No offense: the easiest way to, indeed, offend

I feel that this moment should be dedicated to a specific cause. The issue? Saying what someone isn't instead of saying what there are. Let me give an example.

In August I was at my grandparents house celebrating my niece's first birthday. We had an excellent time, laughing and cutting up, enjoying each other's company and my niece's amusement as she ate her miniature chocolate cake. There was a conversation that occurred after the cake was devoured that had me wishing I could hide away and cry in private. I was embarrassed and horrified and just (for lack of a better word) sad. Really, really sad.

My dad's girlfriend had mentioned--to my grandma more than to me--that she thought I should leave my job and go elsewhere. In itself this is not a flawed idea, except for the fact that the job she wanted me to take would mean I would be making less money. Not appealing in any way, shape or form. This segued directly into a conversation about how I needed to leave my place of employment not because it is, inarguably, a dead-end job, but rather because I need to find a husband. Because my primary goal in life should be getting married and making babies. Because this is 2010 and women only work to find compatible body parts that will allow their baby-makers to flourish. Obviously.

"Amanda, no offense, but you will never find a date in a messy kitchen. No one sees you back there but high schoolers." Offensive, but not the lowest blow yet. I agreed that the kitchen was tucked away, recessed into the smallest niche where no one would find me. A place so remote that even if he had been looking, a decent man couldn't find me. This I understand, wholeheartedly, but all this one-sided conversation did was hurt me and more so as it progressed. Naturally from there the conversation went a little something like this: "And it's really not like you're ugly or anything."

Here's my opinion on that: DO NOT TELL SOMEONE THEY ARE NOT UGLY (unless, of course, the statement that directly follows is: "You're beautiful") EVER! Do not tell someone what they're not--tell them what they ARE. Telling a person they are not "ugly" or "unattractive" or whatever does not automatically mean they are attractive. Telling someone they're not stupid doesn't mean they're intelligent. Telling a person they're not guilty doesn't make them innocent. Telling someone you don't hate them doesn't mean you like them.

I don't know if it would have been better for her to just tell me that she thought I was kind of ugly... At least then nothing is sugar-coated--she's not pretending in any fashion.

I hope you're happy. No, really!

Sarcasm is as much a skill as it is a crutch. I use it even when I know I shouldn't, when I am painfully aware that I am coming across poorly, or in a way I do not wish to be painted. It happens. To all of us, really. And most phrases can go either way--sarcastic or sincere--the inflection and tone of one's voice is the difference between the two.

What about the phrase: "I hope you're happy."

It came up while I was working several days ago and it has stuck with me. Say it aloud. Okay, how does it sound? Do you sound like you mean it? Or do you sound like a complete and total ass? Yes, keep saying it, let's try to work on your level of sincerity. Try out different tones of voice, try adding emphasis on different words, play with it a little.

Suggestions:
I hope you're happy.
I hope you're happy.
I hope you're happy. (My personal favorite)
I hope you're happy.

The first two seem the most benign, the final two are, inarguably, the most blatantly evil. My personal preference is cut and dry sarcasm: I hope you're happy [because I am angry as hell]. Honorable mention for I hope you're happy [because you effed up BIG, my friend].

If there is one solely insincere phrase, there must be more.

TIP #45533: Avoid French Prison

This is me recommending a book to you--a memoir which was also made into a relatively entertaining movie called Catch Me if You Can. The book is of the same title and is much, much, much (continue with this word until you feel I would be content) better. There is a reason why it is said that you cannot EVER judge a book by its movie. I genuinely loved the book, I can't say enough about it, so it gets this tiny post.

Oh, and don't EVER commit any crimes in France (it's best you don't commit crimes anywhere, but I understand you must live your life as you see fit) unless you want to literally (yes, literally) live in a filthy, five foot by five foot cell without any accomodations whatsoever--including, but not limited to, lighting of any kind and bathroom facilities. Literally complete and total darkness and filth for a year.

Long story short: excellent book.

Writing Anyway

As you can see I posted two poems I wrote several years ago for a creative writing class. The point of that was to prove to myself that, without a doubt, (I think) I'm ready to start writing again. Not just this blog, but other, more important things. I stopped writing when someone who I thought had my back let me down. He told me that even if I were talented, I could never actually succeed in writing, so I should just give up and save myself the trouble.

I can't just give up. I care too much about finishing something that I've been writing since I was sixteen. When someone tells me that I can't do it, that even if I had talent I will still inevitibly fail, I want to be able to say, "I'm going to do what I want regardless of your bordering-on-incompetent opinion." So, I'm going to try to do that. We'll see how it goes.

The Mind's Confines

The Mind’s Confines

Restless in a life deemed “perfect”
Forever in search of the next clash,
Seeking a taste of anger, a touch of misery, an injection of deception.
Never asleep, mind keeps rummaging
Through an endless filing cabinet hidden in the back of the mind
Not searching for an answer, just a simple reason
To attempt a smile, to kill.
Never alone, even when solitary,
The mind continues searching…
Life, it goes on without her.

Aged and Ageless

Aged and Ageless

1.
Excessively long, dark, poker straight hair
Ages before I befriended hair dye.
Behind oversized pink plastic glasses--
More than half my face obstructed--
Crooked bangs to offset a crooked, toothless smile.
This second grade picture, sitting on a dusty mantle
The beginning of diminished self-esteem and
Ending with it a picturesque childhood


2.
A woman, old, she’s fragile
Gray hair always perfected
Oversized glasses to cover a wrinkled, ungracefully aged face
Pale, weathered, beautiful;
Tattered gray sweater and delicate working hands.
My great-grandmother;
Her mind is failing, but her heart still beats
And her eyes remain the same.

The Relationship Bridge [a ramble]

"Does love lose all validity for how it ends? It might, of course, though endings don't easily erase history; rather they seal it."

When one genuinely cares for another it is not easily erased, despite any unfortunate event that happens or complicates an already-complicated relationship. Despite every little happening and how badly the companionship ends, the fact is this: If a person ever truly, wholeheartedly cared for another, these feelings would not suddenly pack their bags and walk away unscathed; feelings do not dissipate suddenly or burst into flames. Anyone who can say "I just don't love you anymore" never truly loved you in the first place.

I don't think I easily disengage. The filing cabinets that line in inside of my brain, the ones to hold my memories, they continually pull out the good moments and replay them for me. Reminding me how things were when they were good, when they felt right and I was, for the most part, happy. And if viewed in its entirety, I would remember clearly that it wasn't ever perfect, even when things were going well; I cried even when I thought I was happy. And in truth, I cried because I cared for someone who did not particularly care for me the way I wanted him to and hoped that someday he would (that, of course, is a comment card all of its own). Things were complicated and fun, comfortable and imperfect, but eventually the relationship bridge that was building was structurally damaged when the two architects realized their blue prints were dissimilar. The structure collapsed beneath them and they began picking up the pieces they thought were worth salvaging. In time it was realized that the bridge was condemned and the work was abandoned.

That same bridge cannot be rebuilt. Or, maybe it can and I am just unwilling to rebuild. After all, insurance does not cover these types of catastrophes, you know. But I'd still like to be friends with my fellow architect. And that is probably a character flaw, but it is one I'm working with.

It was then that it hit me...

Last weekend was the Kentucky Derby. This tends to be an excuse to drink in excess, wear a tacky hat and make an absolute fool of yourself. Since I'm not a raging alcoholic and I didn't craft my own ugly hat, I had to find something else to do. What that tends to mean on just such a weekend is: trying to meet Jerry O'Connell.

The celebrities (or almost-celebrities) that attend the pre- and post-Derby parties are equally as important as the two-minute horse race itself. And sometimes a slew of people attend that I'd like to see in real life. This year, as many years prior, Mr. O'Connell was coming, and also one of my favorites, Oscar Nunez, from The Office. This will come into play later.

I was at an undisclosed location with several undisclosed friends all day long, trying to see something worth seeing. (Vague? It's better that way.) We saw several people, among them Oscar--I was turbo. The Office is one of my favorite shows and plus, he was hilarious in The Proposal. Oscar was super friendly, even to the slew of eBay guys that swarmed around him.

The eBay guys may seem to be a fleeting moment in this anecdote, but they are worth noting. They are called "eBay guys" because their sole purpose is obtaining autographs from celebrities and pseudo-celebrities in order to sell them (or forge others they will later sell) on eBay for oftentimes obscene amounts of money. Many of them are vultures. If you happen upon a slew of signed 8x10s on eBay with a 'Buy-it-Now' price of $149.99...chances are it is the work of these afore mentioned vultures.

The night went on and the vultures had become restless. Many of them flew off to various watering holes, gulping down obscene amounts of beer and Mint Juleps. When they returned, some of them had met this elusive Jerry O'Connell fellow and I found myself shaking my fists to the sky. A five year curse, I tell you!

A drunken gentleman, for lack of a better word, sat down too-close beside me. He didn't speak to me, or otherwise acknowledge my existence, so I was not particularly upset that he was practically sitting in my lap. I assumed he would leave. He did not. And somehow he became my new best friend.

He asked me who I was waiting to see. The ever-so-elusive, charming and handsome, "Jerry O'Connell," I said.

"Oh," he said. He smiled the smile of a drunk. "You know he's married right?"

"Yes, of course. That's hardly the point." But he seemed to assume that was the point. He accused me of being a homewrecker. No. The only homewrecker I like is at Moe's. And even then, it's still too much.

For some reason and at some point, dear Candace thought it would be amusing to tell this drunken gentleman from Chicago that I was Amish. Let the record show that I am not Amish. Nor was I dressed as if I were. He was just inebriated enough to believe this.

"REALLY?" He asked. He seemed like a kid in an Amish candy store.

Candace proceeded to tell him that I was a mother of eight...eight kids by six different baby daddies. For some reason, as the tale got taller it became more and more believable. He asked how many kids I wanted. I declined to answer. He said he wanted SEVENTEEN! (Yikes!)

"Well," Candace said. "The good news is that she already has eight, so she only needs nine more!"

He was thrilled. I felt sick.

He asked where I had parked my horse and buggy. I told him they let me park it in the parking garage. He seemed so genuinely happy for me...and I was thankful that he was a happy drunk. As if on cue, a horse-drawn carriage pulled up in front of us. It was huge and detailed with lights illuminating the backside.

"Is that yours?" He asked. Candace cackled wildly. Obviously. How could she resist?

I told him that it wasn't mine--Amish people such as myself do not use electricity, so the lighting on the carriage was a dead giveaway.

"Oh," he mumbled, "I was for sure it was Valet bringing your car." Ah yes, and then it was my turn to cackle wildly.

"Amish people don't believe in electricity," she admitted. "So if you two got married, there wouldn't be any lights in your house."

What drunken man needs two seconds to ponder the idea of marriage with a total stranger? He seemed devastated as he delivered my all-time favorite line: "What? But how would I do eBay?" Yes, because eBay will financially support an Amish mother of eight...

Her reply: "Lots of Amish people use the library. You could eBay there." He seemed okay with that.

He asked me again who I was waiting to see. I told him the elusive O'Connell. He asked who else. Who else? I shurgged and said I really like The Office, but I already saw Oscar Nunez. He ignored my latter statement and pulled out his oversized collapsable folder. It had appeared so small, but when in use, its full size was impressive. It seemed much more like a filing cabinet as he rifled through the alphabetized folder. In his drunken stupor, he finally found what he was looking for. Two signed 8x10 photographs of Oscar. He handed them to me. A gift.

A gift? He explained that he wouldn't take them back and if I felt guilty enough, I would come to Fourth Street to drink with him. Immediately I tried to give them back, but he would not take them. He begged and conned and manipulated, trying to get me to agree to follow him to a nameless bar.

It was then that it hit me... saying yes was the first step in becoming a missing person, another girl being taken advantage of. Saying yes at this point was not a part of my vocabulary. I've seen Dateline! The easiest way to be victimized was to agree to follow a random drunken man to Fourth Street in hopes of getting a free Mint Julep.

I declined. Repeatedly. He became more persistent as he delivered this classic: "In a couple weeks we're headed to the Bahamas. You wanna come?"

If I wouldn't walk five blocks with him, what would make him think I would blindly follow him to the Bahamas? Eventually, he left for the watering hole without me. I didn't get a drink, but I did end up with two amusing pictures of one of my favorite Office characters, as well as an amusing story that I will continue to tell, as it seems to never get old.

And kids, the moral of the story is: if it's reminiscent of Dateline, don't do it!

Speaking of which...

Hooray for epiphanies!

Let's talk about the name: Segue to an Epiphany. This was decided months ago, way before any content was decided upon. Ideally this blog will feature anecdotes of varying lengths detailing what has led me to an epiphany. Aside from that, it will also feature crap that cannot be categorized as an epiphany, but may still be noteworthy.

Hoping this is worth the effort!