Thanksgiving

The number one thing I was not looking forward to seeing this Thanksgiving was baby shoes. I mean, when a newborn baby is wearing tiny itty bitty shoes on their feet. Some strappy, oddly shaped patent leather blip of fabric and rubber that must have been sewn together by children's hands.

My cousin Eric's new wife just gave birth to a baby six weeks ago, and he has a 3 (or 4?) year old son from another lady who's got some kind of autism. And I'm thinking, if that newborn is wearing shoes, I'm going to be so friggen' over this whole family thing. This whole, "we gotta dote on babies and give them shoes and make everything about them."

I'm not used to babies in the family because... well, because I'M the baby. I've always been the baby on both my father's and mother's side. And that's why it makes perfect sense that all of my cousins, now well into their 30s, are procreating and I'm not much of a baby anymore, at age 23.

I'm not a baby in the sense that yes, I am a grown-ass woman physiologically and biologically and mentally, but for a lazy motherfuckin' chick that lives with her mom and dad and spends her free time watching reality TV and feeding her fat ass from mommy and daddy's leftovers, I'm a toddler.

Anywyay, now I'm not a baby. But I'm ok with that, I don't have some complex that demands childlike attention. Quite the opposite, I'm getting edgy to start this "adult life" I've heard about.

So starts Thanksgiving. I'm the lone 20-something relative, well-dressed and smiling and composed, directing traffic from the parents/aunts/uncles, the octogenarians, the newly minted family men/women and da babiez. Plus, there's a 14 year old, my cousin's wife's first child (confusing), who must be stuck in some sort of hell. She's dealing with a 4 year old learning-disabled step brother, her mom's new husband (who's actually amazing, love him), a fucking NEWBORN sister, starting high school at a Catholic school where her step-grandmother is a guidance counselor, and Thanksgiving with my aging crew of family members.

Right off the bat, my uncle is the loose cannon in the room. He is a high school teacher who's slowly declining into, safe to say it, lunacy. Aggressive, unsettling lunacy. He lunges at any opportunity to talk about himself, like when he asks me how I'm doing. He has focused all of his post-divorce energy into the 3rd revival of his band, which he's feverishly excited about. He hates the local government that punishes state workers for doing the best they can. He's quick to fight. He's ready to pop. One might think he's on coke, with the edginess and squirming he exhibits, but he's probably just got a raging case of adult ADHD. He's worn, graying, with Vans sneakers and Elvis Costello glasses. He used to be my absolute favorite uncle. He and I used to play guitar in his home studio when I was 14. The years between then and now have run him into the ground.

He's living with my grandmother, who's become very fragile in her age. She's always been an interrupter, but now it seems that she's just very old and talks whenever the thought strikes her. That, or she's silent, which breaks me up. I don't like that she's beyond conversation. I show her how my iPhone works. I love her so dearly, so thoroughly, and it's a different grandma than I'm used to. I need to treasure those moments.

As it goes, after an unnecessarily heated argument between my cousin and my uncle about why WiFi passwords need to be remembered, things became stagnantly awkward as we ushered people to sit and eat. My poor aunt, in a swirl of tiredness and discomfort, burns the gravy. No big deal. I'm staying out of the line of fire but genuinely asking her about how she prepared the meal. I feel like I really want to start cooking properly. Her advice is to just try, because truth be told, Thanksgiving cooking is really idiot proof. Just stick the turkey in the over, it turns out! I was really surprised.

The littlest baby in the room, newborn Ella, is very, very little. Only six weeks old. She's a tiny thing. I realize that I've never known a newborn before, and looking at her, she looks like a moving doll and not a real baby person. I'm sort of wowed by her.

Here comes the part of the story I've been dying to write: the baby's shoes. I was asked a few days before Thanksgiving about how I'd be celebrating, and I grumbled about my family. I'm a bit discomforted about the new presence of babies, no secret there. I'm always a bit disturbed how adults fawn over babies and shower them with things they A) don't need and B) can't understand. Like presents. And baby shoes. I told my co-workers that I was dreading seeing the newborn in fancy shoes, because no newborn needs shoes. They don't walk, why do they need shoes? Why do parents buy shoes for newborns?

And so when I laid eyes on little Ella with her little pink frilly garter belt headband and dress, I immediately scanned her feet for some stupid baby shoes. And guess what was there?

Tromp L'oeil socks with mary jane shoes!

Nothing could have been more BRILLIANT. Socks that look like shoes. Nonsense avoided. Societal norms maintained. Her's were pink, BTW. Matched her outfit. I gushed to her mother how much I loved them and she agreed, what baby needs shoes? They don't even stay on.

I was pleasantly surprised that my sour puss was put in its place real quick.

The other baby in the room is Aiden, who's like 3 or 4. At one point, he's in child's pose (naturally) on the floor, crying for about 40 seconds. I stare at him on the floor and think, that's how I feel 90% of the time and I wish I could get away with that. That's what being a grown up is like, just as miserable as children but with more reason to feel that way and less ability to express it.

On the plus side for Aiden, he loves the Wiggles, which I learned when the TV turned from yucky football to Wiggles. He was boogying all throughout the meal, looking behind the TV to see if there were more Wiggles back there, singing right along with them in jumbled English. I was proud of him. I didn't even know that he's been held back with his speech development. He'd only recently been able to communicate at all. Way to go Aiden.

My Nonna was cooing over Ella, doing her great-grandmotherly schtick. My mom got all tight-lipped when this started happening. She doesn't ever let her feelings show, which I admire, because that takes a lot of restraint and keeps the calm. She did whisper to me "my mother is so fucking annoying." I think wow, that's not really like her to let that out. My Nonna is a little old woman after all. But, don't get me wrong, she has 100+ reasons to be resented by her family. I respond to my mom "I know." She adds, "I feel so guilty." I just look at her and squeeze her hand. Guilt comes with the territory. I do not chastise this. I am so beyond understanding the deep, ugly issues my mother has with her mother. All I can do is think, despite the grief my mom and I have had, I will never have those ugly feelings toward her. My mother is my role model and I love her to death. I will never have that special kind of guilt. To see the changes that transpired from generation to generation that turned malice to admiration falls on my mom. I respect her so much.

Despite the tongue-biting and the vortex of uneasiness around my uncle, Thanksgiving was a good gathering. We gave thanks for the ability to be there, together. We toasted my aunt for working so hard to put it together.

I felt like I haven't changed since I was 17. I was somehow made to feel like I shouldn't have been there. I wish I had more going on in my life, that I would have caught a plane to be there. I really need to unstick myself from this rut and grow up. I want to be more of person next year.

When I was 17, I lost my virginity the day before Thanksgiving. This is a picture of me that day.

D. G. A. F.

So the other day. It's Friday and I'm at the bar with my friends, and we're talking about what we're planning on doing on Saturday. I, for one, am planning to go to Soul Power, which takes place in a speakeasy and a DJ plays old 45s of soul and surf music from the 60s and go-go dancers shimmy around under red lights. It's very, very nice.

A friend says, I'm going to DGAF to hang out with our friend Molly.

"You're doing Molly at DGAF tomorrow?"

"Yeah, it's the black light party."

I think of a few seconds.

"I'm going to that."

Not really a bright idea, though. I've been to DGAF, which means Don't Give A Fuck, many times before and I determined that I hate it there.

In short, DGAF is fluorescent, smoky, slippery lazer light orgy for the 18-21 set. It's where you go if you're in college, that much is for sure. It's where you go if you want to wear fishnets and underwear, if you have dyed pink hair and facial piercings, if you want a boy with fist-sized gauges in his ear to literally spit his saliva into your mouth, and if you like guzzling 'Gansett and paying cover to do so, and if you want to make out with people so a photographer will capture it, and if you like heavy bass.

In theory, DGAF should be a good time. I've tried with good intentions to have fun. The thing is, it never ends up happening. I can't get drunk enough to let down my guard. I get freaked out when the girls with their tattooed arms and belly shirts turn into little animals. The music is a trip to listen to, but it makes me want to sit on a couch and feel the vibrations rather than swing my arms around and rock my head forward. I also feel old. No one I know (other than my randomly dedicated mid-20s male friends) goes there. I drink slowly and sit, or walk around, or go to the patio, watch the freak show, feel gross, feel lame. To me it seems like DGAF is a form of aggression therapy + a voyeuristic photo shoot. It's a release for some, no doubt. But I have no desire to cut loose like that.

REGARDLESS, I went anyway. Why? The only reasons were: it was black light themed and I had access to Molly, MDMA, pure ecstasy. The thought of the two was super appealing. I'd been to blackout parties before and I've done Molly before, never together. Recipe for a slutty, trippy good time.

I put on a black outfit, grabbed a yellow highlighter and went to meet up with my friends. I met up and they had bags of glow sticks, light up spiked bracelets, blinky things, etc. I asked someone to draw an anchor on my chest with the highlighter. We swallowed the capsules of Molly. We drank water, we waited a few minutes. We decided to head to the club.

After a totally unnecessary reckless car ride, I got out of the car sweating, burping bubbles of air and feeling what must be pure poison reacting in my belly. I felt like I had swallowed vinegar and baking soda. I felt very queasy. As we're walking, I tried to stay quiet but was forced to take a detour and slip into a parking lot with my boyfriend, who was chewing a flavored toothpick. He was consoling me, giving me escape options, being a real peach. I hurled, it it burned and it didn't relieve me. I got more nauseous. I hurled again. As I rose up, I felt my eyelids stiff and my neck rigid and my ears popped and my mind kind of felt like the low end of the radio dial. I started to talk out my feelings to my boyfriend and I could only smell the REPULSIVE sickly mint that oozed from his toothpick.

His eyes were as big as saucers and his was gnawing steadily on this toothpick and his face was lit up. I could tell he's been hit by the roll and so have I. I felt fine now. So we entered the club.

Typical colors smashing against each other swirling lights and WOMP WOMP WOMP music. I felt stomach reactions again. I went to the bathroom. I tried to steady myself but I felt like I was stuck in sound waves and every vibration shook me up. I puked a little more. I leaned against the stall. I though, "This always happens to me." I got up and toward the mirror and I was standing among girls who were glittery, torn up, Spandexed, fishnetted. I was wearing a black miniskirt from H&M and loose black tshirt.

The night consisted of me couching it, sipping water, being simply dazzled by the light show, the creatures, the groaning mechanical sounds of the dubstep. I colored in quite a bit of my friend's arm tattoos with the yellow highlighter. The pain in my stomach stayed with me all night. My eyelids felt like vinyl window shades that wanted to snap and roll themselves up. Staring at light trails and feeling strangely disinterested in movement. Feeling depressed about that. Feeling depressed that I could feel depressed while on uppers. I felt like sparks are coursing through my body, but slowly. My boyfriend was in full force twirler mode. He was elated, exhilarated. I made sure to keep my morbid comments to myself.

Because I'm local, I ran into a few people I knew. One drunk hipster who recognized me and gave me a hug. A hippie nerdy type who is actually very nice and chatted with me about a movie project we had both worked on and asked me earnest questions. I went onto the patio and was violated by the foul smells of menthol cigarette smoke and beer. I doodled on myself.

Toward the close of the night, I grabbed a seat off in a dark corner at a deserted bar. I could keep my eye on the dance floor, my friends freaking their bodies and waving their glowing arms around. A dude approached me, as dudes do, when the see a girl sitting by herself at a club, her face glowing yellow under ultraviolet light.

He was from Georgia, he was a sailor on a submarine, he called himself "the best prostitute in the world because he's in the U.S. military." Somehow he told me he can touch any dude's dick and it wouldn't be weird. I asked if he's gay (no, just southern). He asked my age (30). He was shocked (obviously). We shouted/whispered to each other over the music and started discussing depression, pain, loneliness and passion. He told me if someone cut his arm with a knife he'd do nothing because he can't feel pain. I told him that I keep coming to this place but I never have fun. He propped his fingers up on the edge of the bar and walked them over -- "you need to put yourself on the edge of something." We were having a surreal, brief, deep connection.

My friends found me, at the very moment. I introduced them (his name was Trevor). My boyfriend emerged. I introduced them. I got strange looks from my friends and Trevor got the hint and said goodbye, it was nice talking to you. I agreed. I wrapped my arms around my boyfriend, who was still chomping away on his droopy, soggy toothpick. He is so handsome.

We survived the drive home. I threw up one more time. I ate a slice of multigrain bread. I washed my face and scrubbed off the hearts and whiskers I had drawn on myself. I didn't feel buzzy anymore. I resented myself for being sick and a wallflower. I brushed my teeth and I went to sleep.

Style Blog>Depression

I'm struggling. I'm fighting against myself and what feels like my nature. I'm scared to try something new, even if it is something I'm longing to do. I feel too old. I'm 23 years old, and I feel like I should have started five years ago.

The reason I'm writing now is because I'm at a coffee house on the cute block in the city where the bookish and the grungy and the dreamy people go. I never ever come here. But I met a friend here who loves fashion as much as I do, and he and I have a lot in common. I'm staring at long-haired young men out the window. The sky is very gray and it's damp from rain. Girls wear giant stretched out sweaters and their roots are showing. Everyone is disinterested. I am so happy to be here right now.

I want to create a style blog, probably a Tumblr. I want it to be a combination of Fashion Toast and LookBook and DIY. I want to to be very low key, very accessible, and unpretentious. I just want to be able to get my fantasies off my chest, or rather, on my chest. I want to be inspired and forced to be creative and lovely. Clothes have given me so much of my identity. It makes you the best version of yourself. In your mind's eye, you can become that which you desire. It shows everyone who you are, and even if you're just looking into the mirror you can be anyone you want to be. It's such a beautiful thing.

This desire is not troubling or even difficult to achieve. I'm just perpetually stuck in a rut, stuck in a ditch I've dug, stuck in bed and without real motivation to get out. I am my only naysayer. I've willingly snuffed out my own identity and now I mourn it. I'm like a crazy murderer who cries over the corpse they've created and feels sadness and not remorse.

Blogger has always been the most welcoming invitation back into my mind and the place I'd like to be, permanently. Blogger and Boots Electric!!! have been real friends to me. They're my imaginary friends. They are made in the image of everything I love about writing, commentary, editing and pulling media and creating something very genuinely me. I've always found that I can come back here and start writing, and not only feel ok about it, I feel proud of myself for not sucking as badly as I always think I do.

I live (sort of) in this great city with art and camaraderie and food and calmness. The city is only as pretentious as the 18 year olds posted up at the Ivy League school and famed art academy. I think my problem is that I have always envied them, because I thought I was going to be them. I was primed and ready to be an artist and an I-don't-give-a-fucker. I was not confident, but I was also not scared enough to stop. I had ideas that were bigger than me. I was so interested in so much. I had that kind of warm ball of power that was in my stomach that filled me up and also soothed me. Whatever it was, it was truly mine, it set me on fire. I had blinders on, and no one could persuade me to be any different. Anyone who tried was beneath me. I looked and felt older than 17.

I think 18-21 was the deconstruction of myself. It was trying and it was numbing and I made so many decisions to become someone I didn't really like. I lost the ball of power. I probably vomited it out of me one night after drinking too much. I spent a few years truly sick from my environment of stale college and shitty beer and unfamiliar friends and they weren't like me at all. I was uninspired. I felt like a tourist when I remembered myself. I felt like I had run away from home or got a divorce from a girl I loved. I truly loved her. My memories serve to glorify her and put her on a pedestal. Unaware of her beauty, unburdened and disinterested in pleasing boys and fitting in. Those blinders. They are helpful and damning. I don't see anything I don't want to see. I didn't see threats when I was younger. And now I only see parts of a woman and I see nothing else.

I've always thought that my fashion is the only thing about the old me I've retained. Probably because it's easy and it makes sense and it changes all the time but can always remind you of something else. I still have clothes from when I was Her. But my style has certainly improved over the years. Back when I was Her, I was pale as sour milk. My hair was long, frazzled and heavy like a stage curtain. I loaded my neck with tacky charms and woven necklaces. I wore lacy, gothic skirts over flared jeans. I was pudgy. I wore way too much eyeshadow.

I feel so beautiful on the outside now. I am comfortable. I got the right haircut. I stick with liquid eyeliner and lipstick now. I love lace and Native American prints and the color peach and leather boots and sweaters. My heart races thinking about it. Think of the most gorgeous, simple thing. Now think about putting it on your body. Seeing yourself wrapped inside of It. Letting it soak into you and carrying that beauty with you always. Only you get to decide what goes on your chest of waist or legs and feet. You can paint your fingernails gray. You can tie a ribbon your hair, for god's sake. Nothing warms me like that warms me.

I will compose looks and outfits that are very me. Some will be skirts and leather boots and sweaters. Maybe some will be based on fine dining or brunch. Some will be the clothes you wear when you're listening to music and smoking pot with your friends. Some will be the very best of laundry day.

All I need is a camera and a cool background. I feel like this isn't beyond me. I think I can make this happen for myself and I think it won't hurt like it has been hurting if I do this.