7 Resolutions For 2014. Because I Couldn't Come Up With 2,014 of Them.

@Jobthingy and I ringing in the new year.

Happy 2014, bitches! (Spawnling just came in the room and asked why I just swore on my blog and called everyone the "B-word." Who taught him to read?! I knew putting him in school was a bad idea. And we wonder why this is the kid who told my friend just yesterday that her loud parrots were really pissing him off. Sigh.)

We rang in the New Year at a party hosted by Jobthingy that was 80% gay men, so you know it was a fabulous time. I felt entirely underdressed, but received many compliments on my glitter eye shadow.

One of the things I want to do this year is blog more. 2013 was abysmal for that. It was a year of busy, chaos-y goodness. I'm hoping for a little less upheaval this time around the sun. Of course, you never know when life is going to give you lemons, hold you down and squeeze them into your eyes, but I'm not going to let that stop me from setting some goals.

So, without further ado, here is a list of my 7 big priorities for 2014 (there are seven because that's half of 14 and math is good. Or more likely because I could only come up with 7, but the first one sounds better). I wrote them in a letter to myself to try and make it more personal - because, you know, writing something personal on my personal blog isn't personal enough.

Dear Self,

This year, I would like you to focus on:

BEING AUTHENTIC.

Come on. Let's stop with the games, baby. You're amazing. We both know it. Please stop trying to figure out what everyone else expects of you and just be you, exactly as you are, with your loud laugh and great hair and that weird wince-y little eye thing that happens when you smile. It's cute and possibly a sign of some far-back inbreeding, but that's okay. Just go around being you, being perfectly imperfect, smiling and living big. A life where you don't feel comfortable in your own skin is a life wasted.

WRITING AUTHENTICALLY.

Same thing as above, doll. Know why you're not writing? Know why you keep staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page? Because you're terrified of writing the wrong thing. You're scared people will realize you're actually a shitty writer and stop reading. You're intimidated by big bloggers with abundant page hits and conference gigs and think you can't possibly measure up. Stop that toxic mind train immediately before it derails in the neuron forest and poisons all the little bunnies and unicorns. You do not need to measure up to anyone. You do not need to compare yourself to other people. Besides, you are likely the only person you know who equates their brain to a forest full of bunnies and unicorns. That makes you special. It makes you unique. And really fucking weird. It's a good thing you're in therapy right now.

OH, RIGHT. STOP SELF-DEPRECATING SO MUCH.

I know. You're a comedic writer. It's your job to pull the funny out of the bad stuff. But when people like Julie go all Intervention in the car and tell you that you self-deprecate too much, you should probably listen. Julie is like a ninja master of smartness, and I don't think she yells at people very often. (She put on her mom voice and everything. It was scary.) It's ok to poke fun at yourself and to try to see the lighter side of your issues. But this year you're going to need to build yourself up twice as much as you tear yourself down. Seriously. And if you don't, I'm going to tell Julie.

EMBRACING YOUR INNER ARTIST.

You are not a rocket scientist, computer programmer or chemical engineer. Your little bunnies and unicorns run screaming through Neuron Forest at the mere idea of trigonometry. You need to watch documentaries on black holes with big pictures and simple narration from Morgan Freeman to even begin to understand the concept. And even then you have to keep pausing them and asking your husband for clarification - sometimes in the form of diagrams drawn on napkins. That's ok. Your mom ate McDonald's a lot when she was pregnant with you and it just made your genius happen a little.... differently. (By this logic all my children will be artists because I ATE ALL THE FRIES.) You're an artist, and we are just as needed as any rocket scientist. We help people see the human experience in a new light. We help scientists laugh and think and cry and heal so they can go on curing cancer and shit. You are a biophysicist of the written word. You're an anesthesiologist a brain surgeon of public speaking. You have a welcoming soul - a storyteller's soul - that makes strangers want to tell you their deepest secrets. Those are beautiful skills. Embrace them, don't hate on them.

ENRICHING SOMEONE'S LIFE EVERY DAY.

Because it can't always be about you, Mave. Ok, I know. Deep breath. It's a weird concept to wrap your head around, but you know as well as I do that it makes you feel awesome to make other people feel awesome.  Then they, in turn, make someone else feel awesome and you have a fucking axis of awesomeness, created by you. Now if that isn't a narcissist's wet dream, I don't know what is.  So hold the door and say good morning to the frazzled-looking mom at the coffee shop, or give that clerk at the grocery store a nice compliment. Not enough that she thinks you're hitting on her because that's creepytown and you might be asked not to shop there anymore. Just make people smile. People need to smile more. You're good at that. It's one of your superpowers (the other is taking great selfies.)

This guy has loved me for two whole decades. And doesn't drink every day. I think he might be Superman.

FOCUSING ON THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU.

I know. Lots of people, right? You can't help being so worthy. But there are those who always go the extra mile for you, and those are the ones you need to give your attention to.  But you have this nasty habit of giving a lot of your time and energy to people who don't deserve it. You have exhausted yourself for too long trying to garner the love of people who can't, for whatever reason, love you back with the same intensity. That stops today, you silly bitch. It's time to focus on the right people, and then put on some sunglasses for when they reflect that good shit back into your face. You might want to wear some sunscreen. It's going to be intense. And that love is going to fuel your soul, and in turn fuel your artistry. (But no pressure or anything, guys.)

NOT FEELING LIKE A FRAUD IN YOUR OWN LIFE.

That whole "I'm not supposed to be here" feeling? This isn't Clerks, girl, and you can't be a fraud in your own story. That's impossible. No, in your own story, you are the heroine. You have overcome obstacles, climbed mountains and performed other cliché metaphors to get to where you are today. I'm sure I can come up with more. I'm a writer. Hang on. Oh! You're a phoenix, rising out of the ashes and doing whatever phoenixes do after that. Screeching and flying and things. And sure, maybe you don't know a lot about phoenixes other than they get tattooed on people in prison a fair bit, but I bet they're pretty amazing like 2014 is going be.

It really is going to be amazing. Watch this space, bitches. I'm back.

My Imperfectly Perfect Adult Bedroom

I planned on writing something fun and funny this weekend, but life got in the way. Spawnling barfed a lot, and some of it actually got ground into the shag rug I do yoga on and that's just stupid gross. My car broke down in the middle of the night in the freezing cold and I didn't make it home until three in the morning (that was the same night as the barfing. Score!) I'm busily working on a happy holiday project involving - get this - blue balls. Legit. There will be an upcoming blog post about this.

I'm also swamped with school assignments at the moment. My most recent course is grade 11 English, in which I was asked to write a personal essay. Um, no problem, teacher guy. I can't memorize a time table to save my life, but I can totes write you an essay because, like, that's what I do for a living.

Anyway, so I meant to write something only an English teacher would love, and I ended up writing something I kind of love. Which shouldn't be at all surprising on account of my raging narcissism. I decided I'd share it on the blog and kill two busy-before-the-holidays birds with one stone. (It's actually not very nice to bludgeon animals with rocks, but I'll do it in the name of art and readership.)

Oh, and here's hoping my essay passes the plagiarism test once I publish it on my blog and it gets flagged by the software they use. Please send good thoughts and cookies.

MY PERFECTLY IMPERFECT ADULT BEDROOM

By: The Maven of Mayhem who is also known as Amanda Jetté Knox so please do not accuse her of copying this off the interwebs and kick her out of school because she only has two credits to go. Thanks.

Just like.

If the door is left closed for too long, a smell lingers in the air.

It's not a whiff of potpourri gently pouring out of a drawer of delicates, or even a subtle springtime scent emanating from the sheets thanks to the promises of big brand detergent companies.

It's a rather unpleasant smell, actually. It smells like wet canine.

For, you see, this is the dogs' bedroom, too.

It's also sometimes the kids' bedroom when they've had a bad dream or are feeling unwell, and it is nearly always the husband's bedroom.

Proof of their occupation is everywhere: teddy bears lumped under the disheveled duvet, a tie thrown on the dresser, animal-emblazoned pajamas crumpled on the floor (in both adult's and children's sizes, of course), books I've read a hundred times or would never read at all piled unceremoniously atop the nightstands. 

No, this is not just my room.

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the bedroom I would have as an adult. There would be no insidious toys on the floor waiting to be stepped on, nor would the room's unsightly style wounds be dressed in bandages of discarded clothing. It would be the clean, organized space every Virgo dreams of, free from the chaos and clutter of my youth.

My bedroom would have a fresh look, a sophisticated air. An inviting teal-grey would coat the walls, bringing with it a feeling of warmth and serenity. My bed would have pillows - so many pillows! - and most of them would have absolutely no reason for being other than to please the eye. There would be a bookcase filled with good literature and just a bit of dust to hint at the vintage of some of my more treasured collectables.

In the name of balance, I also hoped to carry a whimsical theme from my childhood into that otherwise stuffy sophistication; A pink glass unicorn standing proudly on my dresser, perhaps, or the Smurfs I used to play with for years peeking out from behind jewelry boxes and reading lamps.

Mine would be a perfect room, a restful haven, and the last bastion of tranquility in a busy adult world. 

Except it isn't really like that, is it? It's actually quite the opposite. Why? Real life happened. Messy kids happened. Dogs who throw up in the walk-in closet happened. A lot of terribly unfair things happened.

I tried to fight against these completely unacceptable happenings for years. I would spend weekends scrubbing floors, sorting dressers, and clearing out the rubble under my bed left over from a recent skirmish between a toddler and his toy trains. I would make the bed, and then remake the bed again after the boys had used it as their mission control center/monster hunting hut. I would move the dog bed into the living room, then bring it back in when they sat outside our door whining at two in the morning. I would go to my son after his bad dream and lull him back to sleep in his own room, only to find his little feet on my pillow by morning, his head of sweaty hair tucked under the blankets.

But I pressed on for far too long; keeping the vision of peaceful perfection in my head, striving through sweat and under-the-breath curses to achieve that blissful tranquility.

Then, one day, I realized the insanity of it all. And I gave up. I succumbed to the reality of my circumstances.

The truth is, my bedroom is not a tidy sanctuary, nor will it be for a very long time. It is not a clean space with bright wooden floors and unmarked baseboards.  It is not a place for throw pillows, for those pillows will literally get thrown. Once on the floor, the dogs will use them like life rafts sheltering them from the cold, un-shiny floors beneath. They will get hairy and smelly, and I will just get angry. So there are no throw pillows.

But there is magic in this room - and I say "this room" because it also doubles as my office, the place where I string words together for a living, and the spot where I make people laugh, cry or think. 

There is joy in this room. It emerges from the belly laughs my children bring when they enter it - often without knocking.  It comes from the wagging tails that greet us each morning and from the happily chewed up toys beneath the bed.

There is love in this room. It blooms from the smile on my husband's face when he kisses me good morning, and from the gratitude that often overcomes me when I hang up his shirts and remember how fortunate I am to have someone's shirts to hang.

There is a beautiful mayhem in this room. It's as unique as our family is, as imperfect as my previous strive for perfection. It's the apple core peeking out from behind my jewelry box instead of a Smurf. It's the eighty-eighth reading of Green Eggs and Ham, my hands moving over dried peanut butter stains and old scribbles, wondering with a tear in my eye if this will be the last time they ask me to read this book. It's in the contemplation I have each time I look at the dirty walls and wish for a paint job, only to decide that now is not the time. Now is the time to let the walls be dirty before there is no one to mess them up anymore. Now is the time to enjoy everything just as it is, and to let go of expectations that steal that joy away.

I suppose my room is almost perfect, just as it is.

But it still needs a glass unicorn.

A Breakdown of My Emotional Breakdown

I'm not entirely sure how this pic is helpful at all to this story. But you have now seen a picture of my pussy.

I've been going to therapy lately. It's been good for me. 

My new therapist is full on fabulous. She's sweet and warm and gives great hugs, which is exactly what I need in someone I'm pouring my heart out to.

"What's your biggest fear, Maven?" she asked me. "What's holding you back?"

I thought for a moment, which is my secret trick for when I want to take a sip of my coffee but want to look pensive at the same time. "Well, I guess I'm waiting for everyone to find out I'm a big fraud." 

"And how are you a fraud?" 

"I walk around all day in my mom/professional writer suit. It's not actually a suit, by the way. It's more like jeans or occasionally yoga pants. Fine. Mostly yoga pants. Oh, and a shirt that has stains on it half the time that I can't even blame on babies anymore. Anyway, everyone says, 'you're such a great mom, Maven!' and 'You're such a great writer, Maven!' and 'You have such a great family, Maven!" what I'm really waiting for them to realize is, hey, wait a sec, Maven isn't supposed to be in this life. What's she doing here? Isn't she a self-absorbed high school dropout recovering alcoholic who got pregnant at nineteen?"

"And?" she inquired further, imploring me to finish the thought.

"And demographically speaking, I shouldn't be here," I stated, matter-of-factly. "It's only by pure luck that I'm here. You know that. You're a therapist. You went to school and read studies on people like me." 

"I think you're here because you worked really hard and you're very resilient," she said. I shrugged and half-nodded and drank more coffee. I was uncomfortable admitting all of that out loud to someone. 

"You don't seem to have a lot of self-worth. Why do you think that is?"

I sighed. "This year I did two very big things. I moved, and then I went back to high school. It's been a little demoralizing, I guess. I was comfortable before. But now I've ripped the polkadot bandaid off and realized there's still a wound under there after all these years. It's gross and I don't like it. Guess I can't just put another bandaid on it, huh?" 

She shook her head.

I have hit emotional bottom. Like, just. hit. bottom. It's been such a tough year. Not a bad one, just tough. There have been so many changes and they've left me feeling pretty raw. This is what an emotional breakdown feels like. It's ugly and sad and it's been making me angry. I want Maven back. I want my writing mojo back. I want my energy back. I want to feel like the amazing person I used to know I was. I want that joy I used to carry under my coat and flash at people. And that's why I've been sitting in the therapist's office, crying and frustrated. This has to stop because I need to get back to me. Soon.

I just started reading Brene Brown's The Gifts of Imperfection at the recommendation of my lovely therapist. It's been enlightening so far. She had a breakdown too, you know, and that's how she got awesome enough to write books. Maybe, once I move beyond mine, I'll be awesome enough to finally do that, too.

She also mentions vulnerability and shame, and how shame loves it when we hide it from others. It grows and festers until we can make ourselves vulnerable enough to share it. So here you go, entire internet population: Here is my shame. It's big. Please be kind. Send chocolate.

This is who I am. I'm imperfect. I made choices. I need to stop worrying that other people will judge me for them. The truth is, some of you will. But the rest of that truth is that your judgment likely has nothing to do with me and everything to do with how you interpret life. I can't control that anymore than I can control how insanely gorgeous my hair is. It just is. And that's ok.

Maybe, if I just get honest, I'll stop questioning myself all the time. Maybe I'll feel more worthy again. Maybe I'll be able to write more blog posts and do all those guest posts I've promised I'd do for other people but haven't gotten around to yet because I can hardly write these ones. Maybe I'll laugh a little more again. Maybe I'll come alive a little more. Maybe I'll be the balls-out bitch of a powerhouse I know is inside of me and blow the roof off of this beautiful life of mine. 

Maybe.

Baby steps.

The therapist wants me to spend my spare time wisely.  She said, "Whenever you do something that is non-essential in life, I want you to ask yourself, 'Will this feed my soul?' And if the answer is no, don't do it. Treat yourself kindly, make yourself a priority, and you will start to believe you are worthy of good things."

Last night the cat jumped up on my lap for a cuddle. She looked at me impatiently.

"Hang on, Matrix. Is petting you going to feed my soul?" I asked.

She purred sweetly and stuck her claws into my thigh. "Fuuuuuck! Ok, yes."

Before I was about to eat a chocolate bar earlier, I asked myself, "Will this feed my so-- ah, fuck it," and proceeded to stuff it unceremoniously into my carb hole.

Baby steps, ok?

Before writing this blog post, I asked myself, "Will this feed my soul?" The answer came quickly: writing from my heart (and foul mouth and twisty brain) always feeds my soul. Always.

So I'm getting very good at this soul feeding thing. I'm even making better choices when it comes to relationships. Who do I spend time with? People who make me as much of a priority as I make them. Who do I put energy into? People who leave me happier than I was before I saw them. 

People who feed my soul. Only those. Like a boss.

I've realized my soul is quite hungry. Downright gluttonous, even. I have named it Kron The Devourer and it is truly an unstoppable beast. 

Thank goodness I have a lot of chocolate and good peeps and a blog and a very needy cat.

And I'm hoping that, once Kron the Devourer and I get some time to pig out, we will be feeling a whole lot better.

No more bandaids.

I Maintain That My Giant M&M Man is Very Real

Ladies and gentlemen, my Kryptonite.

"So, let me get this straight," my husband said to me in the kitchen a couple of days ago. "You're trying to tell me that there's a large man who dresses like an M&M and walks his dog around the neighbourhood every day?"

"Well, no. I mean, yes. Sort of. He doesn't dress in a costume or anything," I corrected.

"Then how is he dressed like an M&M?" asked Intrepid the teenaged son.

"He has a yellow Peanut M&M racing jacket with an M&Ms ball cap and matching pajama bottoms," I explained. "He's extremely well-themed. I'm a little jealous."

"And he has a small dog?" Geekster asked, shooting Intrepid an amused look.

I was not so amused. "Yes. Like a Shih Tzu or whatever. I don't know. Who can pay attention to a dog breed when chocolate is walking by the house?"

"So a large man dressed in M&M gear walks a very small dog by this window every day." There might have been some deep-voiced giggling.

"Yes," I stated.

"Funny, I haven't seen him," Intrepid said.

"Me neither," added Geekster.

I sighed. "He comes by shortly after you guys leave for work and school."

"Of course he does. So convenient," Geekster said, looking at his son.

"Very," the teenager agreed, and they nodded in unison.

"You know, I put this up as a Facebook status earlier and nobody questioned me. The Facebook people are so much nicer than the real life people."

"No, the Facebook people have simply adjusted to how crazy you are," my husband offered, kindly.

"He's real! I'm telling you!"

"It's interesting how he's dressed in your favourite chocolate brand, mom. You know, of all themed outfits he could be wearing."

 "Has anyone else seen him? Maybe Mike and Keri down the road?" my soon-to-be-ex-husband inquired.

"I asked, but no. That's just because they're not looking, though. I have totally seen him walk by their house before!"

"Sounds fishy to me," Intrepid said.

"Chocolately, even," replied his father.

"I hate you guys," I muttered, unimpressed.

Yesterday, as I was scraping off the car, Peanut M&M Man walked by again.

Sort of.

I texted my husband before leaving.

Me: K he totally walked right by the house just now and he's switched up his game for winter. Miami Dolphins jacket and required matching pajama pants. And he has a miniature collie, not a Shih Tzu.

Geekster: Not. Real.

Me: He's totally legit!

Geekster: LOL

Geekster and Intrepid made sure to remind me that I've been under a lot of stress lately, what with the whole back-to-school workload and such, and that maybe I'm fabricating giant theme-wearing men with tiny dogs to grapple with it.

And then I reminded them that PMS week is fast approaching and I tend to feel a little stabby around then, so they might want to tone it the fuck down.

Geekster and Intrepid insist on photo evidence, but they don't understand the complexity of this request. You don't just simply walk up to Bigfoot and take his picture. They always end up blurry and everybody thinks it's just your drunk cousin wearing a costume and you become the laughing stock of the cryptozoology world. Those are problems I just don't need.

This morning, my skeptical spouse said, "You should just go up and talk to him. Ask him to walk by the house at a time when everyone is home. It's easy!"

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because the man is a delicate ecosystem of greatness, and I don't want to disrupt that ecosystem. Did you learn nothing from biology class? Be home around 9:30 sometime and see for yourself. "

"I have this thing called work."

I looked at him with great sadness. "Then you'll never know what I know."

"You are the strangest person I have ever met." He kissed me on the forehead.

"And that's why I fit so nicely into this neighbourhood," I replied, proudly.

I maintain that there is a large man in beautifully themed clothing that walks his small dog by my house each morning. He's magnificent like a unicorn, and perhaps only shows himself to those who are worthy.

Or those who make coffee by the front window every morning. One of those.

An Open Letter to my Kids About "The Talk."

Source: Wikipedia Commons

Dear Boy Children From my Womb,

I am trying to figure out how to have really good sex talks with you. And not just because that's the type of discussion parents need to have with their kids because all the magazines and experts say we should. And not even because I think any previous sex talks have been lousy (I'm pretty sure they haven't been. Have you met me?!)

But lately, as you've gotten older and one of you is now dating and one of you is about to hit puberty and one of you is exposed to the mighty internet box and its confusing messages at a much younger age than I would like, I'm realizing I'm going to have to up my game a little. Shit's gotten real around here.

Confession time: a part of me was relieved when I realized we were only going to have boys to raise. Boys are easy, I figured. Boys have privilege. You're born with penises, and that gives you a huge leg up (or maybe a third leg up), even in our progressive society.

It meant I could worry a little less about you walking alone at night, or developing an eating disorder, or being physically harmed by someone who is supposed to love you. It meant I probably didn't have to worry about you dumbing yourself down in class to impress the opposite sex, or dressing outside your comfort zone in the hopes your crush would notice you, or someone taking advantage of you when you've had too much to drink. All those things I did, that my friends did, that we struggled with as we desperately fished around in a pool of media messages to find our lost confidence, our rods coming up empty for years.

And the sex talks? Well, those should be much simpler, right? Wear a condom. Be kind. No means no. Easy boy stuff.

I thought I had dodged a giant pink bullet.

I was wrong.

There is so much responsibility in raising a son. Maybe it's different in some ways than raising a daughter, but it's not without its challenges. I've learned so much about men while in the trenches of parenthood. You are far more sensitive and thoughtful than you let on by the time your voice deepens. You care deeply and you struggle with your own confidence issues. You definitely need a good female role model. I want nothing more than to be that role model.

Lately, I've been listening more intently to the music you've been exposed to over the years. I've been paying attention to what's at the top of the charts when Santa sticks an iTunes card in your stocking. And I'm getting worried. Our culture is ripe with messages of female submission. It's telling us that women bending to a man's will in the bedroom is the norm.

Rihanna, a woman who was beaten by her boyfriend, sings:

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But whips and chains excite me

Lady Gaga belts out in her latest song:

You can't have my heart,
and you won't use my mind,
But do what you want with my body.

And Nickelback's lyrics from their song "Figured You Out" include:

I love your lack of self-respect
While you're passed out on the deck
I love my hands around your neck,

Ok, I know. These songs are catchy (even the Nickelback one, as much as I hate to admit it) and, if you're an adult with a stable mind, you will probably not be adversely affected by those lyrics. You can filter them out, decide not to apply them to your life. You can recognize that these songs are likely a reflection of the S&M-based books like 50 Shades of Grey filtering through the mainstream right now.

But if you're a kid and you're growing up with media messages that are screaming at you to treat women as lesser beings, what are you supposed to think? That has to be all kinds of confusing. Is that how all women like to be treated? Am I supposed to take what I want? Do what I want? And that's where I come in (and your dad does, too. But this isn't his blog so he only gets a little bit of airtime.) That's where I do my job, and I hope I have enough influence and enough of your respect that you will listen to me.

And that's why we'll talk a lot about consent, and how and when that consent is given. We'll discuss inebriation - both yours and hers (or his, depending on your orientation) and how that can affect judgment. I'll tell you that even if someone is giving you permission to "do what you want" to their body, there are always limits, and they must be respected. I'll explain that not every woman likes to be dominated, and that many prefer gentle lovemaking and balance between the sheets. That sexual chemistry is a dynamic dance that involves a great deal of communication.

Someday, I might tell you that I'm not just your mom, but a rape survivor. That I will forever live with the emotional scars of what he did to me. And that there are a lot of girls and women just like me out there who wince a little when they hear lyrics like the ones above - even if the songs are damn catchy. That maybe, by teaching our sons to respect their partners and decipher confusing media messages, we are healing ourselves, empowering our kids, and hopefully making the next generation of girls feel safer.

So, yeah. Sex talks? With your mom? Those are tricky, even from the perspective of an open-minded, fairly liberal, stupendously awesome parent like yours truly. But let's keep having them, ok?

And if you don't roll your eyes, I promise not to start dressing as Lady Gaga when I pick you up from school. Everybody wins.

Luckily yours,

Mom

I am an Extrovert with Deep-Seated Rejection Issues. What do I win?

I have always identified as an extrovert.

A wild-haired, sassy, sarcastic, proverbial-balls-out extrovert. And I love it.

I have lots of people. I love my people. I enjoy seeing my people and engaging in social activities with them. I revel in good conversation and bask in laughter. I always leave - while tucking my balls back in - with a smile on my face, satisfied and replenished. Then I can head home and do boring shit all by myself like wipe gobs of toothpaste off the bathroom mirror or clean up dried pee off the fucking toilet seat for the tenth time this week because nobody can seem to remember to lift it unless I yell it out as they're slamming the bathroom door shut-- where was I? Oh, right.

I love people. People fill me up and make me less stabby with the pee scrubbing.

The only problem? I get really nervous meeting new people. I totally rock at established relationships, but the new ones? Ick. I know you're probably all, "Yeah, so? Everybody gets nervous, Maven. This is not an interesting fact about you." That is surface accurate. But I get extra crazy. Like, crazy piled on top of the crazy I already am, which is a significant amount of crazy, everybody.

Take a couple of months ago. Here I was, on my way to a Cirque du Soleil media night with my husband, clutching the tickets in my hands. He was excited to have a nice, enjoyable evening out with his wife. And then we got in the car.

"Why are you breathing funny?" he asked.

"I have to meet people tonight. Other bloggers, like Dani and Candace and Julie. Well, ok, I've met Julie already. And I met Dani once but I don't think she remembers me because I'm that boring in person. Anyway, it's stressful. I'm stressed. I AM STRESS," I replied between controlled breaths.

He seemed puzzled. "So? Aren't you friends online?"

I shot him a look. "THAT'S DIFFERENT."

"Um, how is that different? You talk to them all the time, don't you?"

"Yep," I panted.

"... And they like you."

"No. They think they like me."

"They like you," he said, reassuringly.

"No. They like online me. She's better," I stated matter-of-factly.

"You're the same person," he laughed.

"No, honey. Online me isn't nearly as awkward as in-person me. She has time to think of things before she says them, instead of whatever inappropriateness comes spewing forth from the depths of her mangled soul. She can be witty in 140 characters or less. Retweet-worthy witty! Nobody knows she has the attention span of a gnat. All her profile pictures have filters on them... Actually, that might be a good thing. Maybe nobody will recognize me and I can just hide in my seat and eat popcorn," I said.

He shook his head.

I slumped back in the passenger seat. "Fuck. I have confidence issues."

"You have social anxiety."

"I have everything anxiety," I pouted.

First meetings are always like first dates for me. Sure, maybe we've talked online. Maybe you've read my blog. Maybe you think you have an idea of who I am, and apparently you want to meet her. But I get panicky about it. What if I don't live up to your expectations? What if I'm not as fun or friendly or engaging as you expect me to be? And then what if I never hear from you again and am left wondering how much I sucked on a scale of 1 to 10?

I hate rejection. It's like a twisty little gut knife. My only friend in elementary school used to always threaten to go hang out with kids who were cooler than me, and I would get cold with fear. I'd then make her a lovely card telling her how much I valued our friendship, and I would sometimes even stick some of my allowance money in it in hopes that she wouldn't leave me completely friendless in the school yard.

And she wouldn't. Because who wants to leave someone who's literally paying you to be her friend? What a sweet deal.

I'd like to think I've come a long way since then. Now I only buy people coffee to be my friend. On an income ratio scale, that's some serious progress.

I want everyone to like me, which is an absolute impossibility. I know this. I'm generally ok with that fact in the really real world, especially when it comes to my fellow school parents. Not everyone is my cup of tea americano, so why would I expect I'm everyone's cup of tea half-sweet no whip pumpkin spiced latte? I can't be. I won't be. I'm not compatible with everyone. For some people, my awesomeness is like kryptonite, slowly poisoning them and making it impossible for them to stop meteors from hitting the earth and shit. We can't have that. And if you have no sense of humour and/or you can only talk about Pinterest crafts or Sunday school or insurance premiums, you are probably my form of kryptonite as well.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say I want everyone who reads my blog to like me in person. I put myself out on here all the time. Hell, I just admitted I used to pay my friend to be my friend. That's personal, yo. That's heart-on-my-sleeve sharing. We're now the emotional equivalent of second base. I want you to still respect me in the morning.

Except maybe you won't. And maybe I'll go to the circus and you'll meet me in person and you'll be all, "Oh, that was disappointing. I expected her to be funnier and for her skin to have more contrast or something." I have to be ok with that.

Or maybe you won't think that, and you'll actually find me kind of endearing in that quirky way. And you'll become one of my people and I'll become one of yours and we'll make friendship bracelets and shit. And I'll be able to keep my allowance for once and maybe save up for that bike.

Or maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle, like I did with the group I saw at the circus that night. They are slowly becoming my people, whether they realize it or not. But I like my people, and sometimes my people get coffee.

And weirdness.

Off to tuck my balls back in.

How To Be a Friend To Someone with a Mentally Ill Child

Source: Wikipedia Commons

We had a rough weekend with Gutsy. It was four days long, involved his little brother's birthday celebrations and us hosting (Canadian) Thanksgiving. When his schedule is off like that, it's harder for him to cope with life. Even with low-dose medication, he had a couple of big episodes that left him in tears and the rest of us doing our best to support him through it all.

My spouse is hella amazing - and hot. Did I mention hot? - and my best friend, to boot. He's the only one who knows exactly what I'm going through because he's going through it with me.  So we talked about it for a bit and I checked out his biceps while trying to focus on his mouth, and then he went off to do his introvert thing and I went to do my extrovert thing, which is code for Watch Grey's Anatomy and Text People.

That's when I turned to my friends - my buds, my chicks, my ladies - and leaned on them until they couldn't breathe (I'm pretty heavy.) I don't know what I'd do without such a great support system.

Then I thought about what it took to build a community of supportive people when you have a chronic illness in the home. It was a lot of work and a lot of education on everyone's part. I thought about those who are just starting on this journey and wondered what they might want to tell their friends and family.

I am not a medical professional of any kind, but I am a mom who's been dealing with mental illness - both mine and my child's - for a very long time, and that gives me some perspective. I don't speak for every parent (believe me, nobody wants me as their spokesperson because then their spokesperson would be dropping f-bombs everywhere). But I hope that maybe this could be a conversation starter.

HOW TO BE AN AMAZING FRIEND (OR FAMILY MEMBER) TO A PARENT OF A MENTALLY ILL CHILD:

Whether you realize it or not, you have friends whose children are, have been, or will be mentally ill. True story, bro. It's estimated that 20% of children in Canada and the United States have or will have a mental disorder. I know, right? Those are crazy stats. What this means is that unless you're wildly unpopular and only talk to maybe two people, these tricky little bastards will definitely be affecting someone you know. That's 1 in 5 kids. Let that sink in for a minute. (I find chocolate helps.)

Recognize that there is an undeniable stigma surrounding mental illness, and chances are you grew up learning that stigma. I mean, think about it: If one-fifth of the population will suffer in their lifetime, why are we just starting to talk about this? Why is discussing therapy and/or medication an uncomfortable topic? Stigma, that's why. It's a taboo subject for many folk, because for some reason being sick in your brain - the most complex and least understood part of the body - is seen as a sign of weakness. Because, despite the fact that science has proven time and time again that the brain's chemistry directly affects how we see and interact with the world, mood is still viewed as something we should be able to control. So that uncomfortableness you might be feeling when your friend refers to their child's diagnosis? That's pretty normal. It's stigma talking, and your job as an awesome friend is to kick it in the junk.

Understand that your friend's child has a real, chronic illness. Take it seriously. Again, this is a stigma issue. This isn't some diagnosis-du-jour.  It's not the trendy new disease made up by drug companies to sell pills or by psychologists to bulk up their retirement savings. These illnesses have always been around -people are just "coming out" more and seeking help more often these days. Children are only diagnosed with a mental illness when their lives become governed by it. In our case, our son couldn't get out of bed in the morning, had next to no friends, no interest in leaving his room, couldn't cope with school, couldn't stray from routine and obsessed over mundane details like his life depended on it. He was completely consumed by his illness - his very serious, potentially life-threatening illness.  When a parent seeks help for their child, there is generally a really good reason to do so. Trust their judgment.

Please don't suggest new discipline methods. This is not a parenting issue. I can't tell you how many times I've had well-meaning people in my life suggest that we're just doing things wrong; that we just need to be stricter, more structured, more organized - and that would solve the issue. That is about as useful as suggesting that a parent only need to feed their child healthy foods to cure juvenile diabetes or shrink a tumor. Mental illness isn't a lifestyle issue. Sure, there are things that can exacerbate the symptoms, but that's what a good therapist who's seen many families in these situations can help with. Also, we've probably tried everything you've suggested already. In our specific case, we exhausted virtually every discipline method we could before realizing that, hey, maybe this isn't a bratty kid but a sick kid.

Recognize that medication is not what lazy parents give their kids so they don't have to deal with them.  I don't feel the need to defend our choice to medicate our ten-year-old because I know it was the right one, but I write this for those who are struggling with their decision to do the same. I am so done with this stereotype, people. In case you haven't read me before, medication was the hardest decision we've ever had to make as parents. It was also the best decision we've ever made as parents. Our son's moods are more stable, and his bad days are more manageable for him and the rest of his family. Parents who choose to medicate do not generally come by that decision easily. We are in crisis. Normally, we have tried everything else first and our families are at the breaking point. Once again, assuming that someone with a sick brain doesn't need medication as much as someone with a sick pancreas is erroneous and based in stigma. And if I sound judgy, I'm really not trying to be. I was that person once upon a time, and my views were based in ignorance.

Do your research (but don't rely on Dr. Google to give you all the answers.) One of my friend's sons had cancer. I met them before he went into remission (where he has thankfully stayed for over four years now) and I wanted to know as much as I could about his disease so I could be a good, supportive friend. While going online provided me with a list of possible symptoms, treatments and outcomes, it didn't make me an expert by any means. His case was as unique as he is, and I found talking to his parents far more informative than anything I could read online. This is just as true of mental illness; the symptoms can vary so much by child. Please don't go reading a list of symptoms and then assume your friend's daughter isn't severely depressed because she has no problem eating and the list says she shouldn't be hungry. Chances are if she's been diagnosed with depression, she is undoubtedly depressed. Screw Dr. Google. He's a bit of a quack and only gets paid in advertising revenue.

Understand that some days are going to be harder than others. We are going to have bad days when our kids have bad days (and that's where you come in.) I know that, after this weekend, I felt like the band-aid I was getting used to had been ripped off, exposing a wound that was just beginning to heal. I felt raw and sad and sensitive. I felt like a terrible parent who can't help her child. I went back through my days and wondered what I had done wrong. I questioned all our decisions to date and worried they had all been for naught. It is so easy to fall back there. That's when we need a friend the most.

It's ok that you don't always know what to say. Mental illness is a tricky subject. Sometimes saying, "I wish I knew what to say" or "I'm so sorry it's been a rough day" or "I'm always here for you" is all your friend needs. We're not looking to you for advice. We don't expect you to know how we're feeling or what we're going through. How could you unless you're going through it, too? But we appreciate your support and your love. Thankfully, I have some pretty great friends who were privy to my barrage of emotional texts last night. (This is why I buy you all coffee. You're the cheapest therapists ever.)

I'm probably forgetting a dozen or so things, but I hope this list is a good start.  If you read this whole thing through without leaving to click on cute cat videos or the latest celebrity train wreck, you are already an incredible friend. And hey, it might result in some serious coffee handouts, and will most certainly result in some big hugs and lots of gratitude. Now go forth and be awesome. And possibly very caffeinated.

Confession: I am a Loser at My Kids' School

Not actually my children's school. Pretty sure this is a building made of Pepto-Bismol. Or salmon.

Dear Parents at my kids' elementary school,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am The Ma--

Hey! Me, over here. It's me, The Mave--

Hello?!

It's me, The Maven. But you can call me Maven because our kids go to the same school so we're tight, yo. I'm the one with the hair and the face and the shoes that stands in your very near vicinity while you all talk amongst yourselves and don't even notice. I even fell down once and cut my leg open. 

Remember that? 

Didn't think so. 

I've been standing in the same yard as you every single school day since April. That's nearly six months, people. And sure, there were a few weeks of summer in there, but school is back in full swing now and I was determined to get at least some of you to know I'm real. I smile at you and try to laugh at your jokes to each other without sounding like I'm listening in on your conversation even though I am, but none of that seems to work. 

I have serious eyelash envy. You could make curtains out of those things.

You don't know I'm here. I feel like Snuffleuppagus. Or maybe I'm Big Bird because he's trying so hard to show you that Snuffy is real and you're all, "Sure, Big Bird..." and then to each other you're all, "Yeah, he's totally schizophrenic" and then Grover sips his latte and talks about the woes of private health care or whatever Americans do and then Maria nods and keeps talking to puppets like that's normal and you all just go back to your clique-y group conversations without me.

Anyway, the point is, I just don't see why we can't be friends. I mean besides that whole last paragraph. Forget that entire paragraph, ok? The whole thing.

I'm pretty awesome. Seriously. You don't know that, of course, because you think I'm a colourful tree that texts and hugs kids or something. But I assure you that I'm great. In fact, I'm a pretty big deal on the internet. True story. Just ask 0.000265% of Twitter and a fraction less than that of Facebook, and they will assure you I'm a gal worth knowing.

I didn't realize it would be so hard moving to a new school community. I was the shit at our old one. Intrepid started there 12 years ago and I jumped in with both feet: I volunteered, joined committees, and even scored some eventual paid work. Before long, I knew most of the staff on a first name basis and a large percentage of the students and their parents. I was never lonely, never felt out of place, never wished someone would just notice me. 

It's not that everyone liked me. In fact, I'm pretty sure a bunch of people didn't. However, they knew who I was and they were civil with me. That, for some reason, was a lot easier to deal with than being a total nobody. 

I'm not used to being a nobody. When I was a kid getting picked on at school, people at least knew who I was. I was the kid you picked on, of course. Duh. When I grew up and found my voice and my strength and my sense of humour, I became known as that quirky adult who writes about her life online and shares it with people and expects them to still want to talk to her.

But I'm noticed. Always. Except with you. I could just not show up tomorrow and you wouldn't be phased whatsoever. 

At first I kind of loved the idea. I went from a town where I couldn't leave my house without running into someone I knew, to moving here where I know a handful of neighbours and a few (wonderful) people I met on Twitter. The anonymity has been pretty sweet. It's like a fresh start where I can look like crap in the grocery store and nobody will go, "Strange. Maven didn't have eyeliner on today. I should go read her blog and find out why." But I figured this stage would end eventually, you know? Especially at a school; a place where I'm usually the most comfortable. Am I being punk'd? 

This game of yours is getting old and bordering on the truly bizarre. I make friends so easily, you guys. I'm The Maven, for crying out loud. How come you don't even know I'm here? 

I've decided the universe, in its infinite wisdom, is trying to teach me something.

Maybe it wants to remind me that it doesn't revolve around me. (I'm awaiting more scientific proof on that one.)

Maybe it wants to show me that I don't have to be known to a lot of people to feel comfortable. (But you know, it doesn't hurt.)

Maybe it wants to see how many Sesame Street analogies I can come up with. (Challenge accepted.)

Maybe it's simply stating that my level of awesomeness far exceeds what you parents at this new school can handle, what with my skull-emblazoned scarves and glitter nails and Doctor Who socks and OMG I THINK YOU'RE JEALOUS OF MY FASHION SENSE.

Mystery solved. 

I have no choice but to forgive you and try a little harder tomorrow. 

Ain't no party like a heart monitoring party.

Given that I've been having an abundance of palpitations as of late (which I am still 1000% sure are related to my anxiety), Nurse Amy fitted me with a heart monitor last Monday.

"These electrodes are going to be attached to this device that will be strapped to your waist." She held up a square box on a belt with three wires coming out of it. "See? Like I said when I called, it's not much bigger than a cell phone."

"Yeah, if the cell phone is from 1993," I said, abysmally. There was no way to hide this thing under my clothes. I was going to look like I was bundling up a tiny conjoined twin in my sweater.

Nurse Amy stuck some white stickers to my torso and then snapped the electrodes onto them. "I'm going ask you to feed the lines down under your shirt so we can attach them to the monitor, because I'm sure you don't want me feeling you up."

"I don't know. It might make my Monday more exciting," I offered.

She chose to find that funny, which is infinitely better than slapping me with a sexual harassment suit. She also still made me feed my own wires through, which is too bad because being able to claim I was felt up by someone called "Nurse Amy" would undoubtedly make my Klout score go up.

Nurse Amy showed me how things work, which was thankfully simple since my technical prowess begins and ends with buying songs on iTunes. "Every time you feel a palpitation, you press this blue EVENT button and it will mark the time. That makes it easier for the cardiologist reviewing the data to find any abnormalities."

I nodded. "Gotcha. Just like buying a Selena Gomez song."

"Um, ok. Finally, you'll notice the three electrodes are different colours. Since you have to take the device off to shower and re-attach it afterwards, we have a poem to help you remember what goes where: White is right, brown is down. Sorry, we don't have anything for black."

"It's ok," I said. "That was politically incorrect enough." I left looking like a cyborg and with a racist memory aid stuck in my head.

It was a better week for me anxiety-wise, so I was hoping I wouldn't have to press the magic button too often. Ignorance is a wonderful thing, even it only lasts about 40 seconds.

I got as far as my reflection in the car window before I realized how visible the electrodes were, sitting just below my neckline.

EVENT

And, like, if I'm going to be honest here, I'm pretty vain.

EVENT

And do I even have anything that can cover those things?

EVENT EVENT


As of that evening, I began to measure my stress level in number of events:

"Mom, this meal sucks. I want burgers!"

EVENT 

"And a guinea pig."

EVENT EVENT 

"AND A NEW MOM."

EVENT EVENT EVENT

"Hello. This is an automated reminder from your cellular service provider..."

EVENT

"... Your account shows an overdue balance of $207.32. Please make a payment immediately to avoid a disruption in your service..."

EVENT EVENT

"(... We don't actually have to say this, but that means you won't be able to access the internet from the grocery store. And then how are you going to tweet obnoxious things about the other customers?)"

EVENT EVENT EVENT

"Ok, how does that poem go again to re-attach these things after a shower? White is right, brown is down... Holy shit, that's awful. I feel like an oppressive asshat. A naked, cyborg-y oppressive asshat."

EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT

Also tried really hard to make the Holter monitor sexy. And pretty much failed miserably. Stickers with wires coming out of them murder hotness.

Instead of going with the conjoined twin scenario, I decided to call the device around my waist my Package. That meant I could go around for three whole days asking people if they want to touch my Package (like Julie, who I'm pretty sure will never invite me to the grand opening of our local Target store again.) I probably asked my husband if he thought my Package was bigger than his two dozen times in 72 hours. Why? Because I could, that's why. Nobody gets mad at someone wearing a heart monitor. They're afraid we're going to have a coronary or something. Besides, if I can't take advantage of the people I care about during my medical testing, then there's just no point doing it at all, is there?

Well, other than checking for heart defects and whatever.

Anyway, I was about the happiest person alive when I was finally able to take the monitor off on Thursday. I almost dropped a note in there to nurse Amy, pointing out the racial connotations in her guilt-inducing memory aid, but figured I was probably close to being served with a restraining order as it was and I would like to be able to go back to the clinic for my results.

This week has been better. The St. John's Wort is working wonders, my return to high school is in full swing (but not overwhelming - hooray for online courses!) and I've taken yoga as my mistress. She's teaching me how to be flexible and yet also somewhat embarrassed when my six-year-old can rock a pose next to me while I fall over and nearly crush him.

Heart palpitations? Not in two whole days.  I am amazed.

Yep, it's all baby steps back to awesomeness from here. The Maven is like a phoenix, ready to rise from the dirty piles of dishes everybody leaves all over the fucking house and expects me to pick up in between avoiding the guinea pig conversation and making sure my cell phone doesn't get disconnected.

I NEED MY BUTTON.

Namaste, and shit.