Dusting Off and Shaking it Up

There are many factors, situations, incidences, or even people that can cast a dense layer of fog over one's view of the world. You may think that once you have your life, your path, yourself all figured out from now on it's clear horizons into old age...

WRONG!

If anything, the opposite is true. I have discovered in recent months that as soon as I nestled myself into a comfortable modest existence with a clear view of what I wanted for my life, it was as if the forces of the universe sprung into immediate action with the sole mission of trying to derail me. Here I was, riding high on the satisfaction that washes over a person that has found their passion and direction in life, and it was as if Life (that bitch) said to me, "Oh, yeah? You sure about that?"

Derail me she did. Life was able to throw up a number of road blocks in my path to success and happiness; and I crashed into every single one of them going 120 miles an hour. 

I'm struck with an image of a snow globe. Inside that little glass ball there is another world. It may be the skyline of New York City or children ice skating on a frozen pond, but whatever the image inside the globe may be it represents a world within a world. It is protected by the forces of the outside world by a fragile shield of glass. 

I see my vision of what I want for the remainder of my life as a snow globe. It's a dream, a goal that exists in a tiny glass
sphere. I can look at it longingly but I haven't been able to reach it yet. For many months I held that dream in my hands and took it everywhere. 

But as time passed I started to get distracted. I would forget to carry that metaphorical snow globe with me some days. Eventually the dream started to collect dust as it was neglected completely. There were even situations that threatened to shatter the globe into an unfixable pile of rubble.

What started as minor distractions grew into habits that stopped just short of transforming into a lifestyle. I ignored the nagging voice that was either coming from somewhere in the depths of the logical part of my brain or perhaps from my laptop- or maybe they were ganging up on me. Either way, I blew them off. I was having fun and living it up while I was still in my twenties and had minimal responsibilities. I was denying myself one monumental truth, however: I had a responsibility to myself and Brandon.

I owed myself and I owed my husband the respect of making something of myself and not letting my goals and dreams fade into a fog of hedonistic, dead-end indulgences. I always considered myself a strong a resilient person; some days I would even say stubborn. But somehow my inner weakness took over and lead me in a dangerous direction. My life was thrown completely off balance and I soon discovered that I was no longer seeing things clearly. My snow globe was covered in dust so thick I almost couldn't see what was inside, my inspiration and clarity had become dull and faded under the weight of the fog, and my passion had all but packed up and vacated the premises.

I wish recovering from such a lapse could be as easy as brushing off the dust and picking up where I left off, however it's never that simple is it? I have to find my inspiration again, my balance in life.  For Christmas Brandon gave me a silver pendant of a compass. The message along with it stated that: No journey to anywhere worth getting to will be easy. This compass is to remind you to always focus on your destination and never give up on your dreams.

So, this is my first attempt to stretch my artistic muscles and clear the dust off my vision. I still intend on squeezing all the fun I can out of the remainder of my twenties, however my clear mission for the new year is to find balance.

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope it's the best one yet!!

I'm On a Roll Now, Folks!

The next article has been published to Suite101. I'm very interested in reader feedback- as this issue I have presented may spark some interesting conversation.  

Go have a read and let me know what you think. Brace yourself because the secret's out:

Attention is to Women What Sex is to Men

There is a Dark Side

Writing is art. You can't tell me that Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller, Faulkner and Hemingway weren't true artists in every sense of the word. These guys, and many other writers, are regarded as heroes. They inspire and evoke a complete spectrum of emotions through their written words.


However, there is a sad truth that I have recently come to realize all too intimately; art is painful. Artists suffer to create, because you have to show emotion to evoke emotion. The creation is a reflection of the artists soul; put on display for the whole world to see. This is no small thing. Imagine taking all of your thoughts, feelings, emotions, secrets, successes, failures, aspirations, and experiences and laying them out for all to see... and judge.

I never considered myself an artist, like, at all. My mom and little brother absorbed all of the artistic talent that happened to be available in our particular gene pool. Creativity? Forget it; I had none. What did I do? I wrote a few stories and some general musings on life. In what crazy reality does that translate to art?

Then I wrote my essay for Glamour. I turned myself completely inside out and ripped apart the dark, deserted recesses of my memory. I took everything, and I do mean everything, that I found there and I shaped it into a creation that I believed to be the best reflection of me, my voice, and my story. After four months of creating this piece, with one simple click of the mouse, it was off. It traveled to the hands of people that are complete strangers. And these strangers will decide if my creation, the fragile product of all my soul-rummaging measures up to their standards. My humble offering will be scrutinized and judged.

Needless to say, after writing that essay I have felt completely deflated. I have been emotionally raw and exposed. It may not make sense, but that feeling of immersing all of yourself into something of your own creation to be shared with the outside world is terrifying in the most satisfying way.

Of course I care if people don't like it. No one wants to give their best efforts and turn out to be terrible. But when I know I've written something that is truly a reflection of myself and articulates my thoughts and my intentions with complete precision, I am satisfied. I am peaceful. And, incidentally, I am also very tired. 

I have visited some very dark places in my mind and my memories to create some of my work. It is hard to come back from those places sometimes and remind yourself that everything is going to be OK, and writing about painful emotions will make the piece more vulnerable and relatable. Sometimes it's hard to return to the real world. I guess that's why so many writers lose their minds (ahem... Hemingway). And I'm not really sure if Vonnegut was completely right in the head at any point in his life; but I digress. 

So I guess I was wrong about the artistic share of the genetic material. It just took me a little bit longer to discover it. I just never entertained the idea that there could be a tortured artist side of me. I never thought I was that deep. It's funny what you can find out about yourself when you develop the bravery to actually look.   

It's Official, I've Been Published!

My first online article has been published! This is a very exciting day for me.

That's your cue to go read it!

Enjoy!!!

A Sign, Perhaps?

A fellow blogger posted the other day that we are merely one month away from November. This is not a random statement of the obvious or another "OMG-I-can't-believe-it's-almost-the-holiday-season" rant. What Sarah Thomas so eloquently reminded me of was that we are currently less than 30 days away from NaNoWriMo; which most of you don't know means National Novel Writing Month. Basically this means any writer that signs up has 30 days to write 50,000 words. Let me give you all a moment to process that statement while I fall asleep on my keyboard just thinking about it...

And we're back! You read that right, folks: 50,000 words in only 30 days. Crazy, right? But is any writer totally devoid of crazy? I may not be a novel writer but I'm actually considering taking on this challenge. I can use this as an opportunity to really dig into my non fiction manuscript while commiserating with all the other over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived, quasi-homicidal writers across the country. Am I sounding more and more insane by the second? Maybe I'm still high off the Raven's big win today and chicken wings and beer, but this seems like a great idea.

Stop laughing at me for a second... I don't truly believe that I will reach the 50,000 word finish line (but hey, anything is possible, right?) and even if I only write 5,000 words it will be 5,000 more than I had on November 1st. I think this is the fire under my butt that I needed. So now I have to figure out how to work at the bar, keep writing my articles for the online magazine, participate in family functions (that whole Thanksgiving thing), eat, sleep, keep up with Dexter and Project Runway, and write 50,000 words.

I just fell asleep on my keyboard again...

I suppose I should get my naps in now before I have to give up sleep for a whole month. Does anyone know of any Starbucks that are open 24 hours?

So thank you, Sarah for giving me a sign from the Blogging Universe that I need to kick up my game if I'm gonna play in the Big Leagues.

Sweet Emotion

I've been a bad blogger. Good writer. Bad blogger. I have neglected my precious little contribution to online commentary for greener pastures- the coveted world of print publication. That's right folks, I've taken a my first significant crack at the big leagues. For the last four months I have been working on an essay that I submitted yesterday to the holy grail of freelance writing publications (at least for me, anyway); Glamour magazine. Now, don't go getting all excited for me just yet. It's an unsolicited submission so I won't know for a little while if they are, in fact, going to publish it. Won't you all join me in keeping your fingers crossed?

Today I am utterly exhausted. My heart, soul, pain, joy, blood, sweat, and tears are in those 3,000 words and writing, editing, and rewriting that piece have been just about the only things on my mind for the last four months. That, and fantasizing about what it will be like to have my words published in the uber-giant-mega-mag that is the illustrious Glamour. But today it is over; at least my part is over. I have submitted my best work to date and now I wait. Immediately after clicking "send", I felt as though someone had siphoned all the fuel from my tank- I was empty. I just about melted into a puddle of goo on my couch and stared at the TV like a zombie. After an hour or so I chided myself for not rewarding my efforts so I cruised on over to Starbucks and splurged on a double-venti Pumpkin Spice Lite Frappuccino. As yummy as it was, it failed to give me back my mojo. So, I decided to just resign myself to an evening of mindless channel surfing.

I guess when all your energy and emotions go into something that so much of your being is invested in and the stakes are so high, it's a huge let-down when you finally, well, let down. The subject matter of my essay was very personal and emotional for me so it took a little extra out of my mental reserves and left me feeling completely deflated. However, I am extremely satisfied with the work I created and I have committed myself to not take it as a personal testament to my abilities as a writer if I am rejected. (That's my story and I'm stickin' to it)

I am now on a mission to commit myself to my next big submission and do my very best to keep this one off my mind until I hear from the all mighty Powers-That-Be. I will, however, try try try not to neglect my sweet little blog anymore. I still love all of you that read it! 

Coffee Shop Writer

I've always wondered what it's like to be one of those people that parks themselves at a coffee shop table with a laptop and a latte and remains completely engrossed in their work for hours. I notice them while I'm grabbing my afternoon caffeine fix on my hurried way to some other pressing engagement. What fascinates me the most about this group of people is not the nature of their work or whether or not they're just cruising Facebook and simply attempting to look pretentious with their new Macbook; it's how the hell these folks maintain their attention span and block out the chaos around them.

So I'm attempting what I have always perceived to be impossible- I'm writing in a coffee shop. My usual writing environment consists of me, my laptop, and unconditional silence. I tried listening to music for a period of time when I first started but I soon discovered that I remain much more focused in graveyard-like quiet. Needless to say, I am now completely out of my creative element. I'm currently dedicating all of my God-given effort (what little I actually posses) to keeping my eyes cemented to the computer screen right now because all I want to do is raise my gaze to the scenery around me and people watch. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I so very badly want to listen to the conversation the two thirty-something guys are having from the leather armchairs ten feet from my table, or watch the steady stream of distinctly middle-class white folks in khaki shorts and polo shirts grab their mid afternoon iced lattes. 

I must admit, as the caffeine in my own iced coffee works its magic and as I grow more accustomed to my current surroundings the creative process is slowly returning to me. There is something oddly therapeutic about the sound of the steamer and the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans permeating the buzz of miscellaneous conversations and soft acoustic folk music. It's nice to be out in the world, watching life happen as I attempt to create my own contribution to the universe. The isolation I usually encounter during my long afternoons in my home office is virtually non-existent in this particular backdrop. I'm a part of the shuffle and a silent observer all at the same time. 

It's a little strange that I'm starting to realize that writing in public ultimately produces fewer distractions than writing at home. There's no TV to click on when I get stuck on how to finish a thought, no puppy dancing around my feet in attention-starved desperation, and no wandering thoughts of accumulated laundry or unwashed dishes. Sitting in this coffee shop I am forced to focus on my task at hand. It's a lot more like giving up when you close up the computer and get back in the car than just setting the computer aside and checking to see what's new on the DVR. 

I guess the moral of this little experiment is that I will probably join the ranks of frequent coffee shop writers. I'll be that girl in the corner clicking away on the keys and sipping a latte that makes you wonder what kind of people actually sit in coffee shops with their computers.     

The Bittersweetness of Life Getting in the Way

Geez! I just realized that it's been two and a half weeks since my last post. I'm sorry to my sweet little blog and to the small handful of you who actually take the time to read it (I love you, by the way!). My life has just been getting all sorts of in the way. I feel guilty for neglecting my self-proclaimed life's passion but there's just so much stuff to do and so much recovering from stuff I do! I could go ahead and blame it on the end-of-summer need to cut loose or whatever, but that's a weak excuse at best. I could also blame my day job at the bar, which is a considerably less weak excuse but still not a good enough reason to be a lazy writer. When I do carve out an hour or two to devote to my laptop I have been spending that time working on a piece that I am submitting for publication in 2 weeks and I'm getting my first taste of deadline anxiety. So keep your fingers crossed that come the new year, I will be a real-life published writer! But for now I am choosing to use all three of the aforementioned reasons for why I have been neglecting my small circle of readers. Many apologies.

The highlight of my recent hiatus had to be a spontaneous mid-week getaway to my friend Gabby's waterfront house in Cambridge. Even though the trip was all of two nights, it was the perfect outlet for some much needed bowing off of steam. Five of us packed up two cars with beer, liquor, food, coffee (of course), and a few overnight essentials... and then more beer... and headed for the Chesapeake. What ensued over the next 36 hours was the perfect combination of intoxication and relaxation with some of my favorite people on this planet.

We played games, floated in the pool, watched my brother play 157 games of ping pong against anyone that wasn't otherwise occupied at the moment, sat around a bonfire, and kayaked into the sunset. Over the course of the two nights we managed to drink a comically large bottle of espresso vodka, an entire bottle of Kahlua (what's a vacation without white russians, anyway?), two bottles of wine, at least three pitchers of bloody marys, and, if I had to estimate, around three cases of beer. After said alcohol was consumed, the group congregated at the end of the pier and we all lay on our backs and watched the stars for what seemed like hours. With the exception of driving home before noon the next morning and having to cross the Bay Bridge with a wicked hangover, the mid-week mini-vacation was perfection. I would also like to mention that Brandon was not able to make it because of his job, and his presence would have been the only thing to make the entire experience complete.

So I suppose it's time to bid farewell to summer and start hitting the laptop hard (some days I would like to take that literally), because I would hate to succomb to Lazy-Writer-Syndrome, or LWS as I will now be calling it.

P.S. I still intend on offering my thoughts on the new season of Weeds, however, I can't decide how I feel about the first two episodes just yet. I will let everyone know once I have formed an opinion.

Missing: Genius

I'll just come right out and say it- I love Elizabeth Gilbert! It may be super trendy to love this woman right now but I don't even care, I just about worship her. For those who are unfamiliar, Liz Gilbert is the author of Eat, Pray, Love- the international super-mega best seller and Julia Roberts is playing her in the movie coming out on Friday.

The reason I'm swooning over her at the moment is that I recently watched a video of a lecture she gave at the 2009 Technology, Entertainment, & Design Conference on creative genius and its place in our society. She discussed how the Ancient Greeks and Romans believed that humans were not geniuses themselves, but they actually possessed an intangible genius- a creativity spirit, if you will. This belief not only maintained the modesty of the artist by limiting the personal credit he/she could take for their work but also alleviated the pressure put on the artist by allowing him/her to share the responsibility of creativity with their genius. Follow? Good.

My point tonight is that my genius seems to be on vacation; it's that time of year I guess. The heat must have sent the little guy packing. I can't get my mojo going these last couple of weeks. Writer's Block is a massive understatement at the moment. So while I try to coax my little genius back from whatever remote Caribbean island he's on, I thank you in advance for bearing with me. I hope you're enjoying your Mai Tai, buddy, because I'm coming to find you!

P.S. I think I'll name him Gus. Gus has some great ideas but he can be a little unreliable.

Who Wants Some Weeds?

I find myself with a lot of down time during the week. I am only a part time bartender, my husband has the most ridiculous work schedule in existence, I live in East Nowhere, and I can only spend so many hours a day having a stare-down with my computer screen before I start to go cross-eyed. So, in order to allow my brain to recharge itself after a fun filled day of writer's block and too much caffeine, I plop myself down on my couch and look for new TV shows to watch. About six weeks ago I became fully hooked on Weeds. All five seasons were streaming live on Netflix and it took me all of about a month to watch the entire series. I come to find out, I finished just in time for the new season that's premiering on August 16th on Showtime. So here's what I'm gonna do. Once a week I'm going to offer my thoughts on the new episode. I've seen other bloggers do this about shows I really don't care about so I'm just going to start my own. So there! If you don't care about Weeds either 1) you've never watched it and I suggest you do immediately, 2) you're not part of what I consider my key demographic and you are excused from this post and all further posts on this topic (and thank you for your time) or 3) your taste in TV is awful and I don't like you

For those of you in the first group I'll provide you with a quick synopsis:

Nancy Botwin is a typical suburban housewife with two teenage

sons, Silas and Shane. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack while jogging leaving Nancy to raise the kids alone in a big upper-middle class house in the cookie cutter town of Agrestic. Agrestic is one of those towns where everyone drives a Range Rover, has a maid, attends PTA meetings, and tries not to look racist. So what does Nancy do to maintain their current lifestyle? She starts selling weed to soccer moms and investment bankers. Over the course of the five seasons Nancy's life begins to spiral further and further out of her control as she tries to keep herself and her children out of harms way while living the life of a drug dealer. What starts as a small time, dime-bag-pushing means-to-an-end soon turns into the family business. Nancy ends up secretly married to a DEA agent after he discovers her profession so he won't be able to testify against her should she get caught. However, her DEA husband ends up getting killed by rival dealers after he has their grow house raided.  After Nancy indirectly burns the entire town of Agrestic to the ground she moves her family to a quiet beach town just north of the Mexican border. While managing a maternity clothing store that is a cover for an underground drug smuggling tunnel, Nancy meets Esteban, the drug kingpin/mayor of Tijuana. She becomes involved with him and eventually becomes pregnant. Nancy moves her family into Esteban's San Diego villa and they get married, although she does not entirely trust him and his political and illegal dealings.

So there is the recap in a very small nutshell. I'm extremely excited about the new season as I hope a lot of you are. So I will leave you with the trailer for Season 6 and I look forward to offering my thoughts. And hopefully some of you will offer yours as well.

Enjoy!

On Proposition 8 & People Who Hate

While having coffee yesterday afternoon, Jon and I started discussing politics. What started as a mini-rant on Jon's part about how much it bothers him that people are so pissed about having to press 1 for English soon detoured over to the subject of gay marriage. It was a harmless yet enthusiastic conversation because we happen to agree on our positions on the matter. Coincidentally enough, I later found out that a similar enthusiastic conversation must have been taking place at that very moment in California.

Yesterday Proposition 8, the gay marriage ban, was overturned by a federal judge who considered the ban unconstitutional. In an article appearing on abc.com one supporter of Proposition 8 was quoted saying, "If we change the definition of marriage, that is going to affect our children. So basically, we're trying to defend the children that will be adopted or raised by a couple who are not actually their mom and dad.". I have one word for this guy... ridiculous.

I consider myself a Christian and a conservative and though it may be counter-intuitive for me to be fully supportive of gay marriage in the US, I am one hundred percent. This country has lost the right to cite religious doctrine as a basis for regulating something that is none of their friggin' business! If you're going to make what a woman does with her body her choice, then you sure as hell better let tax paying citizens choose who they marry. 

You may say that God designed marriage for a man and a woman; and I agree with you. However, marriage in this country has very little to do with God anymore. And as sad as that makes me to say it, it happens to be true. So are people saying that unless two people are married in a religious ceremony, they can't get married? Why not put a ban on atheist marriage? What if you're arguement is the same as the guy's from the ABC article and you believe that two people who can't produce children biologically shouldn't be allowed to get married? OK, then why not a ban on infertile marriage? Since when can a government that separated church and state long ago make these decisions?

And what infuriates me the most are the gay marriage protesters. These self-rightous, judgemental, hypocrits are destroying the reputation of the church. I was raised in a Christian household and I was never taught to hate people who believed something different than I did. I also was never taught to shove my beliefs and principles down people's throats. These zealots can't really believe they are successfully saving the souls of homosexuals, can they? If I were gay and I saw a picket line outside the courthouse with a sign that said, "Burn in Hell, Fags" I can't really say I would rethink all my life's decisions and fall to my knees in repentence on the spot... but that's just me. Whether you believe Jesus was who He said He was or not, the man did not teach us to hate or to judge- bottom line.

With that being said, if gays want to get married, let them! Think about it; here is a group of people spending millions of dollars and countless hours fighting for the right to participate in an institution that is treated so poorly by those who get to experience it. If anything, legalizing gay marriage would revitalize the concept of marriage in this country. If they are granted the right to marry you better believe they are not going to take it for granted and show up in divorce court at the first sign of trouble. 

So, I guess what I'm trying to say to all those opposed to equal civil rights for homosexuals is: back off. You're wasting your energy on something that is really none of your business. If you don't support it, fine, but it's not your job to judge it.

Summer is Kind of a Bitch

After probably six months of the best of intentions to see (500) Days of Summer and never getting around to it, Jon movie-ambushed me the other night after I got home from work. It was close to midnight and I was certain that I wouldn't be able to stay awake for more than 20 minutes, but I was wrong. I somehow managed to keep my eyes open and my attention focused for the entire 90 minutes. I believe the reason for that acute surge of energy was how emotionally invested I got in the story and especially the characters. It was not even a little bit the standard mindless "ro-co" (romantic comedy) that would have probably put me out faster than an Ambien. The characters were so charming and so realistic that, at times, I almost forgot I was watching scripted actors. (500) Days of Summer also got me to do something that no Katherine Heigl/Gerard Butler/Kate Hudson/Matthew McConaughey P.O.S. movie has ever achieved- it got me thinking...


Spoiler alert! It turns out that Zooey Deschanel's character, Summer, is a self-involved narcissistic bi-otch. She spends the better part of a year jerking this guy Tom around who is completely and unapologetically crazy about her.
Side note: who knew that kid from 3rd Rock was so charming?

Anyway, Summer leads Tom on for months and then decides one day that she just doesn't feel like being with him anymore. Then she flashes her big Disney eyes and wants to be his friend. Then after he manages to get over her enough to go back to being a functioning adult, she drags him back in to screw with him some more. And after all is said and done she ends up married to another guy, then out come the innocent eyes and poor Tom is just supposed to be happy for her.

Beware of Disney eyes!

The spooky thing is that a scenario not at all unlike this one happened to Jon some time ago. I won't share details out of respect for his privacy, but suffice it to say, this girl did a number on my baby brother. After the storm had passed and everyone involved was seeing clearly again, Jon was left with one simple truth about girls: the pretty ones think they can do whatever they want and it's OK because they're pretty. No dice, ladies. It's infuriating when a girl believes her appearance grants her empathy-exempt status. Beauty is praised to such an extent that these girls end up brainwashed into thinking their own feelings, impulses, musings, what-have-you are the only things that matter. They end up at the center of their own melodramatic universe. It's sad, it's annoying, but it's true.

You'd be mean to these girls too

So Jon adopted a technique for dealing with said selfish females: he's mean to them. He figures that no one's ever been mean to them a day in their life, being that they're so adorable, so they don't quite know how to react. He says some act like a deer in the headlights, some try in vain to throw it back at him, and some just don't get it at all. Now, I'm not advocating this strategy, but given what Jon went through I understand it and I wouldn't say I'm completely against it. I don't think anyone should be mean simply for the sake of being mean and I don't want to give the impression that my brother hates women. He just has developed a no-bullshit policy for pretty girls who think they can get away with anything. And honestly, I do believe there a more than a few chicks out there that could probably benefit from being taken down a peg or two.

But at least the movie was good.

"We live to dance another day, it's just now we have to dance for one more of us..."

It has been quite an intense week. Last Friday our close group of friends was rocked by the news that one of our own had taken his life. Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski had hung himself in his house. Words could not explain the shock, confusion, and utter sadness that collectively settled over the group that night. After each of us received the phone call from somewhere along the chain of friends we all gathered at our favorite bar- the bar where Old Boy had worked- to begin to try to make sense of the situation.

What occurred that evening, in the face of such unspeakable tragedy, was nothing short of inspiring. Both the bar and the sidewalk outside the bar were scattered with the people affected by Old Boy's death. It was clear that the usual atmosphere of laughter and general shenanigans had been replaced by an almost visible cloud of shock and sorrow. The amazing thing, however, was how every single person, through there own sadness, found a way to support every other person in the group. No one tried to find the magic words that would take the pain away, because we knew they didn't exist. No one tried to compete over who was the most sad over Jason's passing, because we knew that didn't matter. We were all simply there for each other in any way we could be. Some people needed to cry, so someone was there to hug them. Some people needed to tell jokes to alleviate the tension, so someone was there to laugh. Some people needed to sit silently by themselves, so we left them alone but stood close by in case they changed their mind. It was natural, it was beautiful, it was devastating.

In the days that followed each person mourned and honored Jason's memory in their own way. After his standing-room-only funeral (if that) the group that was now more family to each other than friends gathered once again at the bar where Jason worked and spent the entire day drinking beer and telling stories about the insane memories we had of Old Boy. Even his parents and sisters showed up to join in the reminiscing and by the end of the night they were our family too. It was exactly the way he would have wanted it.

It seems as though when someone dies the people left behind tell only the best qualities of the one who has passed on. It always seems a little exaggerated too. "She was always smiling." or "he was the greatest guy I've ever known". Nobody wants to admit that she was kind of a bitch sometimes or he was an angry drunk. That is not at all the case with Jason.

Jason was like that song that comes on the radio that instantly makes you perk up and sing at the top of your lungs. It was impossible to be in a bad mood when Old Boy was around. He wouldn't have it. He'd grin as wide as he could, his eyes would sparkle, and he would say just the thing you needed to hear to laugh like crazy and forget whatever the hell you were upset about. Even when he was drinking too much and doing something wildly inappropriate you couldn't help but laugh because only Old Boy could pull that off. The guy simply radiated joy and animation and he made everyone he met feel like they were the most important person in the world. And for the record: I believe I can speak for everyone when I say that we would all say exactly that about him if he was still with us and it was just another Friday night at the Wharf Rat.

One such night about three weeks ago my brother, Jon, was sitting at the Rat among the usual group of friends watching the Oriole game. Jon was giving Kevin a hard time about refusing to give him a piece of cake at a party they had been to earlier in the week. After a few minutes of light-hearted bantering between the two of them Old Boy, overhearing the conversation, disappeared for about ten minutes or so. He returned with a huge slice of cake that he placed in front of Kevin. This cake was not intended for Kevin, but for Kevin to redeem himself by giving it to Jon. No one knows where he got the cake from. He just wanted to put a smile on Jon's face. Jon told me later that it was one of the best night's of his life, sitting at a bar with all his friends, watching the Orioles, and being the only one in the bar eating a giant piece of cake.

Old Boy is not one that will soon be forgotten and I truly pray that he has found the peace that he was seeking. I like to think that he's happy now to see how close all his friends and family have become through this. However, I know we all wish it was under less tragic circumstances.
We'll miss you, buddy.

Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski

August 12, 1981 - July 16, 2010

"Long Live the King"

Sit Down, James Cameron

I can never enjoy another movie again. This was the collective reaction of Brandon, Jon, and myself as we walked out of the movie theater at 2:40am on Friday. We had been anticipating the premiere of Inception for weeks and had already prepared ourselves for it to be the best movie ever made- this is no exaggeration. The bar of our expectations had been set impossibly high... or so we thought. As it turned out, it was better.

Inception more closely resembled a roller coaster ride than a movie. I don't think any of us took a breath or blinked for the entire two and a half hours. I could go on for days about the phenomenal performances by the actors (who knew Joseph Gordon Levitt had it in him?) and the twisted visual effects but that's not what stood out to me. Plain and simple: this is what movie making should be. The story was bold and beyond compelling; plus, it was just complicated enough so you felt challenged but at the same time you weren't exhausted trying to keep up. The intensity of the situation was alleviated briefly by exactly the right amount and type of comic relief and gratuitous violence was clearly deemed unnecessary to plot development (what a concept). When the two and a half hours flew by and the story was winding down the final scene evoked a collective gasp from the audience followed by resounding applause.

All those in the business should stop rolling all over your money pile for a second and pay attention. This is what it's about, folks. Stop overpaying coked-out assholes to write dick and fart jokes and take a risk! Give us something we've never seen before; try some actual artistic creativity for a change. Creativity. Look it up. No, put down the script for Saw 8 go get a dictionary and find out why Christopher Nolan is so much better than you.

I'm sorry, but spending 10 years on creating seven foot tall blue cheetahs and tacking on some garbage script with about as much originality as a teenager in a Team Edward tee shirt may make you truck-loads of money but, in my book, it just makes you a cheap cinematic prostitute. 

Now, as for the phenomenon that is Inception; I really can't enjoy another movie again. Jon remarked, as we made our way to the car still in a haze over what we had just witnessed, "If Christopher Nolan had just applied himself to curing cancer or something... I'm a little mad that he didn't."
Well, we may not have a cure for cancer, but at least my faith was renewed in the future of movies. At least as long as Christopher Nolan is involved. Bring on the next Batman movie!

Change of Pace

I thought my blog could use a bit of a makeover. I've noticed myself branching out to writing about topics other than marriage; and I'm not even quite sure I would be considered a "newlywed" anymore anyway. So I took the satisfying liberty of registering the domain name jennaclark.com and ditched the title Reflections of a Newlywed in favor of something more inspirational and dear to my heart. Across the Universe is not a nod to the less than stellar Beatles musical or a random title of a Beatles song I decided to rip off. While trying to decide on a new title for my blog I found the lyrics of this particular song really spoke to my heart as a writer. Lennon wrote this song as a response to something his wife was talking about that he wasn't really paying attention to (so I guess it somehow winds its way back to marriage in a way) but I find these brilliant words to represent the art of writing for me. So I'll leave you with them and also the intention of bringing more facets of my life to this blog in the future than just my marriage.

Image from: www.deviantart.com

This Is My Generation, Baby

As part of the research and reporting process I'm undergoing for my book I was instructed by my writing teacher to construct a timeline of my life. This involved contacting old friends (which was an epic disaster), interviewing family members, studying old photo albums, listening to music, and rummaging through the dusty dark attic of my memory in an effort to document as much of my nearly 26 years on this planet as possible. So I sat down and got to work with a yellow legal pad, a pencil, my photo albums, and You Tube; because none of my old CDs function anymore and who the hell still has a working cassette player? Since my high school years are essentially the focus of the book, I began there.

What a phenomenal mess that period of time was! Stuck in limbo somewhere between innocence and accountability lies what can only be called a teenage wasteland (chill, Pete Townshend, the check's in the mail). Miserably unaware of our own ignorance, we were convinced we had the whole world figured out. That ridiculousness of that idea should have been clear from our questionable fashion choices. We were so self-important, trying to rebel against the boundaries of middle class oppression. The following is a list of causes I felt entitled enough to battle my parents to near death over:

1. My right to listen to any music I wanted, after my father confiscated CDs by such timeless artists as DMX, Wu-Tang Clan, Bone Thugs -n- Harmony, and Eminem
2. The injustice that was my mother shredding a tee-shirt I had purchased with the Playboy bunny logo massively displayed in red glitter
3. How incredibly unfair it was of them to ground me and keep me from seeing my boyfriend after finding a homemade bong in the backyard
4. And this is one of my favorites... delaying me from getting my driver's licence for an entire year because, at 14, I snuck out my bedroom window in the middle of the night, walked 2 miles to my friend's house, stole her mom's car, picked up our friends, and went joyriding for 3 hours when none of us had a license.

This list could go on but I had to stop before I gave myself brain damage from rolling my eyes so much at my own idiocy. Since when does a group of kids who spend their weekends drinking Mad Dog and Popov and smoking cheap weed out of a hollowed out carrot have their lives figured out? Logic and reason were grand acts of futility and were often met by vacant stares or razor sharp insults fired with surprising accuracy. 

I am amazed to this day that I somehow got out of that period alive. My Wu-Tang CDs died a slow death in the back of a closet somewhere, my Reebok Classics and JNCO Jeans have long since been retired, and I like to think my English skills have improved since the days of using the words "wuz" and "fug". I'm just lucky there are people in my life that still wanted to talk to me after that.

It's all worth the effort if lessons can be learned. As embarrassed as I am that I used to be that person, I learned so much in the process of growing out of it. The most important lesson, I think, being that teenagers know essentially as much about life as a hamster knows about physics. That, and the fact that gangster rap is not appropriate or relevant for a middle class white girl in Towson.

The Dreaded Day Job

It was perhaps idealistic and a little naive to think that I could transition seamlessly into being a full time writer without encountering a few road blocks. I have unavoidably fallen into the curse of the aspiring writer- the day job. (Gasp!) Yes, it's true. There wasn't the miraculous appearance of a book deal or an awaiting literary agent dying to represent me the minute I devoted the majority of my days to my laptop. Now before you all start laughing at me I'll stop here to assure you that I never assumed this would happen. I hoped, sure, but realistically I was aware that my new career wouldn't be rocketing me to fame and fortune any time soon. So after a few months of focusing solely on my writing while Brandon dragged himself to work every day I had to face facts.

The first thing I realized after just a few days was that writing is hauntingly secluded work. I love my house but spending all day every day in one place will make anywhere start to feel like a prison cell. Brandon would come home from work and I would somewhat resemble a zombie. He would smile and ask me how my writing went that day and I would stare at him with little to no idea of how to respond. After about a month I had all but forgotten how to communicate with actual people. The second thing I realized after the a few more weeks was that if Brandon and I had any chance of achieving the financial goals we set for ourselves when we got married I would have to start bringing in some actual money- on a regular schedule. Bummer. As isolated as I was beginning to feel and as much as it sucked not making money for my work, I was really enjoying working when I wanted to and not working when I didn't want to. Yeah, there's that naive idealism again. 

So after throwing a minor internal temper tantrum about the nasty realities of being a functioning adult and an under-appreciated writer I begrudgingly re-entered the work force. I now bear the obligatory slash in my occupation that so many struggling artists have to endure. My name is Jenna and I'm a writer/bartender. At least I didn't have to take a job at McDonald's; but trust me, we were about 2 weeks away from that. The bartending thing is actually a pretty cool gig, which is I guess why so many actors, writers, painters, etc. do it. It gets me out of the house, I get to talk to some nice people, and I get to make a whole lot of money in a very short period of time. All in all, not a whole lot to complain about; aside from the truth that my career goals have literally nothing to do with working for tips. 

So, here's hoping that one day soon I get to drop to dreaded occupation slash and I get to be Jenna the Writer again. Because the fact remains that I flat out love to write. Even with all the solitude and the frustrations I just have to do it. I never had a choice.

Wanted: Marital Social Director

Ladies and Gentlemen: for your consideration, I present to you the classic marriage dilemma; or one of the classics as it were. Maybe some of you can help me out with this little conundrum. I swear, even after all the tricks, procedures, secrets, landmines, and loopholes I've  discovered in and about marriage (and believe me, they're none too few) I still can't for the life of me navigate this issue clearly. So someone please tell me; what the hell are the rules when it comes to your outside social life as a couple?

I feel as though this issue doesn't receive enough attention in the matrimonial "how-to" literature. Perhaps this is because no one in their right frame of mind would consider this particular problem a deal breaker. Regardless, I still find the whole scenario irritating. It's hard enough for me to figure out my own social politics without having to work my husband's in as well. Let me present an example of this dilemma that presented itself relatively recently in my house.

Author's note: Some details of the following story have been altered to protect the privacy and feelings of those involved.

Brandon and I had been invited to a party thrown by Alex, a mutual friend. The invitation arrived in the mail four or five weeks before the party was to take place and neither Brandon nor I made any sort of immediate commitment to attend or not. The invitation requested we RSVP regrets only therefore we were still within our boundaries of party etiquette. Three days before the date of the party Brandon and I both received a mass email from Alex requesting that we reply if we would not be attending the party. The conversation that occurred that morning over coffee went as follows:
Me: "Hey, Bran- are we going to Alex's party this weekend?"
Brandon: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Brandon: "I want to go to the Oriole game."
Me: "OK, whatever, I'm fine either way. But can you let Alex know we won't be coming?"
Brandon: "Why do I have to do it? You tell Alex."
Me: "Uh, because you're the one who doesn't want to go."
Brandon: "Fine, then I guess we're going."
Me: "What? That's not what I meant. I'm fine with going to the O's game I just think since you're the one who doesn't want to go to the party you should be the one to tell Alex we're not coming."
Brandon: "I don't want to."
Me: "What makes you think I do?"

And so on, and so on... you get the idea.

Now, this was by no means a huge ordeal- minor banter really. But it was clear to me at that point in the conversation that we were at a stalemate. Neither one of us was going to back down any time soon, yet I was still unclear if we were going to a party or a baseball game that weekend. And I was fuming with frustration at the clear power play that was unfolding in my living room- not enough to back down though, of course. I thought I was making perfect sense and the situation was pretty straight forward:
- Brandon didn't want to go to the party
- Alex is a mutual friend that invited both of us, Mr. & Mrs.
- Brandon should be the one to make the uncomfortable phone call or write the uncomfortable email that explains why Mr. & Mrs. will not be attending
AM I RIGHT?

Eventually the point was moot because we attended Alex's wonderful party and had a great time. But I can't help musing about the vastly under-appreciated issue of who is the social director of the marriage and what the guidelines are that exist within that position. If you have managed to figure it out in your own relationship I tip my hat to you- congrats! I'm still working on this one.

Don't Hold Me in Contempt

It may be clear to some of you at this point, given the tone and subject of my last few posts, that my marriage and the basis for this blog has slipped into comfortable predictability. Brandon and I have reached the two and a half year mark happy and optimistic. That being the case, I have had a hard time as of late scraping up topics to vent about. I find that lack of drama makes for boring writing. Fortunately for me and the minuscule circle of readers I have managed to accumulate newlywed perils reach me these days by way of my dearest mother.

My mom, always the tireless academic, has become a humble student of marriage. This is a woman who loves to do her research. She believes that the better one understands and has the ability to analyze a concept the better one is prepared to handle said concept. It's a good theory. I tend to be a more hands-on, trial-by-fire, close my eyes and pray real hard that everything works out kind of person; but to each his own. I could probably stand to take a page from Mom's approach- man, if I had a nickel for every time I've said that last gem...

Anyway! Being the diligent, studious type, my mother has read many a text on how to make her marriage the best it can possibly be. She frequently discusses with me topics that she comes across in her reading. Yesterday the topic happened to be about contempt in a marriage. I believe the exact phrasing was, "You must have contempt for contempt". Corny, over-simplified phrasing aside, it got me thinking about the word contempt. Contempt is a mighty strong word. Is this really something that we need to actively try to avoid? I always thought that contempt is cultivated as a result of intense hatred or egregious act on the part of another.

After my conversation with my mom I kept fixating on the word contempt, so I did a little research of my own. I couldn't help but be bothered by the idea that contempt could perhaps creep its slimy little self into my marriage relatively unnoticed. I worried about that notion the way someone might worry about cancer after reading an article in Newsweek. Could I become a victim of contempt and not even know it?

According to Dr. John Gottman, eminent marriage researcher and head of The Gottman Relationship Institute, contempt is the third most dangerous problem a marriage can encounter behind stonewalling and defensiveness. In addition, I came to find out, this nasty little bastard stems from criticism. And honestly, who of us can swear under oath that we've never ever ever fallen into that trap? Be honest! Criticism has almost become a synonym of marriage. As a wife it's a stigma I encounter everywhere; I'm his wife therefore I must demean him with every opportunity I get. Although I will admit that in the heat of battle I have been known to make the occasional "you always" or "you never" comment; but I still feel as though we're a very long way from actual contempt. Apparently once a couple has crossed the line between criticism and contempt it's a quick decline into outright dysfunction.

"Why such a Debbie Downer?" you may be wondering. I assure you, it's not intentional. It was simply the thought process of a writer. We can get fixated on a single word and then the next thing you know it becomes a full-on self indulgent rant about what meaning it has is the grand scheme of it all. Or maybe it helped someone reading this, who knows? Either way; there it is. So what's the moral of our little story today, kids? I guess it's: tread lightly because contempt is poison to any relationship and it often goes undetected until significant damage is done.

A Tribute to Charm City

After my last post about the breath-taking splendor that is the great state of Montana a funny thing happened. I discovered a new and refreshing appreciation for my own fair city of Baltimore. I spent the majority of my vacation to where the deer and the antelope play mentally packing up all my belongings and fleeing the East without so much as a nostalgic glance over my shoulder. "I'm so over Baltimore!" I kept repeating to anyone that would listen. "The weather sucks and the people are mean." I was clearly itching for some new scenery and who could resist the landscape that the good ol' West was waving under my nose?
So it was no surprise when I begrudgingly set one foot off the plane at 10:30pm in Charm City and was immediately engulfed in a thick suffocating blanket of humidity that I wanted to spin right around and get back on the plane to anywhere but here. Stepping out into the heavy night air after collecting our bags didn't alleviate my misery one tiny bit.

My brother, Jon, however, couldn't have been more ecstatic to be home. He had convinced me on the plane that we needed to immediately seek the welcoming arms of the Fells Point nightlife. My rationality for agreeing to this insane notion was that after spending the entire day on an airplane, suffering through teeth-rattling turbulence over Denver, and losing two hours somewhere over Omaha I really needed a cocktail. I also figured my brain was still on Mountain time.

After shaking off the stale air of the plane and strolling through the cobblestone streets of Fells Point on the way to our favorite bar I was beginning to feel refreshed. Because of the horrendous parking options available on a Saturday close to midnight Jon and I had a few blocks to walk from our car. It was incredible what happened in those few little city blocks. I don't really know if it was Jon's enthusiasm and love for his city rubbing off on me, the extreme contrast of spending that very morning driving though a Montana valley and mere hours later walking the cracked streets of urban civilization, or maybe a little of both. The fact was, I saw my hometown through new eyes.

Baltimore is a city with a pulse, a city with a personality. It's pleasant enough to appreciate it for the historical architecture in downtown Fells Point or the tourist traps of the Inner Harbor; but what makes Baltimore stand out is what you wouldn't immediately pick up on. The simple diversity of culture that you witness if you just looked up long enough to see it is amazing. I don't mean that in a P.C. "Appreciate-All-Colors-And-Religions-Because-We're-All-Special" kind of way. I mean just seeing people co-existing- smiling, laughing, talking, or shouting at each other because their drunk. While walking the span of two blocks in Fells Point you will pass at least 12 bars, each with their own unique hook and loyal gang of patrons. Probably four or five of those bars will be featuring some crappy cover band or marginally talented folk singer likely playing for the free alcohol and basking in the attention of inebriated groupies. The sidewalks are saturated with bar-hoppers who all seem to be overly enthusiastic about one thing or another. And the entire time Jon and I are experiencing all the familiarity of just another Saturday night in Baltimore all Jon can say is, "I'm so happy to be home."

We reached our destination dangerously close to last call. So we grabbed a couple of Natty Bohs (that's National Bohemians for you foreigners) and settled into a couple of vacant stools. A few of our bleary eyed friends were scattered throughout the bar and more than happy to welcome us home. As the obligatory Boston, Bon Jovi, and Journey bar playlist faded through the chatter of inane bar conversation I sipped on my beer and smiled. This is a pretty frickin' cool city actually. The weather really does suck and many of its citizens could use a pretty drastic attitude adjustment but one thing's for damn sure- this town's never boring.

So with all that being said, the West still maintains a strong pull on my quarter-lifed restless spirit but cruising the balmy cobblestone streets of Fells on a summer night makes me a lot more hesitant to leave.

A Welcomed Break From Reality

Last week I was generously blessed with the opportunity to fly out to Montana to visit my mom in her new life. Since her departure in January that came right on the heels of her late October breast cancer diagnosis and her December nuptials, our relationship existed solely by way of telephone. Due to her chemotherapy Mom has been unable to travel herself so it was up to us (myself, Brandon, and my brother Jon) to find a way to make it to her. The means to do so found us by way of a more than generous gift of three round trip tickets courtesy of my grandmother, as a wedding gift to my mom and her new husband. So, if you're reading this Gramma, thank you a thousand times over on behalf of all of us!

Visiting the great state of Montana was not something that appeared on my bucket list before this whole crazy situation unfolded over the last year. But I will say this: anyone who lives on the East Coast should immediately pencil that one down under sky diving and learning to surf. Thank me later. The natural beauty that occurs in that area of the country is something that we jaded citiots (that's "city idiots" for those having trouble) can't begin to wrap our minds around. Some of you may be thinking, "come on, we've got mountains on the coast". Nope. Not even close. Check this out:

The pictures can only give one a small idea of the breath-taking scenery that is literally everywhere you look out there. Simply driving to the next town for dinner we passed enormous rock formations that resembled the ornate cathedrals that are scattered through Rome. You can't get out of your car to fill your gas tank without a prime view of a snow-capped peak in the middle of June. And I'll tell you, the Big Sky State is quite the understatement- it's gargantuan.

The scenery was simply one pleasant aspect of the phenomenal state of Montana. What caught me off guard almost as much as the staggering size of the mountains was the behavior of the citizens. Being a product of the "keep-your-head-down-and-walk-quickly" streets of Baltimore I was slightly skeptical at first of the genuine congeniality of complete strangers. Just about everyone everywhere we went made eye contact, smiled, and offered an unobtrusive "hello". At first I'm thinking, "wow, is it that obvious that I'm not from around here? I must stick out like, well, a cowboy in Baltimore". However, it didn't take me long to realize that everyone is just that nice to everyone.

Even the teenagers that served us our lattes in a kitchy 50's style ice cream parlor/coffee shop in the quaint little town of Phillipsburg were genuinely amiable and charming. And if anyone has ever experienced teenagers in the East you can imagine our collective awe at the sight of a group of untainted, unentitled, sweet kids.

The highlight of the trip, however, was not the scenery, the people, or the unique places we visited throughout the week. The experience that made the entire trip one of the best of my life was spending some desperately needed time with my mom in her new life. I was able to sit at her breakfast bar drinking coffee and laughing about the ups and downs of being a newlywed. I was able to play with her puppy in the park across from her gorgeous new house. We shopped, ate, joked, and cried like the five months apart never happened. There were no "catching up" conversations, she knew everything that was happening 2,300 miles away, it was simply good quality time with my mom. I was able to experience the happiness that she has found in this small town in a quiet valley in Montana. And as hard as it was to board that plane back to my "reality" at the end of the week, I love knowing that she's no only OK, she's really truly happy. I miss my mom a lot, but she sure does live in a seriously cool place to visit!

The Cautionary Tale of Abby

I have a friend- well, she's actually more accurately described as a casual acquaintance. For purposes of online anonymity I'll call her Abby. Abby is a tragic case. As former co-workers during my time as a waitress I got to know Abby rather well considering we worked just about every shift together. We spent a few occasions outside of work together and I even had her over to my house for margaritas. Between me and my good friend Amanda, we believed we could rescue her from the ever-deepening bleak hole she was digging herself into. This endeavor has proved to be quite the uphill battle.

Let me tell you a little bit about Abby. Abby is stupid; there's just no way around it. She has the mind of a seventeen year old idiot trapped in the body of a twenty-two year old girl. With no inherent desire to better her situation in any way, Abby works as a part-time waitress and spends her free time moving into, then out of, then into her eighteen year old deadbeat boyfriend's filthy apartment. On top of participating in one of the most dysfunctional relationships I've seen since Whitney and Bobby (that's right, I made a Whitney and Bobby reference), Abby wanted to get pregnant. Every attempt at trying to explain patiently and logically to her that this was perhaps quite literally the dumbest idea anyone has ever had was only met with a blank stare or a dismissive shrug.

After Abby and her loser boyfriend's first attempt to co-habitate lasted only two weeks, Amanda and I started to see a shimmer of hope for Abby. We were proud of her for making the first step to becoming a functioning adult. She dumped her dumb-shit boyfriend, started showing an interest in working more, saving money, and participating in activities with people her own age. I'll pause here to mention that Abby had previously been unable to enjoy her status as a twenty-two year old because all her friends were fresh out of high school and couldn't set foot in a bar. Anyway, suffice it to say Abby started making progress- for about a month.

Re-enter the loser boyfriend. This prick decided that he couldn't just be a deadbeat and waste his life all by his lonesome. He had to drag poor lost little Abby back down into the ditch with him. After threatening suicide if she didn't come back, shocker or shockers, Abby returned. She abandoned every last one of her efforts and moved back into her self-inflicted hell. This is the part where Amanda and I start beating our heads against the wall when what we truly would like to do is beat Abby's head against the wall.

You may be wondering at this point why Amanda and I are taking such a vested interest in this misguided little girl's exploits. Why shouldn't we simply write her off and go on about our lives? The girl is clearly a lost cause; let her hang herself. Don't think we weren't tempted. The thing about Abby is there is something different about her. She's not like so many of the entitled little brats I come across all too often who I feel could use a nice hard punch in the face from reality to knock them down a few pegs. She's got this trusting innocence to her that really makes you believe she deserves better and she simply doesn't know it.

The latest update on Abby, which I received from Amanda yesterday and the reason why I am writing this post, seems to be the last straw. Amanda has invested much more time than I have in the Abby Project and even she seems to have reached her wits end and is, for all intents and purposes, ready to throw in the towel. Turns out Abby suspects her worthless skeeze of a boyfriend (have I made it clear how I feel about the guy?) of having an STD. Showing no symptoms herself, Abby was advised to go get herself tested. Side note: is this something that really needs to be told to a twenty-two year old? This bold declaration of the obvious was met with a response that I still have to repeat in my head to truly believe someone could think this was a point to be argued.

Abby first responded by saying that she couldn't afford to go to the doctor. I know, I know, dumb-ass, right? But, sit tight, it gets better. After Amanda tried to present Abby her options as they pertained to her financial hesitations Abby tried a second line of rationalization.

"Well, it could just be something else," Abby replied brushing off the subject entirely. This is one of those moments that it would have been totally appropriate to grab Abby by her shoulders and literally attempt to shake some common frickin' sense into her, but my guess is that it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Amanda tried a few more times to get this girl to see that she was being a weapons-grade moron; but sadly it was to no avail.

So what should be done about sad, lost little Abby? Unfortunately this story is only the tip of the tragic iceberg. And just like the Titanic before her, if Abby had simply pulled her head out of the sand for even a moment she could have avoided crashing into that iceberg and sinking to the bottom of the dark relentless ocean.
But, who knows; maybe there's still hope for Abby. Or maybe the great philosopher Ron White had it right; you can't fix stupid.