Okay. You knew this was coming.

I'm going to preface everything that follows with: I respect and appreciate Danny Boyle's contributions to the cinematic industry. Rough, gritty, difficult to handle subject matters are his playground and he has a style, a finesse, if you will, handling those subjects in way that makes them interesting, and, more to the point, he offers a different insight, a "bear with me for a moment, there's a point to this" mentality instead of, "let's make fun of poor people or drug addicts." There is all the difference. A film about heroin-addicted 20-somethings who go clubbing, have sex with minors, get knocked up, and die of toxemia in the condemned flat in which they're squatting isn't exactly the sort of thing most of us are dying to pay $10 and two hours of our lives to see. Ditto the aftermath of a toxic contagion that turns people into diseased zombies. Ditto a sadly impoverished kid from the worst swutting place on the planet to live being interrogated. Ditto a group of self-absorbed jerks with a very wealthy but dead roommate. But, many of us were anxious to see these movies and plunked down the money to see them. Props and respect, Mr. Boyle, props and respect.

But.

Maybe government-funded big budget live theatrical productions aren't your milieu, Mr. Boyle. It is a bit of a, erm, departure for you.

I also have to preface everything that follows with: Song and dance numbers aren't really my milieu. I like a good opera production performed by trained opera singers on sets designed by masters of their craft. But generally speaking I'm not keen on musical theater. I try to not be one of those people who mock that which they do not understand so I tend to stay mum on musical theater.

But.

I do like the Olympics. I like the concept of countries putting aside differences and getting together in one place. Wouldn't it be cool if there was an Olympics for things other than athletics? Music Olympics. Movie Olympics. Food Olympics (that could be scary, though). Model building Olympics. Sewing Olympics. Anything could be an Olympic theme, the point is that countries the world over show up and participate for two weeks. This theme appeals to the Junior UN in me. Once a Model UN delegate, always a Model UN delegate.

There are people who ridicule, cajole, mock and satirize much better than I do. Some of these people even have first-hand Olympic experience and credible opinions. So I'll leave it to them.

But I have to say it: Nothing gets an arena full of sports fans and athletes pumped and excited like a geriatric man in a mismatched suit singing Hey Jude. Off key. And did he forget the lyrics there for a minute or was that an intentional tension-building pause? Maybe he was overcome with emotion. But. He's been singing that song for 40 years (more than that, even), I'm guessing he could choke it out while being tortured by waterboarding. Which is what it was for most of us watching at home. I've heard in person he has some kind of weird mojo, that in his presence even the most cynical hater  falls into a sort of glib reverie, so maybe in the arena it wasn't as awful as it was at home. But, regardless, Hey Jude is just a really odd song choice to kick off the Olympics. I'm baffled. Well. I have a theory. But I'm not going to bash Paul any more than I already have. He's an old man and it's rude and insensitive to make fun of old people. 

There were some really great moments, some of them unexpected.

• Sex Pistols. Full, glorious Sex Pistols. Time heals wounds and/or the Queen really does have a sense of humor. And Johnny Rotten, Steve Jones, Paul Cook and Glenn Matlock are excitedly anticipating their first big royalty check in a decade.
• Daniel Craig and a glimpse of the inside of Buckingham Palace. Hey, I've always wondered what it's like in there. And yes, I liked that the Corgis were included.
• The children singing from Wales, Ireland, Scotland and England. I'm a tough crowd when it comes to children's choirs. Too often it's an overused vehicle to conjure an overly sweet sappiness and the children are heavily trained and groomed actors. The kids in the snippets from the around the UK seemed pretty darned real and the moment wasn't too saccharine.
• The LED panels/synchronized light show in the arena. Cool. I wish they would have shown more wide shots so the home viewing audience could see more of the visuals. Regardless, it was a great utilization of technology. 
• The acknowledgment of Tim Berners-Lee. (Somewhere out there Tipper Gore is getting the last laugh in the divorce. I imagine her sitting at home with divorced friends enjoying a pitcher of whiskey sours (for some reason Tipper seems like a whiskey sour kinda gal) chortling and laughsnorting over the fact that the actual inventor of the internet was showcased at the Olympics.) This was not only a glorious moment for Tipper, it was a glorious moment for anyone who believes in nerd justice. No. Al Gore will never live down his inane comment. Ever.
• The nod to glam rock. Albeit minus Gary Glitter, the fact that glam rock was acknowledged and generously long video snippets of T-Rex and Mott the Hoople were shown is cool. 
• Ditto the very brief Ska moment. 
• Mike Oldfield with a modified version of Tubular Bells. I will debate the appropriateness of conjuring images from the Exorcist at the Olympics, but he was an unexpected (read: cheap) addition and I kinda enjoyed that segment. I imagine the meeting went something like this, "Right, we have the '60s finalized, then, onto the '70s. We need an icon, someone who sums up the '70s. But. We blew the budget getting Sir Paul, so we need someone willing to work cheap. Let's just brainstorm, throw out some names." "Led Zeppelin." "Too expensive." "Pink Floyd." "Too expensive. And they're in the middle of that Wall tour." "The Clash." "Strummer's dead." "Thin Lizzy." "Oooh, good one, I like that, including Ireland would be good for peace relations and they haven't done anything in years, I bet we can get them cheap." "Um, isn't Phil Lynott dead?" "Is he? Someone fact check that." "Yep, dead." "Gary Glitter" "There's the whole child pornography thing and we have kids singing and dancing in their pajamas...too much of a liability. We need someone from the '70s who's cheap and not dead and not a sex offender." "Um, who's that guy who did the theme from the Exorcist? Mike someone?" "Right! Yes! Mike someone! Look him up, if he's not dead or a registered sex offender, book him!" 
• The Chariots of Fire spoof. I'm not a huge Mr. Bean fan but I really liked that spoof. I like it when countries don't take themselves so seriously they lose all sense of self-awareness and humility.
• Arctic Monkeys. I realize this was a desperate attempt to hip-up the event, but I don't care. I like them and I thought they did a great job. Hated the song choice but I'm reasonably certain that was mandated to them. They were professional, tight and a highlight of the night.
• Winged Bikers. I dunno why, I just liked them. Cheesy, yes, but I still liked them. 
• The athletes without a country. Surely these people have a passport. Where were those passports issued? It's all part of the global intrigue element of the Olympics and I like that.
• A legion of young no-name athletes lighting the cauldron instead of one "celebrity" lighter.
• What I'm choosing to believe is a Rennie Mackintosh inspired torch/cauldron/fire pit. 

Those were a few of the highlights for me. 

But.

If you watched the opening ceremony you, like me, may have some questions and concerns.
1) Aluminum, or, aluminium ductwork drums. Lots and lots and lots of aluminum/aluminium ductwork drums. As the one of the few (only?) props that remained constant throughout the ceremony, they're clearly of some significance. Perhaps if the cameras weren't cutting around so quickly we could read the words spray painted on them and it would all make sense.

2) Erm, um, wait, what? Gosh, was that an ode to sick children and the people who care for them? Not to diminish sick children, or the people who care for them. But. Erm, how to put this politely, is the Olympic opening ceremony really the forum for an ode to sick children? Not that it has to be all mirth and lightness, but, the subject of sick children is kind of heavy for what's meant to be a lively celebration of world athletes and the host country.

3) Charon piloting a small ferry across Styx David Beckham driving a flaming boat on the Thames. The Thames is a long river, but sheesh, where the heck did they start the journey? They seemed to be plowing through the Thames the entire evening. And. In re: the way David Beckham was standing there with a giddy smile while rigidly piloting that boat, I know I'm not the only one who thought a) Gene Wilder and the freaky multicolored boat in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and b) that's the exact same giddy smile and boat piloting stance used by Tommy Lee in another famous boating video.

4) How many times are we going to hear that the arena is built in a long-blighted area of London? Yes. East London is not on the top of anyone's "must see" list when visiting England. But do we really need that drilled into us every five minutes? It smacks of Detroit-bashing: Easy and one-dimensional, broadbrushing everyone and everything and all the history and politics. It was during these incessant "reminders" that East London was a blighted ghetto before the arena came along that I was most reminded of Hunger Games. The commentators spit out "East London" the way the Capitol folk spit out "District 12:" with snobbish disdain and contempt. So. Stop it. The arena is in London. Period.

Perhaps this was a driving influence in hiring Danny Boyle to produce the opening ceremony. "Hmmmmm, the arena is in East London...so we need someone with experience filming impoverished children, misguided selfish young adults, heroin addicts, and contagious zombies...hmmmmm. Let's see...." I'm guessing Merchant and Ivory just missed the cut.

5) Speaking of Merchant and Ivory, am I the only one who's surprised there wasn't even a brief nod to Merchant and Ivory? After all, those films almost single-handedly kept the UK on the international cultural map in the '80s and '90s. Were it not for Merchant and Ivory, Duran Duran, and U2 the UK would have vanished into cultural obscurity in the late '80s and early '90s. But nothing, not one quill scribing out titles, not one rain-streaked window vignette, not a one second shot of Helena Bonham Carter in Edwardian period costume...nothing. I'm not complaining, but it was conspicuous by its absence.

6) Let's talk conspicuous by absence, shall we? Oh yes, let's. I realize the UK has a vast treasure trove of cultural, political, social and historical material from which to choose, and not everyone can make the cut, but some of the omissions are glaring.

• Magna Carta: Maybe I missed it, but I saw no references to the, you know, principles on which all democratic societies are established. Just sayin', you know, I know it's old, and probably seems a little stuffy and esoteric. But. It's, you know, the Magna Carta. They could have spelled out key quotes/themes in the LED arena lights. Yeah. I know. That is a really good idea. But they didn't do it.
• Charles Dickens: I suppose by association the smokestacks growing Heavenward representing the Industrial Revolution also represent Dickens. But. I mean, Shakespeare was the first image in the opening animation, and he was quoted during the ceremony. And sure, Shakespeare is deserving. But so is Dickens. Maybe A Tale of Two Cities could be deemed inciting or rabble rousing. Or maybe the fact that Dickens brought child labor and abuse to harsh light cuts a little too close to the bone for manufacturing companies who advertise and sponsor the Olympics. Yes, child labor is an uncomfortable chapter in English history. But don't blame Dickens. 
• Twiggy: I thought it was weird that the Mods were depicted with light-up dresses, but hey, at least they got a nod. Twiggy, not so much. I dunno. '60s. England. Twiggy. Right? I guess Danny Boyle thinks not. Plus it would have taken time away from the Trainspotting video clip greenscreened onto the house. Oh yes, Danny, we noticed. Nothing says world class athletic competition like a trailer for a movie about heroin, sex with minors, accidental pregnancy, illegally squatting in condemned public housing and dying of toxemia therein, and we wouldn't want to sacrifice any of those glorious cinematic moments for someone as off topic as Twiggy.
• George and Ringo: In the opening animation, illustrations of Shakespeare, Churchill, Greenwich and other faces and places in history scrolled along through time leading up to John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Time apparently stopped in England when the Beatles broke up. And apparently George and Ringo didn't even earn a mention. I will never defend the Beatles, but, c'mon. If you're going to have John and Paul you kinda have to throw in George and Ringo. Especially if you're going to stop your timeline with the swutting Beatles. People will notice. Even people who don't love the Beatles. People like me. And if I noticed, you better believe the legions of fans the world over noticed. Geeze, Danny, what'd George and Ringo ever do to you? No amount of tacky Sergeant Pepper jackets and bouncing yellow submarines will erase the fact that George and Ringo were left out of the opening timeline animation.
• Admiral Lord Nelson: The fact that he wasn't portrayed at some point in the evening's festivities stymies me. I don't think they even showed Trafalgar Square. Like George and Ringo, he didn't even make the cut for the opening animated timeline. I have nothing more to add to that because I'm still at a loss for words over the omission.
• The Immigrant Song: Yes, I heard a few strains of Zeppelin during the music montage. But. There's a conspicuous epic miss in the form of the Immigrant Song on a continuous loop during the parade of nations. 
• Queens Victoria and Elizabeth I: Historic, beloved, fabled...why the snub, Danny? Why the snub? We are not amused. 
• Alfred Hitchcock: Yes, he did a lot of his work in America, but he always retained his British citizenship. And, like David Beckham, he's from East London, the site of the arena. I have long thought that Boyle is heavily influenced by Hitchcock. And not just the exploring of the concept of evil lurking in everyday places. His cinematic style borrows heavily from some of Hitchcock's crafty editing. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But. Boyle could have worked in some love for Hitchcock. I'm not saying a swarm of Hitchcocks needed to drop from the sky. Just the opposite. You know how Hitchcock made stealthy cameo appearances in his films? Why not litter a few stealthy cameos of him into the montages? It could be like Where's Waldo. Where's Alfred? I know. I know. With ideas like that I don't know why I'm unemployed, either. 
• Speaking of Where's Waldo: Martin Handford, the creator of Waldo, is British. And yet, not a single red and white stripey scarf. I realize Martin Handford is not the household name JK Rowling or JM Barrie are...hey, wait a minute, does this have something to do with not having two initials for a first name? No, that can't be it because CS Lewis, AA Milne, TS Eliot and EM Forester weren't represented, either. That's right: Not a Pooh or Piglet, nor Lion, Witch (or Wardrobe) were in attendance. I know. I know. You're starting to come around to what I'm saying here, aren't you? Winnie the Pooh, that silly old bear, didn't make the Olympic cut?! For shame, Danny Boyle, for shame. That's going to be the final straw for Eeyore. You will have Eeyore's blood on your hands, Mr. Boyle.
• Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl and Beatrix Potter: I suppose I can take a deep breath and get past the Pooh snub, but Alice in Wonderland? The Cheshire Cat, for crying out loud? Cheshire? England? Or Charlie, of Chocolate Factory fame, James of Giant Peach fame, Matilda, of, erm, Matilda fame? Really? Some of the best-loved books and characters ever created? Peter Rabbit and farmer McGregor? Peter. Swutting. Rabbit. My God, man, what the heck were you thinking when you crossed the characters of Charlie et al, Alice in Wonderland and Peter Rabbit off the list of literary characters represented? Cripes, you could have given the "sick" kids in the hospital scene cuddly toy versions of Peter Rabbit to cling to when those enormous freaky marionettes descended from the sky. If nothing else, that's an epic merchandising fail, Danny Boyle. I believe those children were wearing Laura Ashley pajamas, and if you don't think people around the world are flocking to buy replicas of those pajamas you sir, need a marketing manager to help you understand merchandising.
• Colin Firth, Emma Thompson and Kate Blanchett: I just thought I'd take a moment to acknowledge that Colin Firth, Emma Thompson and Kate Blanchett were not featured in any way during the making of this spectacular. I kinda thought that was illegal in England.
• James Herriot, the Brontës and Yorkshire in general: Okay, sure, there were several creatures, great and small, featured, and I suppose the sod rolling segment could allude to the rolling Yorkshire moors. But. Still. Those books are beloved treasures in England and abroad and tell stories far beyond taking care of animals. They have war, quaint country folk, the Olde Tyme ways of northern farm life...I dunno, seems like James Herriot is a nice, safe, beloved trove of English allegories...and cute animals. Everyone loves cute animals. I realize the Brontë sisters are more difficult terrain, theirs are not the stuff of feel good happy endings. But. How difficult would it have been to have a wind whipped "Heathcliff...." echo around the arena? I know!!! I KNOW!!!! EPIC MISSED OPPORTUNITY!!!! It would have taken four seconds of audio. Girl please, trim a little of the Notting Hill Four Weddings Hugh Grant Vehicle clip and voila! you now have time for a poignant "Heathcliff..." echoing around a silent arena. But apparently Danny Boyle has an issue with Yorkshire.
• Stonehenge: Maybe I blinked and missed it. I must have blinked and missed it. There's no way they'd present a "UK Through History" musical spectacular and not represent Stonehenge. There's no way they'd leave huge, monolithic rocks out of the opening ceremony. Right? I just missed it in all the hullabaloo, right?
• Kilts: Did you see any kilts? Yeah. Me neither. I'm not saying I wanted to see kilts. But I kinda expected to see a kilt or two. As Meredith Viera astutely pointed out, it's the British Isles, plural, comprised of England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. (Thank God for Meredith and Matt, together again, bringing us all up to speed on world geography.) And two of those countries are closely associated with kilts. And one of those countries has a long-held tradition of sporting events wherein the strongest and most agile men of the clans show off their prowess hurling cabers, hammers, huge bales of hay and themselves (yes, really, they throw themselves over a bar, like pole vaulting without the pole, but the bigger difference is the heavier you are, the higher marks you get, so ideally you want a really huge guy with freakish jumping skills and agility to represent you). Oh. And. They do all of this in kilts. So you might think at least one kilt would make its way into the Olympic arena hosted by the UK. Like Stonehenge, I must have missed it. There must have been a kilted scene.
• Leprechauns, Kelpies, wulvrers, pixies, sprites, fairies, faeries, giants and wee people: The UK has a rich history of quaint folkloric beings. Some cute and helpful, others...not so much. But. Apparently folklore isn't cool enough for Danny Boyle because we got nothing. Nada. Zip. Maybe those freaky giant marionettes were supposed to be giants. It would certainly explain the enormous freaky-ass baby under a wet sheet. Wales, from whence giants hail, portrays giants very differently. Maybe that baby was just a heavily stylized version of the folkloric giant. That baby is going to haunt my dreams for months. By the way. What's up with the freaky baby imagery? The dead baby scene in Trainspotting is disturbing, too. And come to think of it (and really, I'd rather not), the dead baby in Trainspotting and the giant Olympic baby look a lot alike. Insight, Mr. Boyle? What's your deal with dead babies?
• Monty Python: Really? We're leaving out the Pythons? Had I known, I would have taken up an online collection to have the boys do a 5 minute bit about Olympic sports. Imagine Michael Palin doing a discuss throw, or Eric Idle trying to navigate a velodrome with John Cleese as commentator. I know. Huge missed opportunity. Or. You know the English, always the first to put on a dress, they could have portrayed the mothers of athletes, mocking those touching "behind the Gold" stories. Instead of supportive athletic moms, they could be apathetic disgruntled mums. "All this pole vaulting business, it's a silly waste of time. How's he going to get a proper job when all he has to show for himself is pole vaulting practice?" 
• Andrew Lloyd Webber: Not that I wanted an Andrew Lloyd Webber montage, trust me, I'm happy about this omission, but, it is a little weird he, and his plays, or the West End in general, were not represented in any way. 
• Stephen Hawking: This is another epic fail and huge personal disappointment. I was so certain Hawking would make an appearance, give a little statement, something, that for me it was a "not if, but when and how" element. I expected a poetic homage to Sir Isaac Newton and physics in general and all that the UK has contributed to science. And, gee, one of the greatest minds in history, right there, in his native country, just up the road from the arena, and...nothing. Are you kidding me? A 20 second reference to GMT is the sum total of the science portion of the presentation? Swut you, Danny Boyle, what kind of treason is this? 
• Gilbert and Sullivan: This one bugs me so much I'm saying it again. Gilbert and swutting Sullivan. I hate musicals but even I love Gilbert and Sullivan. And there's a sporty jocularity to many Gilbert and Sullivan songs and themes. Maybe it felt too obvious. As if tacky Sergeant Pepper costumes and bouncy yellow submarines aren't too obvious.
• Bono: I'm guessing the jumbotrons were not to His liking. Not big enough. Sure, it was a, you know, world stage, a huge arena, and a world broadcast, and that had to get Him salivating (or something), imagine the possibilities for sanctimonious pontificating about Northern Ireland and American politicians and all the crafted-for-effect-and-future-soundbite moments on such a grand scale! I noticed the in-arena screens weren't as huge as one might presume them to be and also, they seemed quite discreet. I only caught a couple glimpses of them and they did not appear to be of the obnoxious variety. I'm not complaining, but Bono likes Himself projected on enormous flashing jumbotrons, so this could explain His absence from the opening ceremony. Plus I'm guessing there wasn't a lot of money left in the kitty after they paid Paul McCartney, and, it's just not worth it for Bono to make the effort if He's not getting a decent cut of $200/ticket sales. Although I hear Facebook stock is not doing well, and that's gotta hurt the old portfolio, eh, Bono? You might have to consider lowering your appearance fee in the coming months. The show's not over, and it is a world stage, so I'm willing to bet a slightly used vinyl copy of Joshua Tree that He'll do "something" at the closing ceremony. I mean, c'mon, that huge arena with a world home viewing audience? There's no way He can ignore that.
• Coldplay: See above, Bono.
• Not enough Clash: Just sayin'. There's a lot more to the Clash than London Calling and reducing them to their lowest common denominator isn't fair to them or their fans. 
• Petula Clark: My mother noticed this one and she is really angry about it. She has a point, Petula Clark, while not as heavily played as the Beatles and Stones, is ubiquitous to England in the '60s. It would have been so easy to slip in Downtown or Don't Sleep in the Subway in that dancing through the decades drek that went on way too long. During the elementary school talent show glow stick hula hoop representation of the Tube, for instance. 
• Tom Jones: Who better to represent Wales? And come on, Tom on stage gyrating, working his breathy song styling, hairy chest glistening in the arena lighting, belting out "she's got style, she's got grace, she's a winner, she's a lady (whoa oh whoa)?" Priceless Olympic moment. 
• Gary Glitter, Rock and Roll Part I intro: Even though this is still played heavily at soccer and football games, I'm guessing the whole child pornography thing put the kibosh on Rock and Roll, Part I blaring through the arena. Still. It's so deeply entrenched in sporting events that its absence is conspicuous. 
• TARDIS, Daleks, Time Machines and the Heart of Gold:  Okay, so the British haven't exactly pioneered space exploration. Sir Branson had to bring his Galaxy project to the US, for crying out loud. But. They write a ripping sci-fi yarn. Arthur C. Clarke, Douglas Adams, HG Wells, Aldous Huxley...need I continue? And that makes Dr. Who and Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy all the more brilliant. If a country without a space program can create such enduring and beloved science fiction, then by golly you need to represent them in the Olympic opening ceremony. (No, the catchall quasi aluminum ductwork Stormtroopers don't count.) They can still redeem themselves with a "So long, and thanks for all the fish" at the closing ceremony. Danny Boyle, are you listening? 

****UPDATE**** It's been disclosed that Paul McCartney was paid $1.57 (ish) for his performance at the opening ceremony. This explains a few things. 1) He wasn't being paid so he phoned in the performance; and 2) There wasn't enough (any) money in it for Bono, erm, His charities. Turns out Mike Oldfield also received only a token payment of $1.57 ish, which in case, will probably result in big payoffs in the form of "wow, I forgot about him/who the heck is that/oh yeah, the Exorcist soundtrack..." publicity.  I predict a spike in Tubular Bells ringtones.

The recent, erm, "changes" in the relationship status with an old friend brought about some post mortem thoughts. Yeah, that kind of bugs me, too.

The need to encapsulate, label and definitively conclude every aspect of life has pervaded most of my friends' mindsets. Another reason I'm drifting farther away from old friends...I'm still of the mindset that unless there is something useful to be learned, there's no need to encapsulate and label every little thing that happens in life, whereas they are determined to speak their opinions, cite their evidence, put the matter (whatever it is) into a hermetically sealed jar, label it and conclude their conclusions are absolute and call it done and written in stone. My pop psychology theory is that encapsulating, concluding and labeling difficult subjects/people grants permission to dismiss the subject/people. Conclusions drawn, subject closed. Definitively. Definitives give people a sense of control. And at this chaotic point in history, people are longing for a sense of control.

I'm of the opinion that life is more organic than definitive conclusions. If we're evolving, then we're changing, which means it's impossible to draw final conclusions because when it comes to people, there are no absolutes. And yes, that can feel very chaotic, unsettled and scary. But. Until we're dead, there can be no post mortem on anything about us. Welcome to Life 101. Don't bother taking notes because it can, and probably will, all change tomorrow.

So I tend to keep my mind open to any and all possibilities because the only certainty in life is death. Drawing conclusions doesn't serve any real purpose other than to later shock/disappoint/scare/anger the person who drew the conclusions that weren't so final after all. Sure, concluding and dismissing feels good in the moment, gives some relief and closure, but when it comes to humans it's not "safe" to conclude anything.

Well. Almost anything. For instance, it's safe to conclude that I will never smoke cigarettes. I'm pretty sure that's an absolute.

But. You never know. I'm not dead, yet, so it's impossible to say that I will never smoke cigarettes. It's doubtful, it's a safe bet, but, we cannot say never. We can label me a nonsmoker but we cannot conclude that I will never smoke cigarettes. (But really, it's a safe bet, go ahead and put some money on that one.)

So. Unless I can learn something useful or gain insight that will lead to forgiveness and/or acceptance, I'm not driven with desire to label and dismiss anyone. I take the "people change, we're all evolving, life is going on" attitude, but I generally don't label and dismiss anyone.

However, I am surrounded by people who do. Identifying, labeling, concluding and dismissing seems to have become a way of life for most of my friends and many members of my family. I've always been more of a listener than a talker, and over the past few years that's become even more the case. For many reasons, some self-esteem related, but mostly I hear a lot of sanctimonious superlatives bandied about. What can I, or anyone, contribute to a conversation with someone who has formed absolute opinions to the point of rigidly dismissing the person/matter completely and closing their thoughts to any other possibilities? For example, here's an actual chain of statements a friend recently made about another friend's husband, "He never helps with the laundry." + "He never takes her to a nice restaurant." + "He watches a lot of television." = "He will always be a horrible husband." You don't even know this guy and you know he's more dimensional than those statements. And you know there is more going on in that marriage than laundry, dinner and television. But my friends have drawn the conclusion, put the erstwhile horrible husband in a hermetically sealed jar labeled "HORRIBLE HUSBAND" and that's that. Definitively concluded, and so, it is safe to dismiss him. Done and done.

I should note that the guy is not exactly husband or father of the year material in realms other than laundry, dinner and television, but those seem to be the hot button issues. I should also note his wife isn't exactly the independent, fun-loving but ambitious career-motivated girl he married. Cause = effect? I'm not willing to label the jar, but theories can certainly be formed.

More to the point, it's not my place to judge. More to an even more relevant point: It's none of my business. To a definitive point: My opinion about this guy's husband abilities is a moot point.

So what purpose does labeling him serve? My theory: Negatively labeling someone grants permission to ridicule, gossip, and dismiss. He's a horrible husband so it's okay to gossip about him, bash him, and generally disrespect him and most of all: Be apathetic toward him. It's okay to not care about him because he's a horrible husband.

That line of reasoning, no matter how unintentional, is very uncomfortable for me.

And has been for as long as I can remember. Affixing labels on people never felt right to me. This can be mostly attributed to my Sunday school upbringing. Parables of compassion and forgiveness, Golden Rules...that sort of thing...were drilled into me from the first time I stepped foot into a Sunday school classroom. I latter learned my Sunday school program was more stringent than some other non-Catholic Sunday schools. I had homework assignments. And quizes. (There are too many levels of wrong in administering and grading a test about Jesus to 6-year-old lambs of God to get into here, a blog for another day, but let's just say there were kids who could spell Jesus before they could spell their own names because they were so afraid of our pre-K Sunday school teacher.) But. More than Sunday school, my parents walked the walk, led by example, lived the way we were taught to live in Sunday school. So. There's a deeply entrenched value system in place, a Christ-based moral compass. But. There's more to it than that. Setting my Christian upbringing aside, there's the matter of my functioning cerebral cortex that gives me the ability to reason. And reasonably thinking, it's impossible to definitively label anyone because we all have cerebral cortices and therefore, we are all capable of reason...and change.

Okay.

And so it was that I got into yet another "disagreement" with another friend. Instead of just listening and not saying much when the judgmental definitive conclusion was drawn about a mutual friend's husband, I dared to offer some compassion toward him. And his wife. "He has a very stressful job and she's worried about [one of their children's] struggles at school, so, there are a lot of anxiety-filled issues under that roof right now."

My friend interrupted me, sighing exasperatedly, "Oh, here we go, Trillian's Empathy Hour. Has it ever occurred to you that there isn't good in everyone? That some people really are bad? That not everyone deserves understanding and benefit of doubt?"

I was taken a little aback because in the many (many) years I've known this friend, it's been generally difficult for me to get more than a few words in edgewise in any conversation. And when the conversation turns to gossip I tend to stop listening, preferring to let my mind wander to the positive aspects of the person under the gossip microscope, or, failing that, letting my mind wander to a different place altogether, a happier, less judgmental place.

"Well," I stammered, trying to regain some clarity, "yes, of course there are bad people out there. I know that. But most people, the ones we know, anyway, have redeeming qualities. I'm single, unemployed and homeless and yet you remain friends with me. You must find some redeeming quality in me or we wouldn't remain friends. And I'm grateful for that, and, so, you know, I feel it's important to not label and dismiss other people, especially people we know."

"Yeah, I know. But. How's that working out for you, Trill? You said it, you're single, unemployed and homeless. And losing friends right and left. Maybe a little less compassion and a little more calling it like you see it would be helpful for you."

The implication being that I let people take advantage of me. (and for the record I'm not losing friends right and left) This friend feels (strongly) that I should have blown some whistles on my former boss, and that I should have been more verbally aggressive in some dating situations. Because I failed to slate my former boss or get into arguments on first dates with men I was clearly never going to see again, this friend thinks I let myself be a doormat. She frequently dismisses/admonishes me with, "Kindness for weakness, Trill, kindness for weakness. People will always take kindness for weakness and then take advantage of the situation and you."

That line of reasoning has always seemed a little, well, paranoid to me so I just smile and nod when she admonishes me about being "too" nice.

She also uses the judgment-packed word "should" a lot so I tend to sort out which of her shoulds actually apply to me and my life.

I just sat there a little dazed and confused about what I was hearing from the other end of the phone. How did her bashing our friend's husband turn into me being "too" nice as the root cause of my marital, employment and housing statuses? 

Maybe I am "too" nice because I didn't launch into a defensive argument with my friend. As a way to end the conversation I just said, "You're right, I could be a little more absolute when it comes to my feelings about other people."

One of the reasons this friend is my friend is that she is perceptive and doesn't let stuff slide. Yes, that is, at times, a good thing. She twists my arm and pushes me into doing things I might not normally do on my own, and I need someone like that. For all her badgering she is encouraging and yes, even supportive in her own backhanded way.

"Yeah, Trill you could. That's the operative word. Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Don't play coy. Will you make an effort to be more decisive about your feelings about people?"

"If it means labeling them and writing them off, no."

"See? You won't. Because you can't. And until you can, people will take advantage of you. Jesus got crucified at an early age, Trill. And he died alone. The story doesn't have a happy ending."

"The parable being that if I'm more callous and judgmental, maybe throw a few stones, I'll find a job and attract a husband?"

"See? You can do it! So why don't you? I've known you for years, Trill, I know you have it in you, I know you can unleash sarcasm to end all snark, so why don't you?"

"Well, gee, because it's rude, inconsiderate, unintelligent, thoughtless, narrow-minded and dismissive, for a start."

"How's the view from that ivory tower, Trill?"

"I'm not in an ivory tower."

"Oh, right, you're just up on a shelf. Alone. Collecting dust. Alone."

"Dust is the only thing I can afford to collect. I don't have money to do anything so there's no point in getting down from the shelf. And, even if I ever do find a job, I'm still not going to date, so get used to the fact that I am a spinster. I have accepted it and it will make my life a lot less stressful if other people accept it, too."

My friend tried to push me off the shelf, "You want everyone to give up on you?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way. I didn't give up, I just looked at the facts and reached conclusions."

"Uh-huh, so, you don't want to label and dismiss other people, but you're fine labeling and dismissing yourself?"

Aw crap.

I told you, her methodology is not always orthodox but there are reasons why she's my friend.

"I don't want to talk about this right now. My one and only priority is firmly fixed on finding gainful employment. Nothing else, and I mean nothing else matters right now."

And that was the end of that conversation.

But of course there were lingering ramifications.

She's right. I don't give myself the same respect I give other people. But we all do that, right? We're our own toughest critics.

Well. Except. In my case there are other critics. Some of my friends and family have not exactly been "supportive" over the past few years. They have labeled and dismissed me.

And then there are the men who litter the hallway that leads to the dark room where I reside on my shelf.

Men who have, without fail, cited reasons why they don't want to date or marry me. Most of them physical. I have been labeled:

Too young.
Too old.
Too tall.
Too brunette.
Too hippy.
Too big-butted.
Not big-butted enough.
Too fat.
Too broad shouldered.
Too thin in the wrong places. (that guy didn't tell me the places that were too thin, I've always kind of wondered)
Wrong colored eyes. (I got that a lot during 50 First Dates. Men, many men, took the time to write me an email and send it to my online profiles saying, "You seem great except I prefer blue eyes. Good luck in your search for someone who doesn't mind that you don't have blue eyes."
Eyes are too big.
Weird hands/fingers.
Weird toes.
Too big nosed.
Ear lobes. Yes, I dare to have ear lobes and more than one man has dismissed me as undateable because of them.
Weird chin (yes, it's true, I have a weird chin.) 
Too pale.
Too many freckles on my shoulders when I go in the sun.
Too scarred from two childhood stomach surgeries.
Too chesty.
Not chesty enough.
Nipples are too big.
Nipples are the wrong skin tone.
And one of my all time favorites: You get bloated during your period.  Yes. A guy broke up with me after two months of dating because for two days a month I get bloated.

I know. You're thinking, "Trill, those guys are shallow losers with skewed priorities, you don't want to be with guys like that anyway, these comments, labels, say more about them than you."

I know. Thank you. You're right. I know.

But.

Know any women who have long hair solely because their husband/boyfriend doesn't like short hair on women? If not, ask around, you may be surprised at the response from your long-haired female friends. There are thousands, probably millions of women teetering on the edge of romantic doom, just one haircut away from a breakup. I have two friends who spend a lot of money and time on hair dyeing and extensions because their husbands like long blonde hair and have made passive aggressive digs at them when they've gone without the hair extensions, dye jobs or opted for a shorter cut. I witnessed this once. A friend got a really cute haircut, from long to shoulder length. She was pregnant, it was summer and her long hair was driving her nuts. Me, my friend and her husband all rendezvoused from three different places for dinner. Upon seeing her new haircut I exclaimed, "It's so cute! That's a stylish cut on you!" Her husband, meanwhile, was clearly disgruntled. He said, "We did not discuss this haircut. You know I hate short hair." He pouted about that haircut for the rest of her pregnancy and told her, "jokingly" if she wasn't pregnant he would have left her because a short haircut is grounds for divorce. Immature? Controlling? Shallow? Selfish? Apply whatever labels you deem appropriate and dismiss him all you want, but his thoughts are not that different from most men I know or have dated.

Know any women who either go to tanning salons or use get spray tans or use self-tanning lotion? Ever wonder why their own skin tone isn't good enough for them? Yeah, I've wondered that, too, but, as the recipient of several "suggestions" to try a tanning salon or get to a beach once in a while, I'm fairly certain the answer lies in male desire. Sometime in history the paradigm shifted to: Tan = sexy. Pale = no erection.

How about women who don't eat anything other than broiled chicken, carrot sticks and spend a lot of money on gym memberships and personal trainers? I bet you know a few of those women. You might have even labeled and dismissed them as health nuts or fitness fanatics. Sure, they want to be healthy, absolutely. But, one does not need to spend two hours intensely working out every day and limiting one's diet to 4 ozs. of broiled chicken and a couple carrot sticks to be healthy. The reason women deprive themselves of a variety of food three times a day and sacrifice several hours a day to the gym is because they're scared. Horrified, actually. Horrified of getting fat. Why are they horrified of getting fat? Because if they eat regular, healthy meals, and exercise three - four times a week, they'll be a size 10 or 12, a lean size 10 or 12, but a 10 or 12, and that is sexually unacceptable to most men. And most women will do anything to avoid being labeled less than sexually unattractive and dismissed as undesirable.

Why do so many women have breast implants? They often say the implants make them feel better about themselves. I'll translate: The sexual attention the larger breasts get from men makes them feel better about themselves because they're desired, by men, and being desired by men is the penultimate barometer of female worthiness and self esteem. If many of these women ate regular meals they'd be larger than a size 2 and they'd have natural occurring breasts. But men want the breasts, not the tummy, thighs and hips that come with naturally occurring C and D cup breasts.

I know, I know, I'm making huge and obvious generalizations that sound like bitter, resentful insults from from a lonely old shrew.

But.

When almost every man you've ever dated or been interested in dating has bothered to give one of those reasons for not wanting to date you, eventually it sinks in and you believe it. Especially when, as you get older, and have given dating some serious effort, the criticisms are repeated and become more frequent, you start to realize that men (and yes, women do this, too) are quick to affix labels and dismiss women as "not good enough."

I spent many (many) years and disturbing amounts of money waxing, dyeing, enhancing, covering...doing whatever I could to look "right" for men, or at least trying to meet their expectations. And there are a lot of expectations. Beyond the figure aspect, there's makeup. And hair cut, colored and styled on a regular basis. And every hair that's not on the head removed (hair? what hair? women don't have hair "down there" or under their arms or on their legs!), stylish clothes and shoes, sexy lingerie, and nice perfume. Those last three were always the most perplexing to me because they're so subjective. One man's sexy shoe is another man's turn off. One man's scrotum tingling bustier is another man's deeply repressed memory of accidentally crashing into the bathroom without knocking and seeing his aunt Hazel getting dressed for church.

And. I spent far too many of those years consciously consuming less than 800 calories a day while working out two hours a day, literally coming close to killing myself to be thin enough to be deemed an acceptable size for a man. I couldn't do anything about my height, so after enduring several men dismissing me because I was too tall, I tried to make the rest of me as small as possible. The negative (overt) sexual attention my oversized boobs got me was also a driving incentive to lose as much weight as humanly possible. 30 pounds underweight, ribs and hip bones jutting out, I was still deemed too fat by most of the men I met. Or, the few men who were interested were only interested in my boobs, which even at 30 pounds underweight were still spilling out of a C cup. But even those men dismissed me once they caught a glimpse of the girls they then deemed unsatisfactory in some way - they were the wrong shape, or my nipples were to big, or the areolae wrong skin tone...

Get my point, here? It never ended. I never measured up physically. I endured a lot of physical criticism in the form of labeling and dismissing during my dating years. A lot. I've heard the comment, "ever consider getting out in the sun once in a while or going to a tanning salon" from men so often I find it weird when they don't say it. On more than one occasion I was told, "I love green eyes but yours are not the shade of green I like." Yep. More than once. More than twice. Four times. I was told that four times by four different men on two different continents.

Even a guy who initially got past his misgivings about my looks and asked me to marry him eventually came to the conclusion that he couldn't bear the thought of spending his life looking at me. My weird too big, non-blue eyes, oversized too pink nipples, childhood surgery scars, wide hips, freckles and overall "weird body" were more than he could stomach over the course of a lifetime, especially in the context of forsaking all others, and especially in the context of having children. Hearing, "I'm too worried our children will look like you...I can't do it" as your fiance breaks up with you a few weeks before your wedding is not easy to overcome.

In fairness to me, that's bound to impact self esteem. Given the same criticisms, repeatedly, over years of dating, would you keep trying or would you put yourself up on a shelf?

Oh sure, I'm intelligent, nice, funny, sincere, creative, supportive, and loyal. See? I can assign positive labels to myself. I don't entirely dismiss myself.

But. As you so often hear men say, "There has to be some physical attraction..." It trumps all personality traits. Apply all the positive personality labels, but unless the physical labels are there, too, all the personality labels are inconsequential.

So. I have some deeper issues with labels. And dismissing people based on those labels. Being labeled and deemed unacceptable and dismissed, time after time, eventually takes an emotional toll. I know the damage it causes. I will not judge and dismiss people the way people have judged and dismissed me. Period.

And if that means sitting up on a shelf collecting dust, so be it.

And yes, as people will point out, those labels could be viewed as helpful criticism. Turn that frown upside down! All that. Plastic surgery is common and easy! Get a nose job, eye job, boob job, skin bleaching, scar removal, do something about those ear lobes, wear colored contact lenses. Nipple reduction is a common procedure. (Women who don't need/want breast implants or reductions are still flocking for breast augmentation surgery: Nipple and areola tweaking. And don't get me started on "corrective" labia surgeries. (I blame women in porn for this one. They remove every single hair down there which reveals every millimeter of the, um, area, so boys, men, form very strong opinions about how women, all women, "should" look down there. Hairless, apparently. We're supposed to look hairless and with tanned, but not too brown, a tawny California Girl tan, medical textbook labia and bleached anuses. Thank you, women of porn, for skewing the male perspective of sexual beauty to the point of freakishness. The maintenance of the snatch as it relates to sexual attractiveness has evolved so fast just during my lifetime that I find it to be a staggering sociological phenomenon.))

With enough money and time, it can all be done and we can all be "perfect," and I could take all those comments from men and put them to good use in a plastic surgeon's office, hand over my to-do list and go under the knives, lasers, skin creams and whatever else goes on behind closed doors of plastic surgeons. Then I could just sit back and watch the men beat a path to my door.

Or, alternately, I can make peace with the fact that I was not given the DNA that men find attractive and remove the hope and desire for a romantic partner. Accepting the labels men applied to me was the healthiest thing I've done for my emotional self. I spent a lot of years trying, giving full effort, spending time and money to make myself attractive enough to lure one man, just one, into a lifetime commitment and...nothing. Zip. Nadda. The rejection hurt, but the criticisms caused deeper damage. Especially after I put full effort into it.

Even though I get really lonely, I'm so much more emotionally healthy since I put myself on the shelf. Removing the hope removes the pain of disappointment. It also removes the need for removing hair that doesn't need to be removed, or worrying about the size and color of my areola. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some non-shaving, non-deodorant wearing hippie. I shave my pits and legs, I wear deodorant and I wash and brush my hair (most days, anyway...) but the grooming and maintenance involved with attracting and keeping a mate is ridiculous and I am so relieved that I don't have to endure it. I'm going to just go ahead and proclaim it, for myself and all the other women like me: I have pubic hair! I have large, pink areolae! And yes, yes! I have ear lobes! And no! I do not have the inclination or money to surgically alter these traits!

And yes. Apparently this is why I'm single.

And I'm okay with that.

Label me any way you want, but I promise I will not draw conclusions, put you in a jar, label you and dismiss you.

Because along with all my physical flaws, I am also too nice.

Amidst the stuff that was unearthed in the purging of my parents' house were several stories I wrote for school and for fun. I also went through a phase of making my own comic strips and comic books when I was 8. I assume most kids do this. If they don't, then call me a born geek.

My parents didn't save everything I ever wrote, drew or assembled. I was the youngest of three kids. By the time I started finger painting and fashioning construction paper into collages and gluing macaroni tableau my parents had seen it all project-wise. My brother was an especially hard act to follow because he had mad skillz when it came to repurposing paper grocery bags, string, aluminum foil and boxes into vehicles, buildings, catapults... But, between school projects, extra credit projects (yes, I was the kid who did the extra credit assignments (can you say diorama!) even though I didn't need the extra credit, go on have your way with me), scouting projects (including copious arts and crafts projects from camp), and illustrations and book reviews for our local library's "Reading is Fundamental!" contests and programs, I was a prolific kid project-wise. My parents kept the highlights. And the highlights were, apparently, my writing and illustration projects. No surprise there. (Although there were a few of the smaller, collapsible dioramas and a plaster of paris turtle that speaks to an interesting fascination with googly eyes and Picasso.)

The content of these written and illustrated childhood projects ranges from funny to surprisingly insightful to, mostly, innocent stuff of childhood. We could get into "what it means" and the foreshadowing (or conspicuous by its absence: a lack thereof) and a lot of child psychology hyperbole.

But as I sorted through the stuff and attempted to make a chronological timeline via those projects, what emerged was a shocking discovery about myself: My current penmanship is a disastrous abomination and an embarrassment to my parents, my education, and myself.

Blame computers. Blame apathy. Blame laziness. Blame whatever you want, but the appalling conclusion is that when it comes to putting pen or pencil to paper, I have let myself go. Badly.

Some people never really come into their own penmanship-wise. I have a cousin who struggled with penmanship in school and never fully conquered the art of writing legibly. Once that cousin started using email, and everyone could actually read what he was writing, we were all a bit shocked at some of the things he wrote. Looking back at holiday greeting notes sent pre-email, it explains, well, a lot. He's not writing manifestos, but...well...let's just say if we'd been able to decipher his hand written letters years ago we might not have been so surprised to learn about some of his, um, "hobbies."

Before I even thought about starting school my parents set me up with that line - dashed-line - line paper to practice my letters and numbers. I had alphabet flash cards. Alphabet and numbers with arrows indicating the process of creating those letters and numbers (not unlike dance-step instructions) adorned the top of a chalkboard/artist easel in my bedroom so I could refer to them any time I wanted to practice my letters and numbers. So. I had a lot of resources and support for learning proper penmanship. I'm pretty sure this is when my love of typography was born.

Penmanship, legible, proper penmanship, was never an issue for me. I did all the practice worksheets in class and worked on it at home, too. I remember being pretty driven to master the art of printing perfectly formed letters. I routinely got "nice penmanship!" comments on my school assignments. Looking at a few of those assignments my parents kept, I agree, yes, for a 6-year-old, I did occasionally display a nice penmanship technique. At the very least I obviously grasped the concepts of capital and lower case letters and how to properly form them.

I had an ulterior motive.

By the time I was born my brother and sister were all cursive, all the time, so I was itching to master printing and move into cursive earlier than a lot of the other kids at school. I wanted to crack the code my brother, sister and even my parents used when writing. My brother and sister used to taunt me with their elite cipher of cursive writing. They passed notes back and forth across me, read them, and laughed knowingly at whatever was written on that piece of paper. My brother was especially sinister. He'd affect an overly cloying tone and say, "Oh, I'm sorry, that was rude of me, I should have let you read it first. Here, read it, it's really funny. You'll love it." Asshole.

Occasionally I intercepted a note and raced to my mother and begged her to read it to me. She'd give it a cursory glance and say something like, "It says your brother and sister are going to do the dishes tonight while you watch Gilligan's Island." I'd run back to my siblings brandishing the note, all sanctimonious, and say, "HA! I figured it out! You have to do the dishes and I get to watch Gilligan's Island!" It pains me to admit that it took me a really long time to figure out that's not what the notes said. It really pains me to admit it took me even longer to realize I should have known my mother was creating a bit of subterfuge, because why would my brother and sister write a secret note about having to do chores while I got a special privilege of an extra half hour of television, and then laugh about it? There's nothing funny about a little sister getting out of chore duty and being allowed an extra half hour of television.

One of two things happened: Either my parents were satisfied I mastered printing and could move onto cursive, or, they were sick of the whole note written in cursive game my siblings played. Whatever the reason, Santa gave me a cursive writing practice book for the Christmas of my 6th year. I was thrilled beyond sanity, and that wasn't just the candy canes talking. I may have wet my pajama bottoms a little. That is, until I saw the note he paper clipped to the cover of the book. It was written in, you guessed it, cursive. My parents were not assholes. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but not assholes. That note was all part of a plan. Anticipating my elation and subsequent confusion and disappointment upon seeing the cursive note from Santa, my father said, "Oh! A cursive writing practice book! That's exciting! Oh! And a personal note from Santa!" He read the note to me, which basically said that Santa was looking forward to next year's letter to him presuming it would be written in cursive.

And so, I diligently took it upon myself, with my parents' tutelage, to learn cursive.

The next year in school we started learning cursive and I was ahead of the curve - literally. The notes between my brother and sister diminished. The thrill was gone. We were growing up.

I didn't naturally have "a lovely hand," but I formed the letters according to proper procedure and more or less wrote with neat, concise, legible penmanship.

Somewhere along the way, in college, I believe, my penmanship began to deteriorate. I guess I took less pride in it, focused more on content than style. And then computers, email, all that...apart from occasional thank you notes, birthday and holiday cards, a postcard here and there, I didn't actually hand write much other than scribbled notes in meetings.

I'm not alone in this, I've heard other people lament the decline of their penmanship, and without fail they blame technology. Then they admonish themselves and shrug it off.

Which is what I did, too. But deep down it bothered me. Me! Me of all people! I pore over fonts and typography and proper typesetting as part of my career! Meanwhile, I can barely write a legible five-word message on a Post-it note. It's embarrassing and inappropriate on professional and personal levels.

But, I'd reason with myself, a lot of schools don't even teach cursive writing anymore. It's a useless and outmoded skill. It wastes classroom time. It wastes developing childhood gray matter. That classroom time and gray matter can be better spent on teaching and practicing keyboarding skills. In a few years kids will be graduating from high school without ever having done cursive writing drill, or even having laid eyes on the cursive writing reference cards that used to be standard elementary classroom decor. I don't know how they adorn the space above blackboards anymore, heck, do they even use blackboards?

I also wonder, frequently, how these non-cursive writing children will develop a signature. Sure, with online banking and debit/credit cards, very few routine financial transactions require a written signature. But occasionally there are legal documents to sign, you know, mortgages, licenses, job applications, marriage certificates? Will these cursive-less adults of tomorrow be reduced to making an "X" on signature lines like Dickensian illiterates? Probably not, probably printing and electronic signatures will suffice.

So why care about my penmanship?

Unearthing all those childhood projects, the neatly scribed stories, book reports, infographics and comics hit me like a punch in the gut. An artfully crayoned George Washington seemed to implore me from his Delaware River diorama, "People died for the right to write anything, any way they want, and this is what you do? Have you looked at the US Constitution lately, missy? It's legible and neat and speaks to a level of educated articulation. I weep for you and our nation." Neptune Natalie, the star of my serial comic book, cast me a smirking "pfft" over her shoulder as she rocketed through panels of the comic book. "We had some good times, you and me, blasting through the galaxy, but now I can't even decipher my own name when you write it. How am I supposed to act out the story line if I can't even read it? Cosmo the Cat writes better in his glitter box than you do on paper!" Caesar, vignetted against a backdrop of Egypt rendered in construction paper, colored pencil, and repurposed gold candy wrapper foil just motioned limply toward the carefully penned hieroglyphics on the pyramids, hung his head and said "Et tu, Trill, et tu?"

My penmanship was better when I was nine-years-old than it is currently.

That's when I decided: This stops now.

Why care about my penmanship?

Because it's a skill I mastered and I let it deteriorate.

So I devised what I call:





It's a three-pronged approach to bettering my penmanship. I would like to get back to at least my nine-year-old penmanship abilities. Basically I want to make a more conscious effort to write something other than the hurried scrawl that is the abomination I'm letting pass for penmanship.

1) At least twice a week practice sessions writing lower and upper case letters according to proper cursive technique.
2) Once a day write, in longhand, something I normally type.
3) Take the time to pay attention to my writing technique when jotting lists and notes to myself.

Guess what? It's not easy. Apparently I have lapsed into some very deeply entrenched habits. In order to check my progress I am writing the same lyrics at the start of each practice session: Once written in my "normal" writing, trying to not think about it too much, just writing a note; the second with concerted effort to write in proper cursive. In doing this before the practice session I'm hoping I'll be able not only track my progress on my cursive technique, but also to see if it's seeping into my "normal" writing. By using the same lyrics I have a baseline on which to compare other factors.

I don't know what this is, it's not printing, it's not cursive...prinsive? Whatever it is, it's what I let pass for hand written communication:

And this was the best I could muster when I gave my full effort to writing the same text in cursive:

I know. I mean, I knew it was bad, but I had no idea it was this bad. 

I found this super neat website that generates text into proper cursive writing. Try it! The site is great for my purposes, lots of cursive writing worksheets and lessons. So, this is what those lyrics should look like:

I know. I have a long way to go. And no, I don't want to lose my penmanship personality, I don't want to write in a typographically perfect script, but, a little more legibility and uniformity is, you know, desirable. And the discipline required to improve is good for me, too. And using the learning sector of my brain can't hurt, either. But I especially love the brain ==> hand aspect. Writing is the only physical activity other that speech that gives physicality to the thought process. That's pretty darned cool and I figure it can't be a bad thing to redevelop the brain muscles required to guide my hands to proper writing.

I swear, promise, solemnly vow...that I am not going to beat a dead horse.

But.

There are a few lessons to be learned and some words to the wise from the one who's in the midst of it, so, in the interest of public service I am offering a few "this happened to me...this is what I did...maybe it will work for you" insights.

The whole stupid thing with my friend is, well, stupid. I'm above it and so is she. And yet, it happened.

Insight #1: It's inevitable. Life happens, people change, friendships fade. We used to be good friends, really good friends. She moved on (literally) and lives a completely different life than she did when we were friends. I, on the other hand, still live pretty much the same life I always have. Neither one of us is right or wrong, good or bad, we just went on very different life paths. And we no longer have much (anything?) in common. The reasons why we even attempted to maintain the friendship after she had a baby, quit her job and moved to a starter mansion in the suburbs alludes me, now. I suppose she was trying to convince herself she wasn't one of "those" women and maintaining a friendship with a friend from her single in the city days was evidence that she was not a typical "I quit my career, am completely reliant on my husband and moved to the suburbs and joined a country club because we have money and I have no interests beyond making sure my 2 year old mingles with the 'right' sort of toddlers" woman.  And for my part, I'm loyal to a fault and once someone is my friend, they're my friend. Period. And, yes, I suppose I was a little worried, even then, that I would end up a spinster and I would need all the friends I could get.

Insight #2: Loyalty or doormat: Is there a difference? Good times and bad...Hell or high water...friends 'til the end...leave no man behind...Liberté, égalité, fraternité! Loyalty is pommeled into us as a supreme virtue, from religious parables to Disney movies to college ethics courses, loyalty, in some form, is lauded as a virtue we should all possess, or, at least all of us who want to be nice people who have friends and a decent life without regrets. What's the opposite of loyal? Treasonous. Fickle. Deceptive. False. Untrustworthy. Disrespectful. Impatient. Selfish. Shall I go on? You know what I mean. Loyal = good. Disloyal = bad. Some of the most universally hated people are detested for their disloyalty: Judas. Mary, Queen of Scots. Benedict Arnold. The French. However. When you've proved yourself to be loyal, you are vulnerable. People who know you'll stand behind them no matter what have two choices: Respect you and treat your loyalty like a precious commodity, or, take advantage of your loyalty and eventually lose respect for you. Guess what happened to me and my friend. I wasn't a complete doormat, but, in my attempts to rise above and remain loyal (out of respect for her and our friendship) I let her sling some sharp arrows at me. Over the years there have been a lot of backhand compliments, passive aggressive digs and a lot of hurtful comments that I chose to assume were unintentional jibes that came out because of the comfort and familiarity of the company. The whole "we've been friends a long time, we know each other, we don't have to be polite or guard our conversation" thing. That's not true. Thoughtless remarks are thoughtless remarks no matter how long you've known someone or how good your friendship is. They're disrespectful and hurtful and will eventually cause resentment. But. Out of loyalty I, and most other people, laugh off the comments, forgive and forget. Truly forget. But. As I'm learning, eventually all that forgiving and forgetting, especially when it's not reciprocated, takes a toll. And it doesn't feel good. And you question your friend's loyalty because their words and actions don't speak to any level of loyalty. And that really doesn't feel good. And you start to feel like a doormat. And that is a sign things have gone too far. But, you reason, taking a stand for yourself will mean slating your friend, and that's not you, that's not how you are, that can be perceived as playing tit for tat. And that's not loyal. And, if like my friend, your friend hurls the verbal arrows in group settings it's difficult (if not impossible) to defend yourself without making your friend look bad in front of others. Which is inappropriate, rude, immature and...disloyal. So. How do you maintain respect (from your friend and for yourself) if you repeatedly let hurtful comments slide? What I'm learning, now, is that you don't. 


Insight #3: If this were a marriage or romantic relationship it would be called abuse. You've probably witnessed a disturbing facet to a friend's or family member's romantic relationship. A nice girl being submitted into a shell of her former self by a jealous control freak boyfriend/husband. A really good guy being taken advantage of by a very bad girl. A naive friend being swindled by a smooth talking con. A woman who nags and puts down her husband, and/or a husband who's critical of his wife's intelligence, appearance or family. Or two nice, normal, intelligent people who for inexplicable reasons turn into volatile demonic versions of themselves when they're together, yet they stay together arguing and pushing each others' buttons all the while. As we observe these couples from the outside we think, "Wow, that's an abusive relationship...should I say something to my friend because they're too blinded by love to see how abusive this relationship is?" Or, if we're the ones with a partner who's exhibiting those behaviors, we break up with them because we will not tolerate being treated that way. But when the same behaviors are exhibited in a friendship we laugh it off or chalk it up to brutal honesty among friends - even being thankful for our friends' honesty. "Wow, my nose is huge, I should get a nose job. I'm so lucky to have a good friend who's so honest with me because I never would have noticed that my nose is not perfect and that it's the reason men don't want to date me." We even laud it in movies - watch either of the Hangovers or anything starring Kate Hudson to see examples of friendship behaviors we would never tolerate in romantic partners. We put up with stuff from friends that we would never tolerate in a romantic relationship. Why? I have no clue other that the aforementioned loyalty. And unlike movies where characters learn and grow into more emotionally aware and mature people in 110 minutes or less, in real life if people grow and mature emotionally, they do it very slowly, over the course of a lifetime. So sticking around and toughing out abusive behavior from a friend will not likely result in a moment of realization and redemption followed by a warm soft focus scene where you hug it out with a swell of music and roll of credits. 

Insight #4: Friendships need care and cultivation. This is a big lesson for me. It ties into loyalty. Once a friend, always a friend, right? No matter what, good or bad, we're friends. But that doesn't mean friendships are effortless. They often seem that way, the good ones seem to happen spontaneously and grow and flourish organically, even magically. There's a danger zone, though, and that's apathy. I don't mean apathy toward your friend, I mean apathy toward your relationship. Again, like a marriage, you have to commit/dedicate yourself to the effort it takes to maintain and grow the friendship if you want it to withstand the test of time. I'm not saying my friendship no longer matters, but the reality is that I am irrelevant in my friend's life, and, she's irrelevant in mine. That doesn't mean we can't be friends, because, let's face it, how many people do you know who are truly relevant in your life? A spouse, children, your parents, maybe siblings, maybe your boss...how many people do you know who are absolutely, truly relevant to you? Right. Friends don't need to be relevant but when they're not, it's easy to let apathy creep into the relationship. To be fair, my friend and I both put effort into staying in touch and socializing, but even though the thrill wasn't entirely gone, beyond a few moments of camaraderie neither one of us was exactly tending the garden of our friendship. This also ties into the inevitability of the demise - she got married and had more money to do pricier activities and go on more exotic, longer vacations. She started shopping at designer boutiques on shopping trips to New York and Milan. I was still scavenging end of season clearance racks at outlet malls and eating Ramen noodles to save money for a long weekend in Minneapolis. Our divergent lives turned into a chasm of indifference. I'm not competitive and didn't/don't aspire to her lifestyle and I'm not jealous of her money. (I am envious of her happy marriage and children and lack of financial stress, but not her money or what she does with it.) So her new life in the upper echelon of prosperity didn't/doesn't bother me. But I know I don't fit in with her new friends and her life. I didn't know how to cultivate that friendship because I couldn't afford to do the things she wants to do, or go the places she wants to go. And she didn't cultivate the friendship with me because she is no longer interested in the things I do or places I go. Could I put on my nicest outfit and spend an afternoon at her country club? Yes. Could she get a sitter and spend a couple hours slumming it over cheap pizza and a bottle of cheap wine? Yes. And at first we did just that. But eventually that effort faded. We proved that our friendship could survive her marriage, children and suburban flight, so why bother making that kind of effort? We're friends, we don't need to force it, right? Wrong. 


Insight #5: Online activity is telling. Guys, you probably don't know anything about what I'm about to say, but I'm sure there are guyquivelents to this. There are two types of women: Those who read and/or are members of iVillage.com, and those who do/are not. I do/am not. That's not to say I haven't visited iVillage. I have read, or at least seen, several "articles" on iVillage. Why? Because my friends send me copious links to "articles" on iVillage. Most recently, this damaging bit of online hyperbolic advice made it's way to my in box, sent from three well meaning friends. Or, perhaps I should say, "friends." Because after slogging through the definitions of 20 people you need out of your life I'm not sure these three women are my friends, or if they even want me to be their friend. I'm truly not sure how to take the link they sent me. Is this their way of breaking up with me? Are they trying to tell me that I fall into one or more of the categories of people they need out of their lives? The mere fact that my friends a) read iVillage, b) admit it, and c) follow iVillage "advice" as professional gospel says more about the divergent paths our lives have taken than any example I could give. If you don't want to slog through the slideshow-cum-therapy (and why would you?) I'll encapsulate: Isolate yourself from every person you know because people are bad for you. Yes, the 20 personalities they detail are exaggerated extremes, but, keeping it real, here, everyone who's ever lived, including Mother Teresa, falls into at least one of these types. As the title suggests, it's written in absolutes. And includes some obvious influences to avoid. (If you don't know that the ex who wants nothing more than sex is bad for you, then you need more than a slideshow on iVillage. You need professional counseling.) And if you think the hundreds of people on Facebook who you've never met or talked to in real life are friends, you, too, may want to consider some professional counseling. 

Speaking of Facebook...many of my friends communicate solely via Facebook. I'm supposed to log onto Facebook several times a day to check my friends' status updates. This is how they now communicate. Oh sure, there's an occasional text, but you know what those texts say? "Check Facebook!" Or, "Did you see Liz's Facebook today?" Call me old. Call me cheesy. Call me outmoded. Call me sensitive. But. I actually like human interaction. My friends are my friends because I enjoy their company, I like their insights, sharing actual conversation helps us sort out life or at least make it bearable because we have friends with whom we can discuss it - with inflection, feeling, body language, eye contact..., we have fun together, they're reliable and there, literally, for me in good and bad times. Ever have a friend with whom all that's needed is an exchange of a certain look to break into fits of hysteric giggles? I hope you have a friend like that. That's a good friend to have. I'm fortunate, I have a few of those friends. No matter what you post on Facebook, it cannot capture or induce that feeling or invoke that kind of giggle fit. 

When my dad died a few of my friends didn't call or send a card or even an email. They posted, "I'm sorry about your dad" on my Facebook wall. I guess that's, you know, something. But. I mean, really? Facebook? And these are not casual acquaintances. I was a bridesmaid for one of these women. A bridesmaid. Expensive ugly dress and shoes dyed to match, airfare to a shower and a wedding, gifts from the registry. And when my dad died all she could deign for me was "Sorry about your dad" on my Facebook wall? I don't expect much from people, I truly don't, but...oh I dunno. Maybe I do expect too much. (And yes, I realize some people can't/don't handle death well, and kind of clam up or shut down when a friend is grieving, I understand that. Slack was and is cut for that, but come on, a Facebook wall condolence? Not even a private message? Or, just nothing? Nothing says, "I can't deal with this, I freak out and shut down when it comes to death and grief, I know I have issues and I know I need to deal with them and I'm sorry I'm not able to say something, anything, but we're friends and you know I care and I'm sorry but I'm saying and doing nothing because I don't know what to say or do." My mother had a friend who infamously never attended a funeral and didn't want one for herself. A month or so after the funeral she'd send a "thinking of you" card or take a casserole to the grieving family or invite the recent widow to lunch, but she didn't do funerals or the usual funeral stuff. Her friends knew this and accepted it. Sometimes saying or doing nothing is okay.) Anyway. I knew our friendship was in jeopardy when I missed her status update announcing her third pregnancy and so I knew nothing about it until I got a shower invitation...and she was six months pregnant. Ooops. I hadn't really paid a lot of attention to the copious blurry Instagram photos she posts on Facebook (there are hundreds...weekly) and in fairness to me, she hadn't really gained a lot of weight and wasn't wearing what appeared to be maternity clothes. But still. Do I really need to scour every post on Facebook to find out a friend is pregnant? And, another friend's mother has some serious ongoing illness issues, and so I now feel obligated to check their status at least once a day to make sure I don't miss an "obituary" announcement. She posts a lot on Facebook and Twitter, and I find it difficult to keep up with her many posts, so I take time a couple times a day to keep up with her posts just so I don't miss something important like, "Mom died." Because she will not call or even text anymore, her life is one long Facebook post and Twitter feed and her friends are just supposed to follow her every move on Facebook and Twitter. Her daughter accomplished something pretty huge a few months ago and you might think she'd call a few friends to brag about it, but, nope, if you missed the Facebook and Twitter posts and photos you missed the big news. On the rare occasions we do talk and I ask questions, she gets all indignant and admonishing, huffing a dismissive, "I posted that on my wall a couple weeks ago." Oh. Right. Okay. End of conversation, then. And death of the actual friendship. Why? Because I (and her other long time friends) are now the same as the hundreds of strangers on Facebook. Our camaraderie and emotional intimacy is trivialized and given no more significance than complete strangers who "like" her comments and photos. She tells the entire world everything to the point that nothing is reserved for close friends. We're not special. We're just a few of hundreds of people who read her status updates. You know this woman: She's the one at every event who sits there either gazing into her Smartphone or holding it up to take photos and then gazing into the Smartphone. Instead of you know, actually participating in the event or conversation she's posting it to Facebook and keeping up with other peoples' posts. Because, you know, watching a video of a baby laughing that a "friend" in Boise posted on Facebook is way more crucial and important than watching your own child graduate from kindergarten. And it goes without saying that laughing baby video is more important than sharing conversation and laughs with friends you've known in real life for years. That's sarcasm, by the way, something that's increasingly lost on people who live their lives online - the constant lack of inflection and eye contact apparently sapping their ability to detect it. Maybe that's a good thing. I'll leave that one up to you to decide. 

Insight #6: Life continues so maintain perspective. I am forcing myself to avoid going into grief mode over the demise of this friendship. I'm sad about it, but the reality is that I have "missed" our friendship for a long time. Not having her in my life is nothing new. Life has continued and it will continue. There's a void, but the void has been there. The void had fuzzy edges and now they're sharp. I don't know what she's doing or how she feels, but then, she doesn't know what I'm doing or how I feel, either. And perversely, that gives us more in common emotionally than we've shared for a very long time. So other than blogging about it, I'm not dwelling on it. I don't feel "relief" but I don't feel burdened by it, either. The sun keeps rising and we're there to see it, laws of gravity remains in place, no one's spinning haplessly into orbit.