to do is be a good enough actress to fool even yourself.

This incident has been played over and over in my head for the past months every time I think about how badly I want to loose weight. I finally realized some days ago that the reason that comment struck such a chord with me is this: every time I'm seriously thought about doing something, about making some sort of drastic change, it's never been for me. It's never been because I want to be healthier, or fit into smaller sizes, or have more energy. The reason I cannot maintain ANY momentum is because the effort feels empty of worth. I've always wanted to change for everyone else; to raise my social worth, to be more attractive to friends, jobs, men. This leads to the problem with feeling inherently worthless, an empty investment, therefore, not worth my time and effort to salvage.

Look at the words I use. I already think of myself as a salvage job, as damaged goods.

The only way I can make a change is decide that I'm actually worth changing for. And that starts with believing the things the people I love say about me, and to stop undermining my own value to myself in the lonely hours of the night when I'm off stage, out of my confidence-costume. When I can make a change for myself, solely because I want to make myself happy, I've got to believe that at that point I will be able to. And I'm actively working on getting to that point.

As much as I hate to say it, Henry was right.

Does this mean I also should be trying to get a band together?

Last night was my friend Richard's 21st birthday.

Although I “really didn't seem that drunk at all” last night, today I got much use out of the hangover kit Melissa gave me for my 21st birthday last week, and spent a large part of the afternoon sitting in a hot bath eating crackers and sipping spring water.

I got out and slept in the living room for a long time, then went out to dinner with my parents, who quickly figured out why I was asleep everytime they called.

“Were you out all night?”

“No, I just don't feel very well.”

“Are you hungover?”

“What time are you guys getting here?”

“We're on our way downtown right now. Are you hungover?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still want to come have dinner with us?”

“Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

“Where were you last night?”

“My friend Richard's birthday party.”

“Oh. What—”

“Mom, I'm putting on my shoes and coming downstairs right now, okay?”

I get in the car with Mom, Dad, and Uncle David, and I have to detail what I was drinking (Southern Comfort) and what I mixed it with (cranberry juice). Then they all proceeded to faux-lecture me on the dangers of sweet drinks for giving one hangovers.

However, it was less about scolding me and more about living through me vicariously. And, there is always this gem of parental wisdom:

“If you had been smoking pot, you know, you wouldn't be hungover.”

Thanks, Dad.

Mom wanted to buy me a beer when we were out to dinner, and when I expressed a complete lack of desire to drink anything but water, I was assaulted by several exclamations of “Hair of the dog that bit ya!”, the idea that actually drinking more alcohol helps to get rid of hangovers. While I know this is based on some very sound anecdotal evidence, I myself pretty much see it as a get-back-on-the-horse mantra for alcoholics.

And like the t-shirt says: I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a professional drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.

This is the hypothetical album cover for my fictional punk rock band. Its perfect!

If you don't recognize us, from left to right it's my kid sister Sarah, my mom sporting the Joan Jett/Mullet thing (that was in style at one time, or so she says), and me, on the tricycle, making like a demon child.

It would be called something lame like "Born Rebel" or "Raised Up Punk", and we would play loud and fast music with lots of distorted guitar, heavy bass, lackadaisical drumming and plenty of ill-timed rock screams, and it would be just ear-bleeding awful.

However, we would be revered by the hipsters in the Athens scene (if nowhere else) for our love of kitsch, keen sense of irony, and vast knowledge of bad pop art.

Plus, we'd make sure to always look great.

So I don't usually write about my mom here. I think I would either make my troubles with her sound trite, or make her look like a devil woman. The problem is neither. My mother is just... my mother. The long and short of it is she is emotionally abusive to people she loves, namely myself and my father. She never admits that she was even a little wrong about a fight, amending apologies with a but-you-made-me-so-it-was-your-fault-after-all.

I'm not complaining, I'm just trying to give you some background information, because today a monumental thing happened.

I'd been avoiding her calls since she took out her work frustration on me on Monday, mainly by cursing at me quite loudly and telling my I was disrespectful and whatnot. Monday night she called and left a message that was about 45 seconds sincere apology and 3½ minutes about why I made her yell at me.

Typical.

Anyway, she called again last night and left a message. I was in a pretty good mood (and wanted to stay that way) so I went to bed without checking it.

I wake up this morning, and waiting for me on my phone is a bonafide. sincere. guileless. humble. apology.

Hey, it only took almost 20 years for her to do that for me. That's like, nothing in the span of all time. It's great!

Really, I am so happy.

After that I went to the library to study, and the vending machine gave me two Pibbs by accident!

"This is my lucky day."

My internal dialog actually narrates like that, yes. Yours doesn't?

Then I went to Religion, which was quite edifying, actually. Even thought I'm usually pretty confused about the material, I really enjoy that class very much. The fact I have such a crush on the guy who sits next to me in there doesn't hurt. He is so articulate. Intelligence is so sexy.

I left deep in thought and went to Bio lab. I forgot to do my homework, and was all ready to grovel for a late due date, but due to the inavailability of lab books, the TA just told us to turn it in next week. The lab is supposed to last til 6:30, but only lasted until about 5:15 and I got out early enough to beat the rush at the dining hall.

I knew it was my lucky day.

As you might have guessed, one of my presents was a cute new digicam.

So Mom is watching me unpack stuff today (she was actually very helpful setting stuff up but I'm one of those that likes to set everything up myself) and I pull out my trusty Barcardi bottle, sans actual Barcardi, of course.

Mom's all, What's that?

Because I may have drank the contents at one time? Of course not. *grin*

I mean, you really can't tell your mother that you keep a certain alcohol bottle around, one that you basically took care of by yourself, as a reminder to not almost give yourself alcohol poisoning again.

She would worry.

God, I swear I'm not a alcoholic. Everyone is totally getting the wrong impression of me now...

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Oh well. It's not as if most of you didn't know I am evil already.