I am a definite adherent to the notion that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and that it takes all kinds, and that life’s rich gtapestry allows for a variety of tastes. But c’mon. Just like few are indifferent to the smack-your-face-till-it-swells beauty of a northern New Mexico sunset or the awe-ionspiring majesty of some giant mountain....zzzzzzzzz. Sorry. Nature is pretty, but boring. I digress.
Whether nor not we agree that something is actually beautiful, I wonder if we can’t find some common ground in identifying the contrast I call “Pretty Ugly.” This is the proverbial lipstick on a sow (not you, Palin, get over yourself, not every lipstick reference is about you). I found the perfect example driving my children to school not too long ago. We drove past a trailer park in a neighboring town.(Note that I throw int he fct that the park is in a ‘neighboring’ town in order to distance myself...not a nearby town, not an adjacent town, a ‘neighboring’ town....you can take the girl out of Newton, but you just can’t take the “I don’t live anywhere near a trailer park and I doubt I’d even recognize one if I saw one” out of the Newton girl).
So, as I drove past this enclave of portable living (another concept for another day), my attention was drawn by ... well, no, my voyeuristic tendencies forced me to gape at the trailer on the edge of the park to because it was so, well, noticeable. This particular trailer was on the small side, I think. The trailer rested at what, if it were a beret perched on a head and not a home perched on some cinder blocks and what looked to be the kind of metal barrel one keeps one’s toxic waste in, would be a jaunty angle. And there was a green tarp lying across the back of the thing at an angle, partially blocking some sliding windows, as though the tarp were bangs that the trailer had tossed out of its sliding eyes. So there was an odd mix of inattention and almost flippant style to the back of this trailer. And I watched it because it looked like it could fall at any moment, and who doesn’t want to see tht, right?
As I drove further I had a view of the side of the trailer. A small unpainted wooden platform led to four steps up, sideways, to a small screened enclosure where, presumably, the main entrance sat ensconced, although I couldn’t see that far into it. Even if I could have, though, I wouldn’t have. Because adorning the stairs, and the area of the “lawn” next to the stairs, and all four corners of the small wooden platform preceding the stairs, were big white statues of gods and goddesses in various states and undress, with a smattering of pillars thrown in, but they were a lot shorter than the gods and goddesses, as though they were placed there in case the statutes needed something to lean on, or something to put their soda down on. So, you could barely get past these things, I imagined, to get into the screened porch. And I couldn’t help but think that some of those pillars might not be a better prop for the rear end of the trailer than the toxic sludge holders, but what do I know.
If it had been summer, or even mid-spring, I might have missed this entirely, because some trees between the park and the road might have obscured my view. But being dismal and wintery, it was all mine for the taking in. And as snarky as the voice in my head was being, it was shushed by this little part of my brain that was struck by the sadness and poignancy in taking something so truly ugly, and trying to make it beautiful, but really only making it plain why it was so ugly to begin with. Pretty Ugly.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Monday, January 28, 2008
Poor is the New Fat
When you talk to people about troubles with your kids, you get advice and sympathetic ears in approximately equal measure. You may also get your share of unspoken judgment, but whatever. If you can’t say it out loud, I can’t get sweaty about it. But my point is this. You get advice, sympathy, whatever, but you are not asking someone to parent your children for you. And no one thinks that you are. And, after you get over the "I hope you don’t feel the need to call social services after this conversation" anxiety, it really makes sense to get input because lots of folks are parents, everyone has or has had parents, and there is a lot of experience out there that you can learn from. Ditto with interior design. If I ask for your take on color, I’m not asking you to give up a weekend to paint or for you to buy me a new couch. But, I do appreciate the advice and ideas of lots of different people in making decisions about that kind of thing.
So, why is it that every time I try to talk to someone about my money situation, I almost can’t open my mouth, I can almost never admit to how bad the situation is most of the time? Because: (1) I think that they think I’m asking them for money; (2) It makes me feel like a loser that I can’t yank myself out of this situation and it seems like everyone else can; (3) It makes me feel like a loser because, on paper, it seems like I shouldn’t have these problems, which means that I must be doing something completely wrong.
And no, this is not going to be a lay-it-all-out-there and ‘fess up to my actual credit card interest rates, outstanding debt, and large bills coming down the pike. Because I don’t think that you combat body shame by walking naked through town, and I don’t think that you combat financial shame by embarrassing all three of the friends and loved ones who occasionally read your blog, and yourself. So, disaster voyeurs begone, you won’t be seeing the cellulite on the back of my checkbook’s thighs here.
But it’s true that if you complain about money, it makes you feel like you are asking for money, which is weird, and I haven’t figured out why it feels that way. And I know why it makes me feel like a loser, and that epiphany has not succeeded in making me feel less like a loser, but whatever. And it’s just money, and I do a lot of things right in my life. I stand behind some of the choices I’ve made, even as others make me cringe and wish for that time machine my daughter keeps promising to invent (although she’s never actually said I could use it -- she wants to be able to unkiss a boy).
Okay, I’m whining. But one more thing. Since when is your credit rating actually the quantitative measure of your moral character? Okay, life is harder with bad credit. So everyone’s answer is to make you so ashamed of your credit that you feel like a loser and also to make it that much harder for you to get your ship righted. And now it seems like you have to have good credit to get a job, join the military or rent an apartment. I mean, seriously. Every credit rating commercial says, in just about so many words: you are a big loser and unworthy of any respect at all, and you don’t deserve anything in life, because your number is low.
It took twenty years for people to start to be able to really talk about whether or not the number on the scale defines you as a person. It’s time to talk about what we are doing to our self-images by ascribing so much value to the number at Equifax. I won’t bore anybody listing all the meaningful and worthy things I do that don’t impact my credit score at all, but it’s worth thinking about the fact that we, as a society, seem to have this need to, literally, "measure" ourselves against everyone else on some concrete scale in order to be sure of ourselves. Bullshit.
I will force myself to think differently so that my kids will not feel the need to subject themselves to financial self-hatred no matter what. I mean, who hasn’t made a mistake in romance? But are you labeled and numbered as a "bad risk" and not allowed to have the good dates? You have to date the losers until you earn enough bonus points back to date the catches. Bullshit. People make mistakes. They learn from them. Engaging in that process should be the only measure of success we need.
So, why is it that every time I try to talk to someone about my money situation, I almost can’t open my mouth, I can almost never admit to how bad the situation is most of the time? Because: (1) I think that they think I’m asking them for money; (2) It makes me feel like a loser that I can’t yank myself out of this situation and it seems like everyone else can; (3) It makes me feel like a loser because, on paper, it seems like I shouldn’t have these problems, which means that I must be doing something completely wrong.
And no, this is not going to be a lay-it-all-out-there and ‘fess up to my actual credit card interest rates, outstanding debt, and large bills coming down the pike. Because I don’t think that you combat body shame by walking naked through town, and I don’t think that you combat financial shame by embarrassing all three of the friends and loved ones who occasionally read your blog, and yourself. So, disaster voyeurs begone, you won’t be seeing the cellulite on the back of my checkbook’s thighs here.
But it’s true that if you complain about money, it makes you feel like you are asking for money, which is weird, and I haven’t figured out why it feels that way. And I know why it makes me feel like a loser, and that epiphany has not succeeded in making me feel less like a loser, but whatever. And it’s just money, and I do a lot of things right in my life. I stand behind some of the choices I’ve made, even as others make me cringe and wish for that time machine my daughter keeps promising to invent (although she’s never actually said I could use it -- she wants to be able to unkiss a boy).
Okay, I’m whining. But one more thing. Since when is your credit rating actually the quantitative measure of your moral character? Okay, life is harder with bad credit. So everyone’s answer is to make you so ashamed of your credit that you feel like a loser and also to make it that much harder for you to get your ship righted. And now it seems like you have to have good credit to get a job, join the military or rent an apartment. I mean, seriously. Every credit rating commercial says, in just about so many words: you are a big loser and unworthy of any respect at all, and you don’t deserve anything in life, because your number is low.
It took twenty years for people to start to be able to really talk about whether or not the number on the scale defines you as a person. It’s time to talk about what we are doing to our self-images by ascribing so much value to the number at Equifax. I won’t bore anybody listing all the meaningful and worthy things I do that don’t impact my credit score at all, but it’s worth thinking about the fact that we, as a society, seem to have this need to, literally, "measure" ourselves against everyone else on some concrete scale in order to be sure of ourselves. Bullshit.
I will force myself to think differently so that my kids will not feel the need to subject themselves to financial self-hatred no matter what. I mean, who hasn’t made a mistake in romance? But are you labeled and numbered as a "bad risk" and not allowed to have the good dates? You have to date the losers until you earn enough bonus points back to date the catches. Bullshit. People make mistakes. They learn from them. Engaging in that process should be the only measure of success we need.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I feel like a chicken running around with no head, which I know isn’t true, because if it were, I wouldn’t have this goddamn (GOT DAMN) migraine.
Christmas came off pretty much without a hitch. Only one spoiled bratty hissy fit, which was easily solved. Of course my threat to donate the offending toy (a stuffed dog that was lying down instead of sitting up, and therefore "too flat") to needy children was completely useless. Instead, I found a way that she could get what she wanted that didn't feel like totally caving in the moment, but actually was. Ah, motherhood. I know I'm not fooling them, but sometimes it is better to fool myself, at least to get through the minute.
Christmas came off pretty much without a hitch. Only one spoiled bratty hissy fit, which was easily solved. Of course my threat to donate the offending toy (a stuffed dog that was lying down instead of sitting up, and therefore "too flat") to needy children was completely useless. Instead, I found a way that she could get what she wanted that didn't feel like totally caving in the moment, but actually was. Ah, motherhood. I know I'm not fooling them, but sometimes it is better to fool myself, at least to get through the minute.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
KNITTING JUNKIE
I am the laziest not lazy person ever. Even lying in bed is active for me, as I am constantly nursing, shifting kids around, answering questions, waking up to resolve issues with snoring, horizontal interlopers in the bed, and myriad other concerns that arise only at night. For example, my children don’t love to drink water. They will, but usually they prefer it flavored with lemonade powder, or they drink milk, because water has no taste and is therefore totally undesirable apparently. Until the sun goes down. Because then, the only thing stronger than their desire to drink tons of water, is their lack of desire to get up and fill up the bottle if it’s empty. But anyway, back to me. So, while I never really rest – ever – what makes me lazy is that all I usually WANT to do is watch television. I mean I want to do other things too, but I want to do them in front of the television.
So imagine my surprise last night when, awoken again, I had no desire to watch television. I wanted to read. So, I turned the light on low and read. Until my son woke up and said "Mommy, don’t read that book." In the interest of not arguing with a two year old in the wee smalls, I shut off the light, thinking he would just go back to sleep. And then he commanded "Mommy, don’t turn out that light." So, on with the light, down with the book. And, with mommy and the whole world safely secured under his adorable little thumb, my boy is able to go back to sleep. And I go back to reading. And then I decide that reading is keeping me awake, so I try to watch TV again. And I discover that a promising crappy show I have recorded is too stupid even for me to watch. So I watch the rest of it and delete it and swear never to watch it again.
And now I’m awake and I actually don’t want to watch TV and I don’t feel like reading, and I start to think about knitting. And I realize something. I am addicted to knitting. I’m like a knitting junkie. I can’t get enough. Of course, as a beginner, I don’t know enough to just take up random projects or make it work with the weird mishmosh of yarn I have accumulated (and which took me hours to sort out on Sunday). So, I’m lying in bed realizing that I don’t know enough to read a pattern that involves anything more complicated than things they just don’t write patterns for because they are so simple, that I have to return the eight knitting books I took out from the library on my four year old’s card so that she can take out more books for herself, that I don’t have enough of any single yarn I like to make anything good (even if I could somehow puzzle through the pattern), and that in the week since I have actually picked up knitting needles, my knitting-induced carpal tunnel has improved dramatically for the first time since, well, the last time I didn’t knit for a week. And I don’t care. Because I’ve got my knitting jones on. And when I’m not knitting, I’m thinking about knitting and the next time I’m going to knit and how I’m going to find time, and what I’m going to make, and what books I want, and I’m searching the internet for free patterns and thinking about knitting a baby hat and scarves, legwarmers, throw pillows, fingerless gloves with mitten flaps to pull over when it’s cold. I’m wondering how and where I’m going to scrounge yarn. I am a junkie willing to do anything it takes to get my fix. I am coming to understand that addiction starts out as a little nod to your creative other self and then you start to justify the inclusion of a passion in your life, and then, then it’s just you, fingering your yarn stash and wondering how wrong it would be to plug the kids into a move to get two hours of knitting time. I realize I’m a lost cause when I don’t want to teach my kids to knit, not yet, because right now it’s all mine. I’m bogarting the knitting.
And why not? Knitting is a noble art. Every time I learn a new stitch I marvel at the invention of such an art. Or a science. The two woven together into fabric. Knitting is the creation of women who used their brains and their creativity to clothe their families and create art at the same time. I yearn to stand in the shoes of the women who developed knowledge of fibers as though it were their birthright. And who continue to develop patterns and color and materials inventive ways to use their creations to warm, to protect, to beautify, to teach, to learn. So I will consider my addiction a small price to pay in order to claim my place in line. To honor the art, and maybe break off a little piece of it as my own, knowing that such pruning is what creates new life. How's that for justifying my addiction as good for all womankind?
So imagine my surprise last night when, awoken again, I had no desire to watch television. I wanted to read. So, I turned the light on low and read. Until my son woke up and said "Mommy, don’t read that book." In the interest of not arguing with a two year old in the wee smalls, I shut off the light, thinking he would just go back to sleep. And then he commanded "Mommy, don’t turn out that light." So, on with the light, down with the book. And, with mommy and the whole world safely secured under his adorable little thumb, my boy is able to go back to sleep. And I go back to reading. And then I decide that reading is keeping me awake, so I try to watch TV again. And I discover that a promising crappy show I have recorded is too stupid even for me to watch. So I watch the rest of it and delete it and swear never to watch it again.
And now I’m awake and I actually don’t want to watch TV and I don’t feel like reading, and I start to think about knitting. And I realize something. I am addicted to knitting. I’m like a knitting junkie. I can’t get enough. Of course, as a beginner, I don’t know enough to just take up random projects or make it work with the weird mishmosh of yarn I have accumulated (and which took me hours to sort out on Sunday). So, I’m lying in bed realizing that I don’t know enough to read a pattern that involves anything more complicated than things they just don’t write patterns for because they are so simple, that I have to return the eight knitting books I took out from the library on my four year old’s card so that she can take out more books for herself, that I don’t have enough of any single yarn I like to make anything good (even if I could somehow puzzle through the pattern), and that in the week since I have actually picked up knitting needles, my knitting-induced carpal tunnel has improved dramatically for the first time since, well, the last time I didn’t knit for a week. And I don’t care. Because I’ve got my knitting jones on. And when I’m not knitting, I’m thinking about knitting and the next time I’m going to knit and how I’m going to find time, and what I’m going to make, and what books I want, and I’m searching the internet for free patterns and thinking about knitting a baby hat and scarves, legwarmers, throw pillows, fingerless gloves with mitten flaps to pull over when it’s cold. I’m wondering how and where I’m going to scrounge yarn. I am a junkie willing to do anything it takes to get my fix. I am coming to understand that addiction starts out as a little nod to your creative other self and then you start to justify the inclusion of a passion in your life, and then, then it’s just you, fingering your yarn stash and wondering how wrong it would be to plug the kids into a move to get two hours of knitting time. I realize I’m a lost cause when I don’t want to teach my kids to knit, not yet, because right now it’s all mine. I’m bogarting the knitting.
And why not? Knitting is a noble art. Every time I learn a new stitch I marvel at the invention of such an art. Or a science. The two woven together into fabric. Knitting is the creation of women who used their brains and their creativity to clothe their families and create art at the same time. I yearn to stand in the shoes of the women who developed knowledge of fibers as though it were their birthright. And who continue to develop patterns and color and materials inventive ways to use their creations to warm, to protect, to beautify, to teach, to learn. So I will consider my addiction a small price to pay in order to claim my place in line. To honor the art, and maybe break off a little piece of it as my own, knowing that such pruning is what creates new life. How's that for justifying my addiction as good for all womankind?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
THE KING IS DEAD (warning: a little sappy)
I'll be honest. As much as I wanted a little sweet bulldog puppy in theory, I was shamefully ill-prepared for the reality of owning one. Being newly pregnant in February of 1998, when we brought home his little two month old self, full of wrinkles and skunky puppy breath, and adorableness (him, not me), my tolerance was already limited to things that would not make me throw up or get off the couch. So already, things were not boding well for this little loud ball of energy with sharp teeth and the tendency to leave his poo in places you didn't really want poo to be. Not that you want poo anywhere, but given the option, under your bare foot or on your clean folded laundry are not usually up there near the top of the list.
Anyway, puppy energy notwithstanding, I really really liked Elvis. Jeff really loved Elvis. I eventually grew to love him, but it was more like extreme fondness on my part, not the adoration that Jeff felt for him. Elvis was really Jeff's dog. I was, more often than not, a means to getting fed, a hand to hold the leash, a voice to ignore or the source of an available limb to teethe on. Nevertheless, Elvis was one charming motherfucker. All smooshy and handsome and wrinkly. His dominion over things soft to lie down on was legend. His snore and grunt and ability to get ticks in his ears unequaled. I have never seen one dog win the hearts of so many people (even mine).
So, it was no surprise when Elvis, after being dogsat by friends during the birth of our second baby, caused those friends to be charmed into offering him a home, should he ever need one. The truth is, I was relieved. Elvis was still adorable and sweet, but he was big and heavy, and too much for me to handle with a toddler, a newborn, and a husband who worked nights. Also, it just wasn't fair to him. Elvis didn't ask for much. A pizza crust, more pizza crust, any other food product available, a scratch on the belly, a soft spot to lie down on, and company. We just weren't able to provide him the company he needed and deserved. So, we gave him up. We gave him to Michele and Brian, the kind souls without the distraction of tiny human beings all up in their grills, with loads of grass for Elvis to kill with his squat-like-a-girl peeing. Michele and Brian loved loved loved Elvis. They spent all day with him. He slept with them. They turned entire pieces of furniture over to his control. Michele and Brian routinely had Elvis' favorite brand of pizza crust to spare. Elvis was happy. Elvis deserved to be there.
Later, Elvis moved to perfect bulldog climate, Northern California, with Michele and Brian. And while we never actually saw him again, they sent pictures and news often and we always felt included in the big events of his life: he took over a new ottoman, he got a new cat brother, he liked his new lesbian dogsitters. He ate some more pizza crusts. We even got to see Elvis on TV when he was a contender in the World's Ugliest Dog competition (a great offense to my children who believed that never was there a more handsome doggie).
I am grateful for a lot of things in my life. I have, really, everything I need and a lot more. But one of the things I am most grateful for is that Elvis got to live the perfect bulldog life with Michele and Brian. They gave him love and attention and an ideal life we could not have mustered. Any guilt I felt about the enormous relief I had at giving Elvis up was ameliorated by the realization that the guilt was about me, and that this really was the best thing that ever could have happened.
Elvis died two weeks ago. His death was all it could have been, if it had to be at all. He died doing his favorite thing (sleeping), following a dinner of his favorite meal (Domino's pizza crusts) and with the people he loved most, and who loved him most in the world. Michele and Brian didn't have to make any hard choices and he wasn't sick or in pain. I am grateful for a lot this Thanksgiving. But especially I am grateful for this. And for Michele and Brian. And for Elvis. Long live the King.
Anyway, puppy energy notwithstanding, I really really liked Elvis. Jeff really loved Elvis. I eventually grew to love him, but it was more like extreme fondness on my part, not the adoration that Jeff felt for him. Elvis was really Jeff's dog. I was, more often than not, a means to getting fed, a hand to hold the leash, a voice to ignore or the source of an available limb to teethe on. Nevertheless, Elvis was one charming motherfucker. All smooshy and handsome and wrinkly. His dominion over things soft to lie down on was legend. His snore and grunt and ability to get ticks in his ears unequaled. I have never seen one dog win the hearts of so many people (even mine).
So, it was no surprise when Elvis, after being dogsat by friends during the birth of our second baby, caused those friends to be charmed into offering him a home, should he ever need one. The truth is, I was relieved. Elvis was still adorable and sweet, but he was big and heavy, and too much for me to handle with a toddler, a newborn, and a husband who worked nights. Also, it just wasn't fair to him. Elvis didn't ask for much. A pizza crust, more pizza crust, any other food product available, a scratch on the belly, a soft spot to lie down on, and company. We just weren't able to provide him the company he needed and deserved. So, we gave him up. We gave him to Michele and Brian, the kind souls without the distraction of tiny human beings all up in their grills, with loads of grass for Elvis to kill with his squat-like-a-girl peeing. Michele and Brian loved loved loved Elvis. They spent all day with him. He slept with them. They turned entire pieces of furniture over to his control. Michele and Brian routinely had Elvis' favorite brand of pizza crust to spare. Elvis was happy. Elvis deserved to be there.
Later, Elvis moved to perfect bulldog climate, Northern California, with Michele and Brian. And while we never actually saw him again, they sent pictures and news often and we always felt included in the big events of his life: he took over a new ottoman, he got a new cat brother, he liked his new lesbian dogsitters. He ate some more pizza crusts. We even got to see Elvis on TV when he was a contender in the World's Ugliest Dog competition (a great offense to my children who believed that never was there a more handsome doggie).
I am grateful for a lot of things in my life. I have, really, everything I need and a lot more. But one of the things I am most grateful for is that Elvis got to live the perfect bulldog life with Michele and Brian. They gave him love and attention and an ideal life we could not have mustered. Any guilt I felt about the enormous relief I had at giving Elvis up was ameliorated by the realization that the guilt was about me, and that this really was the best thing that ever could have happened.
Elvis died two weeks ago. His death was all it could have been, if it had to be at all. He died doing his favorite thing (sleeping), following a dinner of his favorite meal (Domino's pizza crusts) and with the people he loved most, and who loved him most in the world. Michele and Brian didn't have to make any hard choices and he wasn't sick or in pain. I am grateful for a lot this Thanksgiving. But especially I am grateful for this. And for Michele and Brian. And for Elvis. Long live the King.
GODDESS CHO
Margaret Cho is one of the few women who have attained goddess status in my brain. Reading her blog used to be a necessary ritual for the life of my brain. Now, while I read it less frequently, I am consistently impressed by her commitment to communicate what is important, and her ability to do so effectively.
And every Thanksgiving, I reread this, to keep my feet firmly planted on the blood-stained ground on which we all are lucky to be walking. I'm just posting the link. It's not for the faint of heart. Especially if you like stuffing and have a hard time losing unpleasant mental images:
http://margaretcho.com/blog/index.php/archives/2003/11/27/no-thank-you/
And every Thanksgiving, I reread this, to keep my feet firmly planted on the blood-stained ground on which we all are lucky to be walking. I'm just posting the link. It's not for the faint of heart. Especially if you like stuffing and have a hard time losing unpleasant mental images:
http://margaretcho.com/blog/index.php/archives/2003/11/27/no-thank-you/
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
THINGS I BELIEVE
I believe in shaving my legs. I believe that most of the time when I try to combine textures that it doesn’t work. I believe that velvet is a hard material to pull off, but that that won’t stop me from trying. I believe that there is a fine line between taking care of yourself (moisturizer with sunscreen) and obsessing about taking care of yourself (face masks - come on, they really don’t matter and you can’t convince me that they do, they are just fun to wear and look in the mirror with and peel off if you have the peely off kind). I believe that hair, or lack thereof, is your most important accessory. I believe that people should pay more attention to the shape and color of their glasses (they are actually ON YOUR FACE and yes I can see them and the fact that they don’t go with your nose OR your shirt). I believe that, if at all possible, cars should match the house at which they park. I believe in changing purses often. I believe that I will eventually use all of the junk I have collected. I believe that being a passive aggressor hurts more than being a passive aggressee, although it is usually a two-way street and sometimes it does get you your way, you just don’t get to feel good about getting your way, so what’s the point? I believe that it is important to be liked, loved, and lusted after, and not necessarily in that order. I believe that a great sense of humor is a sign of the best kind of intelligence. I believe in jewish doctors. I believe that it is in fact possible to achieve world peace, but that everyone will have to listen to me and do exactly what I say in order to get there. I believe that it is impossible to be a capitalist and a humanist at the same time. I believe that no one has the right to decide who can or can’t set foot on any particular piece of dirt. I believe that life is too short to wear clothing that I don’t love or that doesn’t make me feel good. I believe that growing up without me is the worst thing that could happen to my kids. I believe that minivans are a secret weapon of the oil company designed to make men feel emasculated so that they will buy big gas guzzling trucks, SUVs and sports cars with uneconomical speed capabilities. I believe that making people feel guilty for throwing things away that could be recycled is ridiculous if we don’t first make corporations clean up their own pollution and mess. I believe that tolerance of violence is ruining the human race. I believe that people are basically good. I believe that consumerism is the other thing wrecking human beings. I believe that kids should learn to write in cursive even if they will never use it, or really paper at all, after 2015. I believe that music and art are at least as important as math. I believe that I’m usually right and people who disagree with me are usually wrong. I believe that I have a weird face. I believe that I would be happier if I were thinner. I believe that if celebrities want to be left alone, than they should decline the millions of dollars they get simply by virtue of being famous and choose a different life (it is possible to live quietly acting, singing or playing sports so that you can do what you love and still have a life, you just might not be rich and famous). I believe in spreading the wealth. I believe that most people believe they are entitled to things that they do not have, and that they are deluded about that. I believe that it sucks to get older. I believe in dressing boldly. I believe that I am mostly misunderstood, but that I could be wrong about that.
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