Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Sometimes only child-dom sucks

As an only child, I had the distinct privilege of enjoying the kind words of praise from loving (read: smothering) parents who thought I hung the moon. And pretty much I did, at least, by virtue of the fact that they had no other basis of comparison. I would always hear from my friends how they had to compete for attention with siblings in their household, and whoever shouted clever things loud enough, or won the most awards, or pissed in a way that was most pleasing to the ear won the undying affection of their parents and the tiara of "the favorite." By default, I was that. It's like having a Wal-Mart in your hometown and no Targets, Marshalls, Rosses, Costcos or malls. Even if Wal-Mart is a soul-sucking corporation who outsources their labor and continually mistreats their employees, you would never know the difference and you would brag to all your friends how great it was and take pictures of it and hang those pictures on your refrigerator underneath a Christmas card from Aunt Dora and Shoe, her chow mix who is wearing a Santa hat and bells.

So it's been a hard transition for me as an adult to NOT hear praise from others on a constant and/or frequent basis. When I write a headline I think clever, no one is standing over my shoulder nodding vehemently and offering me a plate of gingersnap cookies as a reward. When I say something witty two glasses of wine into a girls' night, and no one laughs, I wonder if it's just because they didn't hear me or maybe they are deaf. When I am wearing a new, cute outfit, there is no one to tell me how adorable I look, even when I really look like I just returned from a fight with a ball of orange yarn, a screwdriver and a feral tabby. And LOST.

My constant need for approving words and approval in general is really my Achilles' Heel. No, not even a Heel. More like a Leg, Knee and Thigh. I have to remind myself that no one except for George Clooney or Milla Jovovich is getting that kind of constant praise and even if I was? It would probably become real cloying real fast. The grass is always greener, right?

I could see how people who constantly put themselves out there with photos on Flickr, videos on Vimeo, or popular blogs would get tired of the good and bad side of public scrutiny. On the one hand, I still think it's a little like begging for compliments when you pose in a million photos and then act surprised when one of your "friends" or "contacts" says how lovely you look. But on the other hand, sometimes my stupid only child mindset still surfaces and I'm like, "what about meeee?" (said in the tone of a three-year-old beating the kitchen floor with her fists and slinging drool all over the linoleum). This, even though I have no Flickr, Vimeo, or Twitter accounts, nor a blog anyone can "see."

In this age of do-it-yourself celebritudinalism, I have come to the conclusion that the ability to cast yourself forth into the virtual or real world's eye so easily allows EVERYONE to exert their only child.

And maybe that's ok. And maybe I should be ok with the fact that no one reads this blog but my boyfriend. Probably because I haven't really linked it to any other site I'm actively on, but part of me thinks DAMMIT, I'm a decent writer and by force of me pounding keys which make pretty words into the keyboard, somehow other users will STOP WHAT THEY ARE DOING IN MID-CLICK and be like, "oh my GAWD. do you hear that sound?? THAT is the sound of a decent writer saying important, weighty things on a blog that I had no idea about! I'm just going to GUESS this kickass blog's url until I find it. WHICH MAY TAKE FOREVER. But jesus, she's an only child and she needs my comments and that is more important than feeding my crying child or going to work!" After which they immediately slug a glass of Robitussin and fly out the window because that is how magic works and the internet is MAGIC.

So, if you ever find this blog, humor me and tell me what you think. I'm currently accepting good praise, lukewarm praise and cash donations made out to: Genius Sorceress of the Written Word/Only Child.

Alternately, you could just make me a plate of gingersnap cookies. And pat my head. And tell me I'm a princess while I twirl around the kitchen floor with my tiara and magic wand.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Tuppence is for the birds

Maybe it was all the Masterpiece Theat-ah I watched when I was a nerd in high school and had no social life beyond fantasizing what it would be like to make out and possibly go to third base with Mr. Knightley (from Emma fame), but on the rare times that I encounter a British person, I am always tempted to mimic them.

Not in an aping sense, don't get me wrong, more in a pure "I want to lick your chin to soak up your accent" sort of way. It really is kind of a problem. My inner brain (devil) has this mastery of assimilation, so that when I listen to some poor stranger who happens to have the curse of the Anglo-Saxon fresh upon him, I am compelled by King James I (in a metaphorical kind of way, of course) to form words in my head that take on a British slant. Like:

Random British sucker: "Right, my name is Chahles. Ah-nd yaahs?"
Me (in my head): Name's Suh Dee. Right proh-pah introduction, that."
Me (in real life): "Ummmmmm....Figs! I like figs! And geraniums! Oooh - look, a bright light! Is that tin foil?"

Oftentimes after that heady, genius interchange, I will grab the nearest piece of tree bark and start feasting upon it. Because I have to handicap myself, using crippling, nonsensical, Rain Man-type speech and slow rocking motions, for all the idolatry and imitation going on inside my stupid head. Because clearly this stunting of my own intelligence is a far superior choice to the humiliation that would accompany actually speaking in a faux British accent back to them, a la Madonna, when they obviously already knew I was American. It would upset the delicate balance of diplomacy, string theory and sociology. Did I mention humiliation? Or the fact that they would think I was a lunatic (although really, this might not totally alter their world-view of Americans)?

This, I feel, might be the real reason we won the American Revolution. They, quite frankly, had sickened of us acting like 'tards trying to drop their accents and chuck their tea in a sad attempt to Turrets them away. Guess what? It WORKED. Sadder yet, who's laughing now?

Them. In their chin-licking-worthy elegant accents, flicking us away with their Union Flag 'brellies like a pestilent blowfly. I hate myself.