I've been trying pretend I’m tough, spunky, full of fire, vim, and vigor.

In reality, I have those days—just like anyone else—where I feel small, timid, worthless even.

Well, not worthless, I guess, but more like non-contributory.  If that’s a word (it’s not).

Like, where’s my place?  What’s my purpose?  For what will I be remembered? 

If there is a society for super-good nap-takers, I suppose I could be president. 

This summer has made me wonder, when will I Goldilocks it and get it "just right?"  I don’t necessarily believe in life-balance, but I’d like some sort of palatable asymmetry...something that’s purposely set askew, but still comfortable, pleasing.

Anyway, I hope to update you all on the weirdness soon!  But in the meantime, what one word describes your summer?

What a sweet little MURDERERCheck me out this week on the Secret Society of List Addicts, where I talk about Things We'd All Love to Do but are Generally Frowned Upon.

When I was little, I believed that an evil kangaroo lived in my closet and wanted nothing more than to thump me to death with his big long feet.

Did I mention that I was a weird, weird child?

Every time I'd have to lie down for a nap, or go to sleep at night, I was convinced that kangaroo was ready to burst out of the closet and pummel me while I tried to huddle under the covers, helpless.

I also believed that the Farmer in the Dell resided in my bathroom behind the door.  He had his pitchfork ready, waiting for the right moment to run me through.  (Seriously, think about that evil Farmer with his Hi-Ho's and his forcibly taking of a wife...who clearly is also evil and then kidnaps a child.  And let's not even get started on that poor, lonely cheese.)

A leopard also lived in the bathroom, though not necessarily at the same time as the Farmer in the Dell (maybe they had a timeshare thing?  Maybe it had something to do with the Lonely, Stand-Alone Cheese?).  The leopard patrolled the floors.  I remember one night around 3 am when I had to GO, but couldn't get to the toilet the conventional way.  I managed to leap from the hall onto the counter, then crawled from the counter over to the toilet, making sure to keep my feet off the floor. 

And let's not even talk about the first time someone in my family told me about the Boogie Man.

I still get scared these days, but it's usually of things that are far more "normal": fear of failure, fear of making a fool of myself, fear of not making good (or Right) decisions.  But really, are these things I fear any less ridiculous than a murderous kangaroo or wife-abducting farmer?  Is it any more silly to fear something that hasn't even happened yet in the same way I quaked at the thought of a bathroom floor-protecting leopard?

Life is fun(nier)--I was a weird-ass kid, but it definitely gives me good fodder for the odd chuckle and head shake now.  Geez, a psycho kangaroo?  Bathroom leopard?  Popular childrens song turned homicidal maniac?  That's good shit.

Get honest--My fears are still ridiculous, and are a great excuse to just be lazy...to zombify myself in front of the TV, or--let's be brutally truthful here--zonk out for hours with my beloved Kindle.  Fears are a good way to talk oneself out of anything.  The perfect time-waster.  The best alibi.

Doing the Right Thing--As my dad would say when any of his children or high-school soccer team boys would be bleeding profusely from the head, face or body, "SUCK IT UP."  Yes, I'll fail.  Yes, I'll probably look like an idiot a time or two more before I croak.  And yes, I'll still make some bad decisions (hello, jeggings).  But suck it up.  Get to it.  Get what you want.  Find a way.  Make it happen.

I went to see the Sondheim play "Merrily We Roll Along" this weekend (which is a story in itself), but I remember how much I love the song "Old Friends."  Charlie sings:

So, old friends,
Fill me in slow, old friends —
Start from hello, old friends,
I want the when, where and how.
Old friends do
Tend to become old habit —
Never knew
How much I missed you till now.

It's weird to remember old family friends from when I was young.  I recall one family, the Hamiltons.  The mom, Darlene, was the secretary at the church where my dad pastored (we named one of our dogs after her, for some odd reason).  She had a son, Todd, who was always really nice to my little brother.  We have a picture of Todd mowing the lawn on a big John Deere tractor, a three-year-old Sam sitting on his lap, pretending to drive.

I remember the Russell family.  Judy Russell was my Kindegarten teacher.  She was a tough old bird, and expected the very best, even of a class of five-year-olds.  She passed away from cancer when I was in third grade, leaving behind her three boys, who are still friends of the family to this day.  I always had an easy friendship with the middle boy, Rusty, even though he was a few years older than I.  He'd write me letters when I first went to college, his handwriting neat, almost looking typewritten, evenly spaced, perfect.

The Landis family was barely a family when they first began hanging out with my parents.  It was just Greg and Elizabeth at first, a young couple, he an optometrist, she a graduate student, studying French.  When they had their first child, Caroline, I felt like she was my niece more than a "friend of the family."  She was born with an extra pinky (really), which we learned was not altogether uncommon for babies.  Elizabeth was scandalized, Greg fascinated.  The extra digit was easily removed once Caroline was old enough to have minor surgery.

So, the moral?

Life is fun(nier)--People enrich our lives, as much as our experiences.  I haven't seen or talked to some of the people above for years, but I remember how they changed me or made me laugh (I still chuckle at an epic battle between Rusty and I, where I chased him maniacally with a wiffle ball bat.)

Getting Honest--Well, to be truthful, I'm pretty horrible at staying in touch.  I'll occasionally miss someone and then I'm like, "meh."  It's bad, I know.

Doing the Right Thing--Oh, I dunno...I suppose staying IN TOUCH with people would be the Right Thing?  Or maybe I'm just not good at that, but I can work to foster a community with the people I know and love now.

Meh, sleepy.

Not everyone wishes this for me.  I know this, I've experienced it, I've heard it said (always with stipulation: "we want you to be happy, but only if you..."). 

So how do I do the Right Thing in this situation?  I think all I can do is a) not make excuses for those who do not wish for my happiness ("It's their belief system," "They don't really understand me," "They mean well.") and b) wish for them what they refuse to wish for me. 

Of course, as in all things of this nature, easier said than done.

"Damn, amazing ass!"-->by, A Homeless Dude

"Excuse me, but you have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen but of course it is you that makes the hair beautiful and not the hair itself what's your name?"-->by, A Man Old Enough to be My Father

**PROLONGED, CREEPY STARING**-->by, A Stinky Library Volunteer

"I'm nuts!  Actually, I don't know if I'm nuts or if the voices in my head are nuts!"--> by, An Actual Crazy Person

"Ehhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyy!!"-->by, Some Guy Hanging Out of His Car...before 8 in the morning.

Hooray!

...the world's creepiest Butter Cow.  I mean, of course, I live in Ohio, so what better way to commemorate dairy than to mold it into creamy bovine likeness?  I can't think of a better way!  Can you!?

Anyway, I decided to roam a little through the fairway to breathe in more of the goodness that is Ohio (not surprisingly, Ohio smells a lot like corndog).  And, what should I stumble upon but this:

Whaaaat!?  Deep fried BUCKEYES?!?  Chocolate and gooey peanut butter and...Oh good lord, they sell FRIED TWINKIES.

So of course, I immediately thought of my Bucket List of Food.  I could knock of #10, which just so happens to be a fried Twinkie.  I had heard they were delicious and decadent and like nothing you'd ever tasted before.

I plunked down my four dollars (after I paid a $4 ATM fee to get cash) and waited in wet-mouthed anticipation for the warm, golden treat. 

After a few minutes, they delivered this into my hands:

It smelled divine, in the way things that completely eff up your arteries smell divine (see also:  French fries, onion rings, and fried pickles).  I admired it for a few minutes while it cooled to an ingestible temperature.  And then...then I took a bite.

Well, that wasn't so great.  I'll try another.

Nope.  That bite sucked too.  Hmmm, maybe this time?

This, folks, is all the farther I made it.  Don't be fooled...yes, it looks like it should be sugary and delicious, and it was indeed sugary, but delicious?  No.  Absolutely not.  Vile, vile business, the fried Twinkie.  

Honestly, I STILL feel gross from my three bites.  I had to throw it away...four bucks (well, eight, if you include my ATM fee) in the hole. 

Oh well.  At least I got to see PLENTY of mullets.  Score.