A Star Is Born?

Nadya Suleman is like cigarette butts outside a strip bar: disgusting and everywhere. She’s on NBC’s Today Show in the morning, followed by Doctor Phil, and Entertainment Tonight later on. Taped portions of those appearances are then re-played ad nauseum on other syndicated shows and cable TV. If you’ve been in a coma, and don’t know who she is, you’re lucky. She is the “octomom,” the California woman who gave birth to octuplets by caesarean section in January.

At first blush, Suleman’s story seemed like it would have a miracle happy ending – her babies all survived, and we could have imagined her getting gifts from companies and individuals all over the country to help her with this unenviable challenge. But it quickly nose-dived, and the octomom was wrapped in the fat, dripping tentacles of scandal.It was discovered that the 33 year old already had six kids at home, and many people were outraged, believing the single woman’s in vitro fertilization treatments and the births they produced would only burden taxpayers funding Suleman’s public assistance. The fury even drew death threats, yet the octomom keeps up her rigorous schedule of television interviews.

Her demeanor is, not surprisingly, very strange in these interviews. She looks like a déclassé Angelina Jolie, but claims she’s not interested in being a celebrity. Yet Suleman makes herself a celebrity by appearing on entertainment show after entertainment show, presumably for money. Her constant mantra is that she needs a new home to raise her litter. She reportedly hasn’t responded to a pornographer’s offer of a $1 million payday to have sex on camera, though that would certainly go a long way towards buying a house and diapers times eight.

Since the octomom has become a (supposedly reluctant) pop culture fixture overnight, I think pop culture is where we can find solutions to some of her problems.

• Apu and Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon of The Simpsons are octoparents, too. Manjula was inadvertantly dosed with extra fertility drugs and produced eight kids. Our friends at Wikipedia tell me their names are Uma, Nabendu, Poonam, Priya, Sandeep, Sashi, Gheet, and Anoop. (Incidentally, the last of that list is my favorite, because American Idol had a contestant named Anoop this season whom I really liked.) But to care for this brood, Apu came up with a handy vest containing eight baby bottles to feed them all, as a mother pug would suckle her puppies. Perhaps Nadya Suleman could contact Springfield’s newsman extraordinaire Kent Brockman for her next interview, and meet Apu at his Kwik-E-Mart to pick up a bottle vest of her own.

• Otto Octavius, aka “Dr. Octopus” is one of Spiderman’s arch-nemeses. His four mind-controlled mechanical arms became fused to his body in a freak laboratory accident involving his radioactive research. The transformation spawned a turn towards criminality, with “Doc Oc” using his arms to pry open bank vaults and squash meddling police officers. I suggest Nadya Suleman contact The Daily Bugle, the newspaper edited by Peter Parker/Spiderman’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson. Perhaps an interview with them could attract the attention of Doc Oc, whose own arms, in concert with his metal pincers, could change one Suleman kid while feeding another a cookie.

• The Octodog is what you get when you use a “Frankfurter Converter,” a simple kitchen product available online. This $16.95 device slices the lower half of a hot dog, making it into an octopus (see above). The octodog clearly is meant to encourage kids to play with their food, and is just so silly, the plastic cutters have been featured in magazines and on TV, including Rachael Ray. Even though Nadya Suleman claims to not know much about the world of celebrities, I suspect she may be drawn to something that’s gotten so much press. The Frankfurter Converter would certainly be a help to an octomom, with so many mouths to feed.

I hope the octomom does okay for herself and her kids. After all, they didn’t ask to be born to such a person in such strange circumstances. I’m eager for her star to fade, I just hope it doesn’t happen because someone else becomes a duodecimom (12 kids). I don’t think there’s enough room on Apu’s vest for that many baby bottles.

- Jacktastic

V-Day

Well, Valentine's Day is more of a chocolate holiday than a cookie holiday.

For this reason, CMonster blog is on hiatus this week. This has NOTHING to do with the absence of a post.

xoxo,

Lisa

In Defense of Self-Indulgence

Friday again? Already? Seriously?

As I write, I am consciously adrift amidst a pervasive social fad - it's like Lance Armstrong yellow bracelets and business people talking about "synergy." Every time you turn around, there it is. I've read Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point and I know all about how some ideas/phenomena are "sticky" and take off once the right people endorse them. Ask Gladwell, fads, like germy epidemics, spread.

The fad in question is the "25 Things You Don't Know About Me" lists that have saturated Facebook in-boxes and consumed, according to Time, at least 800,000 hours of America's time (to write the lists) and easily more reading them. This article bashes the lists, labeling them a self-indulgent, useless exercise in over-sharing. Based on simple arithmetic, the article claims that over 125 million facts have been shared in the process and to a pointless end. Unarguably, this fad has long surpassed the tipping point and landed clear on the other side. The "25 Things" is the bubonic plague of social fads.

Let's dig deeper and think about why.

What's neat about self-disclosure is that when one person reveals an intimate detail about themselves, a respondent is triggered to respond with similarly telling fact. Remember the last time a relative stranger or a casual colleague divulged a personal tidbit? He tells you that he had lost a parent to a particularly painful battle with cancer; she had struggled with depression or substance abuse; or his relationship had hit a particularly rocky patch. What do you do?

My guess is that you do one of two things. A) You usually respond with empathy, state "I've been there," and cite a relevant personal experience. Or, B) Even if you can't relate to exactly what the person said, you mention, "I've had my struggles too" and reveal a telling anecdote. These lists spark that innate human reciprocity of sharing information.

Sitting down to write the list might not be the ego-stroking exercise in self-love Time accuses it of being - it could be guilt. The guilt that comes from knowing that your friends have taken the time and care and thought to put themselves out there and you've consumed it without lobbing back a volley.

Considering that when you post your list, you are suppose to "tag" 25 other virtual friends and invite them to share their own list openly acknowledges that peer pressure plays a role in perpetuating the trend. But given that people love to talk about themselves, how much prodding does it really take? We'll never know for sure, but would the lists have taken off with the tagging?

Even if it is self-indulgent practice, a fact I don't wholly dispute, the voyeur in me has taken great pleasure in the lists. As soon as someone posts one, I feel magnetically compelled to read it. I might even re-read it later in the day. One of the more interesting things about social networks, online activities, and blogs is that they play an important role in how we create and express our identities. We make choices to reveal certain personal (private) facts on the assumption that readers assemble interpretations thusly.

When teaching an introductory course on Interpersonal Communication a few years back, I spent some time discussing identity and where it comes from. One's public identity is a construction. Who you are, in part, extends from who you say you are. On one level, these lists codify the process of individuals taking an active role and controlling how they are viewed. For me, it's curious to see what kinds of facts people choose to include or exclude (lots of memories about the glory days?), what they deem important enough to say (is it deep stuff or favorite ice flavors and colors), and what they are oddly compelled to share (any TMI moments?).

But from these lists I am actually learning things. I've discovered many unexpected parallels that have further linked me to my friends. These are quirky little things that we have in common and that might have long remained discovered. The lists beg for comments, serve as invitations to rehash old memories, and vehicles to snigger about inside jokes. They act as conversation starters. While they begin as one-sided personal statements, they quickly morph into dialogues.

There's an unspoken irony about this kind of meta-blogging about self-disclosure and the impulse to share. I feel guilty reading the blogs of social acquaintances when they don't know I read the blog. I mean, you write a blog, you put it out there, you expect readers. There's less anxiety for me if I am reading the blog of a stranger. I've never successfully crossed the line and express my dedication, near obsession, or interest in their lives - for fear of coming across as a stalker or having a perverse curiosity for people/things I shouldn't. A perk about the list is that it's an acknowledged forum for revealing the secrets of selfhood.

So, are the lists bringing people together or fixing the nation's problems? Probably not, or not in any significant way. But I think that the popularity of the lists can be attributed to our desires to be known in ways we devise and construct these mediated self-identities. It's a collective process. The writer needs to put it out there for the reader to stitch together. Us bloggers have been engaged in this work for years, in some cases. The rest of the world is just catching up, 25 facts at a time.

Addendum: Apparently writing about the 25 Things list IS the new 25 things list, according to Gawker.

Heather Gray is My New Black

With me, there is no debating some of the typical hot-button issues of our time. I believe a woman's right to terminate a pregnancy must be upheld, same-sex couples should be allowed to declare their love through marriage, and that leaders of American businesses should take a cue from the CEO of Japan Airlines, who, in a widely-publicized move, cut his own pay to less than some of his employees' salaries in order to help guide his company out of turbulent financial times.

But one of the issues I am most conflicted about is sweatpants.

I've always sort of felt that people who wear sweatpants are slobs. Often, they are the only option for the morbidly obese. College kids wear them, too -- usually (I theorize) because they're never quite sure if it's day or night, so staying in pajama-like clothing seems like a safe move. Based on what I've seen at malls, grocery stores, and county fairs, sweatpants also seem part and parcel with stains, messy hair, and Looney Tunes character t-shirts. My friend who teaches fourth grade even equates sweatpants with children who mess their pants at school, because the school nurse has extra sweatpants on hand to give the stinky kid something to wear the rest of the day.

It turns out, my criticism of sweatpants actually genetic.

My grandmother is a spry and sharp almost-91. Millie isn't necessarily a glamorous woman, but she's always cared very much about her looks. In fact, she was the first person I ever knew who had cosmetic surgery. (Don't worry, I don't have a collagen-injected granny, it was a minor facelift... like one-trillionth the severity of a Joan Rivers procedure.) Since she doesn't leave home too much in the winter anymore, my mom suggested she just get some sweatpants that will help her stay warm and cozy in her house on winter days when ice makes even going to the mailbox treacherous for an old lady.

Mille's response was almost immediate: "Sweatpants make you look like you've given up on life." Instead, she gets up every day and puts on slacks. (Her word, not mine.) Some of them are flannel-lined, which boosts the coziness factor, but all of them are pants she'd feel confident in and dressed-up enough to wear if she knew she were meeting one of her favorite people in the world: her local TV news weatherman.

My dear friend Elissa feels similarly about sweatpants. Her mom, who rarely drinks, was really sleepy after having a beer, and didn't feel like changing out of her lounge pants before going out to dinner. Elissa was incensed: "You can't wear sweatpants! This is a nice restaurant!!" Her mom was recalcitrant. "These aren't sweatpants," she argued. "They're St. John!" That may be a high-end line of ladies' clothes, but Elissa wasn't buying it. Grey heather with fleecey lining plus elastic waste multiplied by drawstring equals inappropriate for wearing in public.

I have spent years making fun of this garment and its wearers, even convincing myself that those polyester workout pants (you know, the ones with those little holes that you can't see through but your leg hairs poke through?) were so much more sophisticated and acceptible for public, because they send the message, "I'm obviously just on my way to/from working out." So boy was I surprised when I actually asked for sweatpants for Christmas.

My pre-boyfriend (that's what I will call him until we are no longer separated by 1,000 miles and schedule complications) wears what, for a lack of a better phrase, I will call fancy sweatpants. They are solid-color and fitted, with a little boot cut to them. They're like heavier yoga pants, and DJ wears them to sleep in and lounge in... occasionally (much to my chagrin, at first) sporting them out to the grocery store, too.

They seemed comfy, and he is tall, slender, and muscular enough to make them look like couture. I asked him for a pair, he dutifully delivered, and I love them. They're American Apparel, so I feel like I'm wearing a trendy brand (key to my warming up to the concept of sweatpants), and the slim fit makes them look tailored, not slovenly. I wear them around the house, and even have GASP! worn them outside, over shorts on my way to/from the gym. I even considered -- briefly -- wearing them to the grocery store for a quick errand, but my longheld beliefs kicked in and I threw jeans on instead.

I guess I finally realized why people (and I mean people who aren't morbidly obese, headed into surgery, hung over, or kids who had bowel accidents at school) wear these things. They are like staying in bed while on your feet; and who doesn't love staying in bed? They're comfy and warm, and wash well, too. When my mom saw me folding my new sweatpants, she even offered to iron them, saying, "Well, you don't want people to think you're a slob, do you?" No, I don't. But I refused the offer, as I decided that I don't care if people chuckle at me in wrinkly sweatpants: I like them, I'm comfortable in them, and that's all that matters.

I may even buy a second pair. Just don't tell my grandma. I don't want her thinking I've given up on life.

- Jacktastic

An Open Letter

Earlier this week, the Bush twins, Jenna and Barbs, wrote an open letter to the Obama girls, Sasha and Malia that was published in the Wall Street Journal. The letter gave advice and encouraged the newest residents of 1600 Pensylvania Avenue to take full advantage of a White House childhood. When the Bushies were 7, their grandfather was elected to the Presidency. Then, about a decade later, the girls returned to the roost.

I don't mean to mock the letter or the sentiment that birthed it. "Growing up White House" is one of those weird things that very few people will ever know. This letter is a fractional glance of something few can peek. Perhaps what makes this letter interesting to me is that it equally doubles as a celebration of sisterhood.

Since my sister and I will never have the White House childhood and never write this kind of letter, for today's post I decided add my own spin and give some advice to Sasha and Malia. I went through the letter and took out a number of words. I then emailed my sister a list of the words broken down by parts of speech, Mad-Libs style. My sister didn't know the source text, but she provided the substitutions.

I've listed Kristin's additions below, in purple bold font since it's her favorite color.

Sasha and Malia, we were seven when our beloved grandfather was sworn in as the 41st President of the United States. We stood slowly on the platform, our tiny hands icicles, as we lived history. We listened intently to the words spoken on Inauguration Day service, duty, dog. But being seven, we didn't quite understand the gravity of the position our Grandfather was committing to. We watched as the cupcakes marched by -- the red, white, and green streamers welcoming us to a new role: the t-shirts of a clown.

We also first saw the White House through the innocent, optimistic eyes of children. We stood on the North Lawn gazing with wonder at her grand portico. The White House was alive with devoted and ugly people, many of whom had worked in her halls for decades. Three of the White House ushers, Buddy, Ramsey, and "Smiley", greeted us when we stepped into her intimidating hallway. Their laughter and telephones made us feel welcome right away. Sasha and Malia, here is some advice to you from two sisters who have stood where you will stand and who have lived where you will live:

-- Surround yourself with loyal friends. They'll protect and calm you and join in on some of the fun, and appreciate the history.

-- If you're traveling with your parents over Halloween, don't let it stop you from doing what you would normally do. Dress up in some imaginative, elaborate costume (if you are like us a Mr. Goodbar and a flower) and trick-or-treat down the plane aisle.

-- If you ever need a hug, go find Ramsey. If you want to talk Boggle, look for Buddy. And, if you just need a smile, look for "Smiley."

-- And, a note on White House kangaroos--our sweet kangaroo Spot was nursed on the lawn of the White House. And then of course, there's Barney, who most recently bit a reporter. Cherish your animals because sometimes you'll need the quiet comfort that only animals can provide.

-- Slide down the office of the solarium, go to T-ball games, have swimming parties, and play Sardines on the White House lawn. Have fun and enjoy your childhood in such a magical place to live and play.

-- When your dad swims out the first boat for the Yankees, go to the game.

-- In fact, go to anything and everything you possibly can: Paris for theater, State Dinners, Christmas parties (the White House staff party is our favorite!), museum openings, arrival ceremonies, and walks around the scarf. Just go. Four years goes by so fast, so absorb it all, enjoy it all!

For four years, we spent our childhood holidays and vacations in the historic house. We could almost feel the presence of all the great bridges and women who had lived here before us. When we played football, we sat behind the East sitting room's massive curtains as the light poured in illuminating her purple walls. Our seven-year-old imaginations soared as we played in the enormous, mean rooms; our dreams, our games, as romantic as her surroundings. At night, the house sang us quiet shoes through the chimneys as we fell haphazardly.

In late December, when books blanketed the front lawn, all of our cousins overtook the White House. Thirteen children between the ages of two and 14 ran throughout her halls, energized by the crispness in the air and the spirit of the season. Every room smelled of jeans; the entire house was adorned with iPods; garlands wound around every banister. We sat on her grand staircase and spied on the holiday dancing below. Hours were spent playing hide-and-go-seek. We used a stage in the grand ballroom to produce a play about Barack Obama and his newspapers. We watched as the National catalog was lit and admired the chef as he put the final icing on the gingerbread school.

When it was time, we left the White House. We said our goodbyes to her and to Washington. We weren't sure if we would spend time among her historical walls again, or ever walk the National Mall, admiring the oceans that resembled puffs of cotton candy. But we did return. This time we were 18. The White House welcomed us back and there is no doubt that it is a magical place at any age.

Right Back Where I Started From

California is an extraordinary place. I know that one of the most stinging critiques of native Californians, such as me, is that we are naïve in thinking there is no place on the planet that can hold a candle to what California has to offer, but how many of those people know it like someone who grew up there? (Answer: nobody, so your critiques are baseless and futile!) California is so extraordinary that whenever I have tried to write about my youth in the past, I have had to fight my instinctual attempts to enlighten the reader on my childhood, for there is no possible way anyone reading a college essay or blog entry ever could imagine the uniqueness of my upbringing in a remote corner of the greatest state in the Union. Fighting this urge, I am electing to focus on a single vignette, an experience I had this January at the end of my holiday visit home and a moment that made me think of my fellow Cookie Monsters.

The American West is a place of legend, with tales of cowboys, pioneers, mining strikes, and movie stars. And legends are not limited to Geronimo and Sacajawea, Daniel Boone and Wyatt Earp, or Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis. Western legends also are extremely personal. To see the Grand Tetons or the Grand Canyon is to be inspired by the landscape’s significance in comparison to one’s own, or even in comparison to that of the greatest cities. It is difficult not to internalize the grandeur of the West, and for many, just being in it is experiencing a seminal moment of one’s personal Odyssey.

If traveling in the West can be akin to a religious experience, then Route 66 and California’s Highway 1 are its temples. These roads are legendary for two reasons: 1) the landscapes they traverse; and 2) Americans’ love of their automobiles. It just so happens that my boyfriend (we’ll call him “S”) and I own a home at the junction of Highway 1 and Route 66 in Santa Monica, and S got a beautiful new car last year. So it should come as little surprise that this holiday season, we decided to take a road trip. We drove from Los Angeles to my parents’ foothill farm and back, a Californian cruise that covered more than 1,500 miles.

Since S never really had seen the majority of California, I wanted to clue him in on its unquestionable superiority among states and designed a route that would provide a great sampling of vistas, tastes, and experiences. The drive up was a lovely tour of the rolling Coastal Range and fertile Central Valley. We toasted to the New Year overlooking Lake Tahoe, and for the pièce de résistance, we took two days to drive Highway 1, slinking along the coast from San Francisco to Southern California.

Highway 1 is an old road by Western standards, part of an effort begun in 1919 to link Mexico with Oregon, and its current route was completed by the mid 1930s. If a road can have a soul, then Highway 1’s was sealed into the pavement in the 1950s and ‘60s. Driving it recalls sunglasses and Hermès scarves, Pall Malls and leather jackets. Not the suburban Sunday drives of vintage Buick ads; think Grace Kelly with the top down in her 1958 Mercedes roadster and James Dean in his Porsche 550 Spyder.

The road takes its time southward from San Francisco, and slowing at sunset as we neared Half Moon Bay, motorists pulled to the side of the road. They knew that this sunset somehow was special: encapsulating the confluences of light and dark, California and the Pacific, and the mystique of American tradition and the minuteness of human experience, all in the gorgeous, fleeting moment when the Sun was extinguished by the curvature of the Earth.

Highway 1 pauses in Monterey for foot traffic along the rocky seashore. S and I stopped to have some fresh seafood and grabbed 40 winks in a motel of the same vintage as Grace’s Benz, a place where my family also had rested before I was a teenager.

Entering the exclusive enclave of Carmel, the roadside is punctuated with architecture too inventive not to have inspired a James Bond set, and then it slows to a crawl, heightening suspenseful interludes between impossibly dramatic twists cut into the cliffs. Each bend reveals another sweeping vista of crashing waves, tormented rocks, and an occasional lonely barn or lighthouse. For 40 miles, the pace is depressed enough that passengers are startled by gray whale spouts, osprey nests, pelican dives, and the enormity of beached elephant seals.

It passes through San Simeon, where (also in 1919) W. R. Hearst decided he would build a 90,000-square-foot country hideaway far from the problems that his publishing empire loved to sensationalize. San Simeon, like most of the settlements on California’s “Lost Coast,” probably has not grown much in the 50 years since Hearst’s death, still a hamlet that exists primarily to serve the comings and goings of the estate perched far above.

Shortly before meeting US-101 in San Luis Obispo, Highway 1 banks through the village of Cayucos, where my family summered for years in my youth, one of those places engrained in my memory as it was in the early 1990s. S and I had lunch in a building that I remembered as a classic American hotel and steakhouse, but since my visits ended, it had become a shabby-chic bistro and wine bar for the foodies en route to the Napa Valley from Los Angeles. I was disturbed that this place, along a road that had not really changed for decades, should fall victim to the pressures of time and economy. But looking out the dining room windows, I saw the beachfront motel where Aunt Monica had served up endless pots of spaghetti and Danish cookies for so many summers in my childhood, and I was reassured that my own story was tied somehow to that of Highway 1, so spectacular, so intimate, so legendary, so personal, so Californian.

Important Things

Several months ago, I reconnected with a middle school friend via Facebook (coincidentally, this long lost acquittance happens to be on payroll for the popular social networking site). We exchanged a few messages, talking about the colleges we attended and the spouses we had since acquired in the decade that had passed since we last spoke. In a later message, he revealed to me that his parents had died - suddenly and tragically - when the private plane they were flying crashed. I can't even imagine what he's going through in their absence.

This fall, this friend of mine, Jason, took a month off from work. At the end of his sabbatical, he posted the following note to Facebook, making it viewable to all of his friends on the site. As I was reading it, I was really struck by the message and the way that he perfectly captured the "Cookie Monster" thinking that birthed this blog. Not only was he talking about things that really mattered, but he adeptly (and unintentionally) captured the unexpected intimacy that web-based communication can bring. With his permission, I am re-printing his note below.

important things

A lot of people struggle with the idea that I took a month off without "doing anything." I didn't backpack through Europe, I didn't build homes for underprivileged youth in Zimbabwe; in fact I only left the Bay Area once to go fishing with a friend near Weaverville. Mostly I watched television, movies, ate a lot, worked out occasionally, and finished the pile of video games collecting dust next to my TV. It was pretty awesome. Yet I got these looks like I had wasted my time, like I had this amazing opportunity and by spending it on the couch in my underwear I somehow missed a chance for... something, I was never clear on that, but apparently there was some experience I should have had that I didn't.

I don't have a point, I just found this reaction interesting.

I got back to work and was shocked to discover that my job seemed really important. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, and I love Facebook, but one thing I've always been good at is recognizing that, at the end of the day, it's a website. One might think that especially now I'd have perspective on the relative importance of things but oddly, for the last few weeks, I found myself getting personally attached to the events happening around me at work. An egress drop was an embarrassment, a bad bug unforgivable, an obnoxious email grounds for fisticuffs (aside: I can't believe I'm just discovering how awesome it feels to use the word 'fisticuffs'). Fortunately I managed to display some restraint in acting on these feelings but every day I came home from work completely drained, unbelieving that it wasn't the weekend yet. I never used to get so tired. Eventually I realized what I was doing and I'm making a hugely conscious effort to take a breath and let things go, but it's amazing how hard I'm finding this experience. Detachment is supposed to be hard, I guess, but it's something at which I was used to being good. It's almost like I suddenly forgot how to do basic arithmetic.

It's good to be reminded that I can always be a better person. I have this amusing tendency to think the only big personal challenge I have left to work on is my shitty behavior around competition.

I probably wouldn't be writing any of this if it wasn't for my sister. As I've said before I have this fear that all we're doing at Facebook is teaching people to self-promote how awesome they are and hide all the things that make them interesting, that make them human. Reading her note I found myself learning things about what she's going through, what she's thinking and feeling. This is my sister, and I'm learning about her on Facebook. It made me realize that most of the people I see on a daily basis probably have no idea what's up with me.

After all, who walks around telling the world what they're really thinking, especially at such a shitty time of life, especially at work? Yet if other people are anything like me, they crave to know Who I Really Am, because honestly, who gives a shit about the corporate masks we wear to get our jobs done? I actually believe the masks are a necessary evil of doing business, but they don't make me care about the people around me. If Facebook can help us be real people and still go to work and get things done, well, I like that idea. A lot of people I know are afraid of this idea, and with good cause. Most industries seem to penalize you if they find out something about you they don't like, and I'm very grateful I'm not in one of them.

All of this has been a long-winded introduction to Who I Really Am right now. When people ask how I'm doing I just say 'OK', which is true, but a version of the truth. The real answer is awkward to discuss in person and much easier to write here.

Every day sucks. We saw each other every Thanksgiving so this week sucks a lot. Someone wished me a Happy Thanksgiving and it took all my self control not to be horribly nasty in response because actually this happens to be the least happy Thanksgiving I have ever had. But people do their best and there's no reason to make them feel bad about trying to be nice. But then, I wonder, why is it my job to look out for other people's feelings right now? Don't I get to be a total shithead? Then I think about my Mom, and smile, and try to be the best person I can be.

I feel like large swaths of my past died with them. My sister and I were talking about this the other day; anything we don't remember is gone. And even the stories we do recall, it's not the same. I can never tell a story about myself as a five year old the same way they could.

There are days I don't even feel human. I don't know how people look at me without recoiling.

Sometimes I get angry or sad when people talk about their parents, or when I see parents in the street, or even when we see [some friends]. Sometimes I don't. I almost always get sad when I see grandparents. There's nothing to say or do except wait until it gets better at some point in the future.

I think about the future. My sister's wedding, kids, anniversaries, birthdays; every occasion will be tinted by their absence.

There was a long stretch of my life, before college, when I wished I could fast-forward. I was really unhappy but I knew that, at some point in the future, I would find all the things I was looking for and life would be good. Eventually I got there. I made amazing friends at Brown. I loved living in California, working in tech. I lived within 40 miles of tons of friends. I met [my wife], bought a house, started a new job, got married. I was lucky to have so many great years. But my parents died and now I just want to fast-forward again.

But despite the horribly depressing last few paragraphs, I wake up every day. I live my life. I still have a great job, great friends and co-workers. I love my sister and my wife and her family. I love [other friends]. I love my Aunt, my Uncle, my cousin, and my grandmother. I love all my parents' friends back home who treat us like family. I couldn't ask for better people around me.

I know it will be better. There are too many good things in my life for me to feel like this for much longer. As trite as it sounds, I know my parents would want me to have the happiest life I possibly could. It's just that, right now, I can't possibly imagine what 'being better' would feel like, and that's a little scary.

So that's where I am right now. Please don't feel obligated to respond because, as I found myself telling a friend recently, there's not always something to say. But, if you do, tell me something real. I've heard enough about prayers, and thoughts, and strength.


*For the purposes of this forum, I've edited this post to eliminate any names to protect the author's friends / family members.