My Not-So-Wicked Stepmother

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Every week, White Picket Fence picks a topic. This week’s topic is role models. The following is guest blogger, and future White Picket Fence blogger, Allison Knopp’s take on the topic.

Most people don’t look back on their parents’ divorce with fondness. They aren’t thankful for this splitting of families, the rearranging of lives, nor are they glad their parents are no longer in love. I, however, remember my parents divorce as part of my happy childhood. Maybe I am a weirdo. Or maybe it was because I was five, but I have never associated my parents’ split as anything less than positive.

I vividly remember the day my mom and dad sat my sister and me down to tell us that my dad would be moving out (although this account may not be entirely accurate because I was a small child with a wild imagination).

My first question was: “can dad live upstairs and mom live downstairs?” My mom explained to me that no, it didn’t work that way.

Then I remember turning to my two-year-old sister and instructing her to say bye-bye to Dad because we would never see him again.

My parents abruptly jumped in again saying no, that’s not how it worked either. And from then on that’s just how it was. There was mom’s house and dad’s apartment. There were skiing trips with dad and Florida vacations with mom. I got two rooms – one with bunk beds. I got two Christmases. I got double everything.

But more important than any of that, I got Leslie.

Leslie is my stepmother. I hate that term because it has the tendency to conjure up images of evil Cinderella antagonists or the blonde bimbo your dad married after his midlife crisis. Leslie is neither of these things. Leslie is, well, kind of a badass. Furthermore, she is without a doubt one of the most important role models in my life.

My mother is of course the most important woman to shape my life, and she is both irreplaceable and incredible. But when my dad married Leslie, I feel like I got a bonus mom.

My dad and Leslie married when I was eight years old. Their wedding took place in northern Michigan in the middle of February. It was snowy and dark — not your typical wedding setting — and my parents had rented a huge house that doubled as the venue and lodging for all of their guests.

During the ceremony the five of us — my dad, sister, my soon-to-be stepmother and stepsister — all stood up front. I remember everyone crying (although my dad claims he did not) and I realized that something very important was probably happening here. However, it would take years for that thought to mean anything because I was mostly excited about getting the coolest big sister ever (you guys, she decorated her bedroom windows with glow-in-the-dark paint and had her own phone in her room). More importantly, I was really itching to get out of that dress so I could resume playing air hockey in the basement with my cousins.

After the wedding, and in the following years, I came to realize just how lucky I was to grow up with three (sometimes four, my mom has since remarried also) parents who deeply care about my well-being and success. Having not one, but two, strong female parents in my life helped me to realize there is not just one right way to navigate this world as a woman.

In my time growing up with Leslie, I have known her to play so many roles: business owner, mother, wife, caretaker, cat lover, best friend, boss, bookworm. None of these on their own seem to be very unique or inspiring, but the ways in which she blends and balances each into her life is what really makes me admire her. When I couldn’t find a job right out of college, my parents hired me to work in their office, an opportunity I could not be more grateful for. Almost every day, I would watch and learn as she slid from post-workout shake to new client meeting to making dinner for my dad and I. And, for me, the best part was she didn’t make it look effortless. You hear that all the time, the admiration of how effortless a person makes a hard task seem, but I feel like that takes away from the hard work and passion that has been put into something. So with Leslie, it made me proud to see her sprinting out of the office or frustrated at the end of a long day, because to me it demonstrated her passion for the tasks at hand and how far she was willing to go for her responsibilities and the people and things she loves.

I have also observed in Leslie that a person can be wonderfully interesting without being completely obvious about it. My stepmom is so cool in such subtle ways. She was a violinist and a vegetarian in former parts of her life. She tried three different colleges before she found the right fit. She went from a middle school English teacher to an owner of an in-home care company for seniors. Her career and life didn’t follow a “traditional” path and I’ve learned from her that sometimes that’s for the best and it makes life a lot more colorful.

The most important thing that Leslie has taught me over the last 16 years is that it is completely OK to just be weird and imperfect. My dad often makes the remark that he can’t believe I am not a blood relative of Leslie, and a lot of the time it’s because of the something I have done that can tend to embarrass me. Things like falling so madly in love with a trilogy that I can’t come up for air, avoiding a social or networking opportunity in order hide in my room with a book, or starting an exercise plan knowing this is going to be “the one” only to get bored with it a few short weeks later. But when I am compared to Leslie, I actually feel good about these attributes that could be seen as quirks to some. In her, they are what make me love her, make her fascinating, make her someone I want to be like. And for me, if they are good enough for her, then I’m sure these traits don’t look so bad in me either.

Navigating adulthood as a twenty-something is tricky. It has been my observation that we all feel that there is somewhere we are “supposed” to be, decisions we “should have” made, goals we “have to” reach.

I am lucky to have someone so close who has shown me that all of the “should haves” and “suppose to’s” are pretty ridiculous. Life should be about working hard, caring deeply and living passionately. The path you are traveling while doing so doesn’t have to run parallel to anyone else’s expectations.

In fact sometimes veering off course – by say, getting a divorce – can lead to some pretty wonderful things. Maybe even a role model you never expected.

Allison poses with her family.

Allison poses with her family.

Has a potentially terrible situation ever brought someone you look up to into your life? What have they taught you?

My Role Model Revelation

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Every week, White Picket Fence picks a topic. This week’s topic: role models. The following is Lizz’s interpretation of the topic.

So, like, not to be a downer, but my childhood role model steered me wrong.

I hear a lot of people say that their parents weren’t the people who they thought they were once they got older. Once the best, smartest, greatest people in the world, later in life became just normal, erroneous human beings.

I don’t have anything like that to really say about my parents.

But I do have a bone to pick with some one else. A role model I grew up admiring and then, one day, realized he was full of poison.

I met him on a bookshelf during one of my random pickings of the high school library. I was just beginning to actively pursue a life of art. I wanted to become familiar with the footsteps I hoped to follow.

I picked up a biography of Andy Warhol — pop art genius.

What’s similar to my relationship and perspective of Andy to that of kids with their parents is that Andy didn’t actually do anything to manipulate me into thinking he was the greatest thing ever. I mean, he was already dead when I met him. It was only my perspective at the time that set me up.

What’s tragically funny is that I wouldn’t allow myself to see him as he truly was from the beginning. And now that I do, I can’t stand the man.

Famous for his silkscreen prints of Campbell’s soup, Bananas, Marilyn Monroe. Andy Warhol led the mass produced art movement for commercial use and advertisement.

He was an “ugly” little man who wore a silver wig, and obsessed over the concept of beauty.

I guess I had a hard time believing an artist would be so excited about mass producing art for commercial use and making money. But he loved it and was a huge proponent of commercial art.

By my own misinterpretation, I thought he was just being obnoxiously sarcastic and cynical to “pop” culture and that correlated greatly to the way I thought about the popular life, which I wanted nothing to do with. I thought his silk screens were supposed to be making some kind of stance.

I thought the shit he said in his autobiography “The Philosophy of Andy Warhol” and his diary was supposed to be consciously distorted, thus making him a genius. But the polar opposite was true. He was distorted. And his distorted words distorted me with his distorted ideas.

“Andy Warhol Philosophy A to B.” I first thought of it to be a masterpiece and I hung by every last of his words.

Quotes and phrases stand out highlighted in my version of the book. But most of them don’t even need to be reread because they are the voices that have stuck with me, molding me into part of a person I am now trying to get rid of.

He was the guy that encouraged dysfunction and detachment. He introduced me to his wrecked friends, Edie Sedgwick, Brigid Berlin. Women who would never eat, spent their own and everyone else’s money on clothes, and would sleep for days after being hyped up on drugs.

He made it seem beautiful, cool, popular. I thought he was the greatest guy alive. Even after I watched Factory Girl and watched the way he just allowed Edie to fall away after he got her hooked on drugs.
Over the years I decided he was wrong and like Edie, without the drugs, I was falling into a hole that he helped me create. But his thoughts wouldn’t go away so easily. So now I play a game with those destructive thoughts he taught me years ago. It’s a game of war. He says one thing, I say something in rebuttal.

Andy: “Say you have a purely temporary beauty problem – a new pimple, lackluster hair, no-sleep eyes, five extra pounds around the middle. Still, whatever it is, you should point it out. If you don’t point it out and say ‘My hair is really dull this time of the month, I’m probably getting my friend,’ or ‘I put on five pounds eating Russell Stover chocolates over Christmas, but I’m taking it off right away’ — If you don’t point these things they might think that your temporary beauty problem is a permanent beauty problem. Why should they think otherwise if you’ve just met them?”

Me: You’re actually wrong; people deserve to be able to make their own observation. Who’s to say what you find important is of any value to anyone else? I wouldn’t ever care about any of those things if someone pointed them out to me. My friends deserve the freedom to form their own opinion about me without my negative input. Why destroy a good thought in fear?

Andy: “Sometimes people having nervous breakdown problems can look very beautiful because they have that fragile something to the way they move or walk. They put out a mood that makes them more beautiful.”

Me: Happiness, strength, and confidence are beautiful. Nervous breakdowns are sad and occur in times of dysfunction and suffering. I refuse to support that.

Andy: “You see, to get to know one more person is just too hard, because each new person takes up more time and space. The way to keep some of your time to yourself is to maintain yourself so unattractively that nobody else is interested in any of it.”

Me: Wrong.

I spend a lot of nights fighting beliefs. Not that all of them come from Andy, a lot of others come from movies and random statements made by celebs. For some reason, I engrained a lot of crap from the people I most despise — quite ironic.

It would be nice if I had some new role models that were just as powerful. What I keep my eye out for is for people who are inexcusably themselves and squeeze the life out of life. Fairbanks is actually a gold mine for this as I continue to meet women who are undeniably comfortable in their own skin and encourage others to be the same.

But I am still taking auditions for a person I want to be like when I grow up. Maybe because I just want to be me and I am tired of taking on other people’s bullshit is become difficult.

I guess rather just take the words from rambling stranger and make something else out of them.

Pop culture has led me astray. I should have kept to my resistance.

And to no surprise to me, Andy Warhol later became a fad. Tote bags with bananas, multicolored Facebook pics. Yea there’s a little bitterness when I see them. But hey, he accomplished what he set out to do. He made money and he had more than 15 minutes of fame. Now he’s a legend and still molding the minds of young Americans.

Did you have a role model that you later realized was a negative influence?

Philly Was Key to My Aspirations

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Every week, White Picket Fence picks a topic. This week’s topic: role models. The following is Lane’s interpretation of the topic.

I never used to know what to say when someone asked me who my role models were.

I tried my best to give people answers that sounded impressive, intelligent, and admirable. But none of them really felt like a role model to me — I was basically lying.

Sure, I admired people such as my mom, my dad, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, Marilyn Monroe, Cleopatra, and a handful of teachers. While all these people were good and admirable, none of them particularly resonated with me. None of them inspired me to vigorously chase after my ambitions.

I never had a true role model until I dusted off a book — which hadn’t been checked out in three years — detailing 300 years of Philadelphia’s history.

I was borrowing this book from the Free Library of Philadelphia because I needed something to read on my three-hour train commute to a temporary job in Long Island. I figured I might as well educate myself on Philly, since it had been my new residence for the past three months.

The beginning of the book was arduous and dry, but I pressed on. And when I got to the part when Philadelphia became a renaissance city of sorts in the mid-1700s, I couldn’t help but see one name continuously and in the most unexpected of references.

That name was Benjamin Franklin.

Here I am with the statue of Benjamin Franklin at the Franklin Institute.

Here I am with the statue of Benjamin Franklin at the Franklin Institute.

All I knew about him from various American history classes as a kid was that he was a printer, one of our “founding fathers,” whatever that meant, and — more specifically — the guy who discovered electricity by flying a kite in a storm. And there were also rumors that he loved hookers.

But the book told a different tale — one of a man who both wrote and mass produced important literature for the city, held philosophical and book clubs, decided to do something about the city’s fire problems, founded the nation’s first cooperative, was the nation’s first Postmaster General, invented tons of stuff including a musical instrument, got folks up in arms about important issues, and helped found and did public relations for a public hospital.

I wondered how the hell he had time to sleep.

I was impressed not only with massive amount of things he accomplished in his life but the fact that he had a sharp enough eye to see legitimate problems and had the tenacity to solve them. It also seemed he always executed ideas — and did an excellent job.

I felt like everything around me in the city I grew to love had something to do with him. I was dumbfounded by the fact that he walked the streets of the place I lived and that he simply observed a problem here and fixed it. Not many people can say they have done that for their community.

I couldn’t even continue after Benjamin Franklin ceased to be mentioned in this book. I promptly went to the library and simultaneously checked out his autobiography.

As if I weren’t impressed with him enough.

His autobiography detailed his philosophical beliefs, and I — being a philosophy minor — ate it all up. I loved how he was so conscious of his own actions, how he spoke to people to elicit a particular response, and worried about the content of his character. He also tried his hardest to enrich himself by reading and setting up philosophical and writing groups.

That’s what I’m talking about.

I saw a more impressive version of myself in Benjamin Franklin. I believe I have a keen eye and see things some don’t — in others, in situations.

More than once someone has rubbed me wrong while I ignored my inklings and then ended up stabbing me in the back or having a horribly unattractive personality. I seldom have bad feelings about someone who ends up to be a good influence in my life.

In addition to reactions to those around me, I’ve also realized things about my own life — like not being happy with my journalism career — and nipped it in the butt early on. I started networking and volunteering public relations services in order to test out a potential career change while solving my journalism blues. I see this as being a doer.

Extrinsically, I’ve given out advice to many friends and seen many problems in society. I like chatting up friends on social issues — like gun control, same-sex marriage, poverty, things like that — and playing with ideas as to how to make them better. I’ve also written opinion pieces on those topics more than once.

But I realized that it was very un-Benjamin Franklin of me not to jump headfirst into projects other than just discussing them.

This is when I realized that the importance of a role model is not only about accomplishments — it’s about the way they think about things and, for me, being a doer.

I’m not the kind of person that could contribute to humanity based off anything emotional. I have a hard time hugging and comforting and crying person and I don’t know what to say if I’m not giving advice. But what I can do is come up with solutions to problems. I can also start discussions on a larger level.

Playing off my own strengths, I decided to try to be more like Benjamin Franklin. In fact, I to figure out how to do so constantly — “how can I be more like Benjamin Franklin today?” I’ll ask myself. This encourages me to do more.

And to further incite inspiration, I wrote a Benjamin Franklin quote on a mirror hung over my dresser — just so I can be reminded when I put on my makeup to be myself and to aspire for greater things.

My obsession with Benjamin Franklin as a role model is something that defines me in many ways — I use it as a central acting point. And most people who know me know about it.

Sitting on a pillow-covered bench on an outdoor bar with my Philadelphian friend, Chris, I stared up at the glimmering Benjamin Franklin bridge and said “if Benjamin Franklin’s ghost ever haunted me, I’d totally love it.”

Whether my hero’s ghost haunts me or not, I’ll continue to ask how I can be more like Benjamin Franklin and try to do what I can to improve my city, my neighborhood, the social issues I care about, and my passions.

Monday Update

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Unfortunately, we don’t have a comment of the week this week because we received no comments — unless you could about 50 spam messages.

Note to spammers: nobody wants your stupid fake Louis Vuitton handbags — not here, or anywhere on the Internet.

I apologize for our (lack of) timeliness last week as well as lack of posts. This week will be better.

Regardless, the update on my enthralling life is that I spend the weekend going to a happy hour in the suburbs, modeling for my friend’s photographer husband, and looking for a new apartment.

I realized that I’m spending $8,700 a year on an apartment I barely like and that has terrible workspace. This may also explain the increase in my spending at coffee shops.

In any event, I didn’t nab a cool house or apartment yet.

However, I learned a valuable lesson from my dog in this search for new digs. As I strolled into an apartment a landlady left unlocked with my dog (and I brought my dog precisely because of this strange situation), my dog darted upstairs and immediately shat on the carpet in the front bedroom.

The bedroom REEKED of dog. As a dog owner, I can proudly say that my dog smells neutral and no place I’ve ever lived in has smelled like dog. Sure, there’s probably a few leftover white hairs, but no dog smell.

Besides the disgusting smell, the house was terrible on the second floor. Too bad. The first floor was so nice and the neighbors were cool.

Anyway. Lesson learned: if the dog doesn’t like it, it’s no good.

I hope my wisdom helped someone….some way.

Enjoy our week, guys. It’ll be role models.

Thanks for reading!

Lane

White Picket Fence

The Reason Behind Sex Is Most Important

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Every week, White Picket Fence picks a topic. This week’s topic: sex. The following is Lane’s response to the topic.

You could call me a late bloomer when it comes to sex. After all, it wasn’t until I was 15 years old that I got my first real kiss.

The situation was less than ideal, being that it was at somebody’s birthday party in front of a gaggle of lanky, still-in-an-awkward-stage girls and boys. The kiss was a dare — which I barely had the balls to do — to make out with one of my best gal pals.

I’ve pecked a few fortunate fellows on the lips throughout the years, but it all was done nervously. And I was afraid to do anything else.

Despite my fear, I thought about sex and hooking up constantly.

Looking back, I can’t imagine why given that what I thought sex was up until I was a teenager would absolutely horrify me now — just because I’m not into that sort of thing.

My childhood best friend, in first grade, embarrassingly yelled while we were at recess “you don’t know what sex is?” She whispered in my ear that it was how babies were made — you know, when a boy and girl got naked and peed on each other.

Flash forward to the months before my 16th birthday — a few months after my first kiss with a girl — I finally made out with a boy. And the nerve of this much older boy — he stuck his hand up my shirt and caressed my barely-there boob. He then pulled down my shirt and bra and sucked on my nipple.

I did not enjoy it whatsoever and I somehow felt violated.

But that feeling didn’t last long. It scared me, but didn’t discourage me from making out with other dudes.

A year later, I had sex for the first time with my on again off again high school boyfriend. He held his hand over my mouth the entire time to keep my screams from reaching the ears of any other partygoers. I suffered a urinary tract infection the next day.

But I, again, wasn’t scared off despite the pain, horrible situation, and UTI. After ten very painful occasions later, sex finally didn’t hurt and I could experiment with it.

Being a 16-year-old, my boyfriend was a big fan of porn and instructed me on how to do things he’d seen from his computer screen. All of this was done either when parents weren’t home, in cars, on couches while watching movies, outside on summer nights, and in other people’s hot tubs.

And we did it a lot — essentially any time we saw each other.

But then came college. The two-year relationship was brought to a close when we went to college in different states and started different lives. (It’s baffling that this guy and I ever even had anything to talk about to begin with. He was a self-conscious jock along with a god fearing, chauvinistic mama’s boy and I was a hyper, independent, artistic atheist and feminist).

I didn’t know what to do about my sex drive after this boy was out of the picture. I wanted it. And I was in college, so it wouldn’t be difficult to have. But I’d only shared it with someone who I (for some reason) loved and trusted. Doing it with someone I wasn’t invested in seemed impossible.

But, again, I didn’t let my fear stand for long. My next encounter was with an acquaintance I barely knew. It lasted about two minutes simply because I stopped it and ran home, feeling extreme guilt for the deed.

I stopped talking to this dude for a few months regardless of the fact that we had several mutual friends and had to eat lunch together — and with our mutual friends — in the caf pretty much every day.

Eventually, I got over it and realized this dude was awesome and we became best friends — without benefits.

But I was still on the hunt.

My third sexual encounter was with a guy on the first date. We ended up dating for 10 months after that. It felt a little more comfortable to me to have sex with a boyfriend. But things ended when he became emotionally and, in part, physically abusive.

This ex-boyfriend started exhibiting dangerous behavior, particularly when he called me and left eight threatening voicemail messages. I realized during our time together he was playing a game of control and had actually abused me the entire time without me knowing it.

At the time — and directly as a result of what happened with guy #3 — I wasn’t into the idea of trusting someone with my heart. But I like sex. So instead of sex going hand-in-hand with relationships, I decided to go the casual route.

My number flew up from three to seven during the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college — with several repeat performances from each individual.

I kept at it for a while longer.

Sex with a new guy started to seem more like trying a new food. It filled me with excitement and I anticipated something wonderfully unexpected each time — even if turned out to be bad sex (more often than not, it would be). I never knew how big his dick was or what new things he could show me or if he’d be good or if I’d have to teach them a thing or two.

But even more exciting than having sex was not having sex if I so chose. I felt pretty fucking good about myself whether I bedded a hot dude or not. I’d go to the bar or a party and tease a boy, then go home by myself. It was empowering to have him in the palm of my hand. Best of all, I got to go home to sprawl out alone, diagonally, across my bed while surrounded in a sea full of comfortable pillows.

It may sound like a fluke, but during this time I gained self-confidence. While I never lacked confidence in my looks, I was in a much-needed pick-me-up when it comes to being comfortable by myself.

During this stage, I saw a lot of positive changes in myself.

I preferred sleeping alone. I was less needy in every sense of the word. I liked to make new friends and spend time with the ones I already had. I was really into school.  I didn’t worry about being weird or socially awkward even though I was. I never had to ask anyone’s opinion about how I looked, what I wore, or about the choices I was making — I trusted my own judgment more than anyone’s.  I was so self-assured in anything I did…ever.

This was probably the happiest point of my entire life.

I combated hurt feelings by being painfully honest about what I wanted. And those guys were mostly OK with it. Those who weren’t did teach me a comforting lesson though — that boys can be just as, if not more, psycho and emotional than girls.

I eventually grew out of this two- or three-year stage when I met a boyfriend I’d date for a year and a half. But I owe a lot of personal growth to that stage. The most valuable thing I can remember from that stage was my sense of comfort and confidence in being single — because I wasn’t having sex with men to make them like me or think I’m beautiful. And I didn’t get into a relationship because I was waiting for the right one to come along. I was having casual sex because I liked it and it was fun to try out new partners.

It felt wonderful that I could have sex with someone and not need anything else from them because I was enough for me.

That’s absolutely not what should be done to have a meaningful relationship, but I wasn’t going for that at the time. And it was so worth it.

I’m reluctantly single now. (It is hard for me to admit that I don’t like it. You’re welcome!) I haven’t quite been able to go back to this state of mind after I got serious with the guy that ended my slut streak, but I hope I do someday. I’m not sure I’ll be doing it by slutting around though — mostly because I’m an adult now and things work differently than how they do in College World. But I also don’t feel comfortable doing the same thing because I’m not 100 percent comfortable with myself in this moment and I don’t think casual sex will make me feel better.

Sexual liberty like I experienced isn’t for everyone, but if you’re doing it for simpler reasons it’s very fulfilling. And believe me, I’ve been on every side of it — feeling guilty for sleeping with someone, doing it for fun and nothing else, being in love with someone, or getting to be an emotional wreck after being confused enough to think I like like a fuck buddy. And because of my wealth of emotional experience with sex, I’ve concluded that emotional responses differ depending on how you look at sex. And you know what, sex — like life — both differs from situation-to-situation and evolves.

That said, when I see a genuinely self-respecting girl slutting around, I want to high five her instead of judge her like the rest of my peers. But I don’t want to act like her — at least not in this moment.

It’s important to remember — and I remind myself when I see myself judging someone — that very kind of person, slut or prude or gal-in-a-relationship, can be either fiercely secure or a self-conscious hot mess. So I don’t judge people by their sexual behaviors.

What do you think? Are people too judgmental of sexual behaviors? And can someone be more confident while sleeping around?

Comment of the Week and Excuses…A Day Late

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Dearest readers —

I know I shouldn’t make excuses, but hear me out: I’ve been on vacation for a week and a half and have found it exceedingly difficult to post.

Before you get on me for complaining about a vacation and calling me lazy for not doing what I am supposed to for this blog while on vacay, let me give you a rundown on the last week and a half.

On Thursday, April 25 — after a long day of work and a night of networking — I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago. I then stayed in Chicago for 24 hours. I then took a train from Chicago to Indiana, where my mom picked me up and drove me to Michigan. I then slept. The next day I got my nails and hair done and went to a wedding. I came home and slept. The day after that, I spent time with my family, who was like “what the heck, Lane, we haven’t seen you the entire time you’ve been in the Midwest.

Alas, on Monday I went to various doctor’s appointments and worked from a coffee shop (I only had enough time to weed through emails) before I went to dinner with two girl friends. I then went home and went to bed only to wake up at 6 a.m. for my flight the next morning.

I flew to Philadelphia, took a train and picked up a friend waiting for me at 30th Street Station. The friend and I went to my house and the next two days I showed her around Philly while writing an article for work.

At one point during a shopping trip, I shoved stuff up my dress and pretended to be pregnant/in labor. I'm embarrassing. You can't take me anywhere.

At one point during a shopping trip, I shoved stuff up my dress and pretended to be pregnant/in labor. I’m embarrassing. You can’t take me anywhere.

We drove to Hoboken, NJ, that Friday and spent time with our friend Kim. We moseyed around Hoboken and New York City for two days and then I drove back to Philly.

Here's a photo of me and the gals in NYC at an ATM. We decided to take a photo to prove our friendship.

Here’s a photo of me and the gals in NYC at an ATM. We decided to take a photo to prove our friendship.

Here's my friend Kim and I holding hands with a skeleton in a toy store. Why? I don't know why.

Here’s my friend Kim and I holding hands with a skeleton in a toy store. Why? I don’t know why.

 

And tomorrow I live tweeted an event for my new job for about 12 hours. I then went home and slept.

This entire time I was taking work calls, attempting to get some writing done, keeping up with my heaps of daily emails, and carrying out job responsibilities for my new gig.

Long story short — I haven’t had much time to myself, or even to do what is required of me for that matter. Since I work for myself, I can’t ever step away from any of my work. Hence, doing all this was really stressful for me. Nice, but stressful.

Anywho, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. But I do genuinely feel bad for not following through on my responsibilities to this blog and posting on time with no excuses.

Sincere apologies to everyone who reads this.

In other news, here’s our comment of the week. It’s from our reader Lindsay, who gave Lizz words of encouragement and support on her very personal blog about her struggles with an eating disorder.

Thanks for offering your support, Lindsay!

Thanks for offering your support, Lindsay!

Thank you so much to everybody who offered their support to Lizz. That’s what we’re all about here at White Picket Fence!

Well, I think that about wraps it up.

Thanks for reading.

Love,

Lane

White Picket Fence

Hoard Your Dreams

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This week is White Picket Fence’s free topic week. The following is what guest blogger K. Janigan chose to write about.

I’ve never been a “wandering soul.” I’ve always known what I wanted to do. It’s just been the getting there that has been my greatest battle.

How do I get to that fabulous career and social life? Patience is a virtue, right? Maybe it is, followed by paying your bills and not being jealous of all the women that seem to have hot boy friends and digital cable.

I’m 24.7 years old and I want to be a comedy writer and performer. Or maybe already am? That’s the funny thing about being in a creative industry — you never know when to say “I’m an aspiring so-and-so” or when to say “I’ve arrived” or when to say “I’m done, I’m old and I pee when I laugh.” My affinity for comedy started at age nine when I was given a cassette tape of Bill Cosby doing stand up. And my affinity strengthened when I became a Saturday Night Live fanatic at age 10. All of this has led me to the Second City Training Center in Chicago.

But every step is weird. Every step is met with a “is this how normal peoples’ lives go?  Because Teen magazine is not telling the whole truth!”

My weird journey was marked by the first day I got to Chicago. Prior to this, I’d met a lady at a workshop with Outreach and Diversity at Second City during the summer. After meeting her and talking about my passion for comedy, she took me to her house and showed me her two vacant rooms. She said I could stay with her and pay as much rent as I could afford. She just really wanted to help me (we’d had some deep talks that week).

I was ecstatic. I returned home to Detroit to pack up, quit my job, sell my car, and never look back.

I know what you might be thinking, “why is this crazy chick moving in with some lady she just met?” I had a dream and it was not happening in Michigan. I needed to make a move — I was suffocating working as a server at The Olive Garden. Refilling your breadsticks and salad is not my idea of happiness, can you feel me on this?

So, I went. Some people didn’t think I was really going to do it, but I was dead serious.

So here’s my crazy story as I recall it. I was just outside of Chicago. It was I, my best friend, and my best friend’s fiancée/my mutual friend, my beloved cat, and a small amount of my possessions packed into a Jeep Cherokee. I’d been texting “The Lady,” who we’ll continue to refer to as “The Lady” because…why not, okay. She seemed excited that I was coming. We’d been talking for weeks about how great living together would be. And then when I texted her again letting her know we were in the city she replied, “The house is dirty, can you guys give me a minute to tidy up?”

I found it a bit odd, but we were hungry, so whatever. We went to a nearby Popeye’s Chicken. Hot and tired, we were ready to move my stuff in.

I got to the house and rang the doorbell, no answer. “Oh great, the doorbell doesn’t work.” I began calling, no answer. I tried the back door, nothing. My poor cat has been in the car for 5.5 hours. I let him out to stretch his legs as we take the stuff out the truck to get the process going.

Some neighbor walks over, “You guys looking for ‘The Lady?’ She just left right before you pulled up. You related to her?”

I reply, “no, I’m moving in here though. I’m like her new roomy.”

“Oh, she’s crazy,” he said. “She’s got a hoarding problem. You ever been in that house?”

Well, now I’m thinking.

A hoarder?

No, it was just a little messy.

A lived-in kind of messy.

And she gave me some travel-sized toothpaste as a parting gift. Hoarders don’t give away things, fact…wait, she gave me some F-IN TRAVEL SIZE TOOTHPASTE FOR VISITING HER HOUSE…

Something’s not right.

Where is my cat?

I sat on some of my luggage and called my granny after waiting three hours in “The Lady’s” backyard. My loving granny dishes out a barrage of “come homes” and “at least you trieds.” But granny didn’t realize, I just can’t quit.

My best friend and I walk the neighborhood looking for my cat. At this point, I have soft tears of panic both about my living situation and about the disappearance of a feline I treated like a furry son. A neighbor assures me, “your cat been raped. It’s gon’ have puppies.” Well, drunk neighbor, my cat is a boy, and neutered…and a cat.

After getting a text from “The Lady” saying “can you go home (now remember, I’m 5 hours away from home) and come back tomorrow? We’ll try again then.”

I’m assured at this point that she is delusional.

Craigslist saves the day. I end up taking residence in a rented room on 62nd  Street, Englewood neighborhood. I paid good money for that dirty carpet and broken toilet, but I made it here and I have this awesome story.

So what I’m getting at is: who fed us the fantasies? Who told me it was going to go smoothly? I wanted to be that young twenty-something that wears matching bra and panty sets, drinks cocktails with girlfriends, and did I mention the hot boy friend and digital cable!

I’m not that girl though. My parents had me young and my childhood was not easy, so why I expected the real world to be any easier is silly. Especially, when I chose to pursue comedy. But I’m not gonna lie, I’m growing to not mind it as much. I laugh at all of it. I jot it down and I say, “if this is my quarter-life crisis looks like, what is my mid-life one gonna be?” And all these things make great material, but damn, do I miss my cat.

Embracing the Suck

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This week is a White Picket Fence free week. The following is Lizz’s free week blog post.

I thrived on the mottos “endure the pain” or “embrace the suck,” whatever kind of “hard” mantra you could come up with that would ultimately declare myself beyond the limits of destructibility.

I learned it through the sports I played growing up.

It was weak to react to pain, or rather more honorable to suck it up and keep playing regardless of whatever type of injury you might have.

As a softball pitcher, I watched my third basemen finish out a game with a broken jaw, missing teeth, tears in her eyes, blood, and all.

My catcher attempted a full weekend tournament and refused to go to the ER while internally bleeding throughout her abdomen.

I beat blood filled bruises into my right hip while snapping my wrist against it to create a vicious curve ball. Countless pitching hours, long weekends and seasons of softball games — I was inducing misery to the point of my dad having to design custom foam pads to put on the side of my hip in attempt to prevent further injury. Later my wrist became numb. I would pitch through tears and sudden nerve jolts would travel up my arm causing me to scream out as the ball left my hand.

But we were all being strong, enduring all for the life of the game.

I also completed a full season of Cross Country with mono while my classmates took weeks off from school with the same sickness. I remember running my spleen out at the regionals competition. The crunching of leaves made me want to throw up or pass out, whichever would come first and the scolding of my mother “your spleen is going to explode!” echoed with every footstep.

When I started ROTC my freshman year of college, I admired the guy who got wasted the night before his triathlon and went to the hospital as a result of dehydration, but still placed well overall in the entire event. I aspired to be like the one who carried out through our “Ranger Initiation” with a broken back, enduring anything just to be called a “Western Ranger.” To not sacrifice everything to have everything was to be a good for nothing, mouth-breathing, weak, wimp.

I tried to mimic these badass guys, tailgating the night before half-marathons, smoking before long runs or after PT tests, sleeping 2-to-3 hours a night during semesters of 23 plus credit hours, riding out my days with scoops of JACK3D, and sleeping anywhere I could comfortably lay down.

I also went to the extremes for the idea of a perfect skinny body after I discovered what I could look like when I had mono. I didn’t want to lose the weight then — it was originally the result of a sick body.

I starved myself until my hair started to fall out and I missed weeks of school because I was too cold to function. I ran miles upon miles regardless of creaky knees, soreness, dehydration, and even runner IBS — all to endure the suck for the perfect body. I pooped in people’s yards. Sometimes at races I even did it in my pants.

I purged my food any way I could possibly imagine — laxatives, toilets, garbage bags, cemeteries — and I would most times go for a run immediately after.

It was with these pervasive choices, I crossed the line of true determination versus self-destruction.

I went to the extreme of extremes to have it all.

And I trusted my body to pick up the pieces every time.

It all looked badass and admirable.

Always doing shit, running long, traveling and taking a shit ton of classes, being in charge of everything while living the life of a closet bulimic. I was so functional in the performance world; I was a fucking train wreck behind closed doors.

And it worked for a while — maybe nine years or so.

But then something happened. I guess I started getting old or my body was just fed up. I read somewhere that your body stops regenerating around the age of 23. From experience, I would agree.

Beginning senior year of college (age 21), my body started to break. It had had enough.

My personal life — the wrecked one — started to leak into every aspect of my life.

I acquired my first set of stress fractures in a couple of my toes, which made me have to stop running. I acquired a rib fracture from a respiratory infection mostly caused by the purging. I missed months of school from developing MRSA all over my face. I forgot shit all the time and all I wanted to do was sleep.

Life took a sharp turn. I was binging daily just to stay awake, make it through my life and turn shit in on time. I tried to purge. My body wouldn’t let me. But I tried it anyway. And then I wanted to stop, but I just couldn’t let myself give up everything I had going for me

Deep down, I wanted to change. I wanted a healthy, fully functional body. I wanted to be happy even when no one was looking. But I also wanted to have it all.

Come to find out. You can’t have everything. Priorities come with sacrifices.

It took me personal suffering to realize that there’s a difference between being strong and enduring something with true strength to achieve an outcome that’s meaningful from doing anything in order to accomplish a bunch of shit — and then being too spent to function or enjoy it.

For me, it feels like a lesson learned a little too late. And I’ve about shot myself in the foot for trying to make a change.

In the army, it is the culture where anything is possible and you’re weak if you can’t get it done. I watch everyone abuse nicotine, caffeine, sugar, and energy drinks just to make it through these 70 plus hour work weeks. I also watch most guys abuse alcohol on the weekends to make up for their gloom.

And for the most part, no one really gives a shit that we’re destroying ourselves.

During college I was told, “I don’t give a shit about how you get there, I just care about the results!”

I put that little phrase in my pocket and I carried it with me everywhere I went.

There’s also a strong stigma in the military to keep you mouth shut about health concerns for fear of losing one’s job, being on profile, and being looked at as a whiny shithead.

“The sacrifice and selfless service for our duties” …rawr.

I’m sick of watching men suffer in their own pains and sicknesses for the sake of their job.

They keep their mouths shut even as I watch them wallow around, avoiding bending movements, certain physical exercises, just to try to hide it.

I never intended on opening my mouth about my own health issues that I’d lied about from the start. Quite honestly, I thought I would have gotten over the juvenile bulimia thing by now. But I had to realized my holes were only getting deeper on my own and someone was going to get hurt if I didn’t do something.

For a while, I figured I would just see a doctor on the side, keeping it secret to the army. But the more I thought about everything, and the little progress I was seeing by having to hide my struggle, the more I felt the need to take a stand against the present culture.

I finally went into my flight surgeon to tell him I needed help.

He replied by taking away my flight status and questioning my fitness for duty. I got lined up with an inexperienced psychologist who just wants to push pills down my throat. And a nutritionist who so far I can’t complain about.

I got tasked out with jobs that I just spent six years busting my ass and lying about my health to avoid.

All this shit — that my peers are so afraid of — happened to me.

So its almost a trap. Me trying to beat an addiction of sorts, all the while being exposed to all the stressors that inherently drive me into seeking relief.

I get asked the big questions, “is there any way to lesson your hours?” “Is there any way to take some time out for yourself during the day?”

And then they reassure me

“ You know at some point you’re going to break…right?”

I don’t know what they are defining as breaking. If there is really a deeper hole than the ones I’ve been in, I don’t want to know about it.

I try my best to not stay past 12 hours a day, and I try to take a lunch at least once a week.

I try not to work on the weekends. And I try to get eight hours of sleep.

But I feel like a weakling caring about all this. And I still feel the need for success in everything that I do, every hour of the day.

But the fact is that I’ve been running over 100 m.p.h. for far too long and I’m only 23. I’m suffocating and I’m fucking sore! And grossly out of shape because of my lack of health.

It all compounds.

If my job were my life, it would probably be a different story. There are definitely people that would give anything to be army helicopter pilots. The idea is great. And I love people’s reactions and the respect that I’ve received. I totally feel like I gave up a lot to get where I am.

I fight the instinct to want to call myself a scumbag and a pussy for giving in and sacrificing my job for a health reason. But my body won’t let me ignore it any longer.

At this point my health has to come first. There’s nothing right about a person who is so determined and ambitious not to be able to conquer something after eight years of trial, error, and recovery.

Back in high school softball, I don’t think us girls were silly enduring the bumps and bruises for the game. I think what matters is the purpose behind it. If there feels like there’s a strong enough one to make some sacrifices, then I’m all for it.

I grew up under a household ran by a couple folks who seemingly lived to work. Or at least did it a lot more than anything else. It pissed me off most times, and I told myself I would never be like that because I assumed there must be more to this life than that.

I watched my mom use stimulants (nicotine and sugar) just as my coworkers and I do now to get by. I thought she was just making poor decisions. But I honestly believe it’s impossible to power through excessive work hours and demands without some type of further self-destruction to temporarily distract you from the work-imposed stress and suffering.

But for something that is supposed to be enabling one to survive, it can’t at the same time self-destroy. Or at least it shouldn’t.

Where’s the line for you between sacrifice and being practical with your career? Where does it fall in line with your priorities?

Can Anyone Win?

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Every week, White Picket Fence picks a topic. This week’s topic: lies you were told and truths you were never told. The following is guest blogger Zahkia’s interpretation of the topic.

Now that anti-bullying is officially a thing, I can come out of the closet, where I sh*t my pants for eight months in 1999, to say that I was severely bullied in seventh grade.

And here, severe means severe — I was pushed down a full flight of stairs twice, stuff was stolen from my locker (that had “I’m gay” scratched in it by another anonymous classmate), I was pushed into railings, and books were knocked out of my hands on a daily basis. There was not a day in seventh grade that I didn’t leave school with bruises and, of course, I was too petrified to tell my parents about anything that the other kids were doing to me.

But I had one bully in particular that refused to hide herself from my parents — Miss Crawford, my Grammaire and Advanced Composition teacher (yes, I went to one of those schools).

Miss Crawford made me feel dense, slow, and generally inferior to the rest of her students. She wasn’t shy about calling my helicopter mom to tell her how frustrated she was with my slow pace. This resulted in several meetings in a musty library where she would hurl insults about my F-grades and my poor writing at me, with my mom wildly nodding her head in blind total agreement.

You would think that since she was my teacher that she was right, that she wasn’t a bully, and I wasn’t very good at prepositions or syntax or whatever the hell she was trying to get me to learn.

Except seventh grade was the last year I got an F in English.

I aced English in eighth grade and all throughout high school. To top it off, I majored in Journalism in college and I’m writing this now. So, yeah, I never really had any issues with English.

In retrospect, though I’m sure she didn’t mean to be one, but Miss Crawford had all the hallmarks of a bully. The most important being that she made me feel incredibly small and that her opinions were the ones that mattered. And the worst part about it — she perpetuated that one lie that we tell to children to keep them motivated: Your grades in elementary and middle school actually mean something in the long run.

Thing is, I understand the concept behind this lie — we don’t want children to get complacent about their own education before its too late.

When is “too late”? Who knows.

However, most kids — or at the least the ones in Shaker Heights, OH at least — aren’t eschewing education the same way in which they hate the kids with lice. And the rare ones who do are probably not going to grow up to be Steve Jobs.

That doesn’t stop parents and teachers from instilling this fear of God into children if they struggle with a subject, hence why I spent 95 percent of my after school time crying with my door locked because Miss Crawford wouldn’t ever give me any grade over a D.

One of my favorite Crawford-gems was, “how are you going to feel when you’re in high school and all of your friends are going to college and you’re not?”

I remember standing in place and all of sudden having to pee and vomit and blushing when she told me that. And of course I couldn’t answer her. I was clearly a failure at twelve years old.

…which contradicts that other lie that we tell children: “everyone’s a winner.”

I know you’ve heard about soccer or kickball games orchestrated by parents in the progressive, granola suburbs where they don’t keep score because they don’t want any child to feel like a loser. But these are the same parents as helicopter parents, who push and push hard for their children to excel over the other children in school.

But kids never buy into the concept of “everyone’s a winner” because they’re not stupid. They can still count how many goals they made in the soccer game. They can physically see the kids who were chosen by the teachers for the advanced classes.

Adults don’t even buy into “everyone’s a winner.” If we did, why are we so obsessed with being smarter, thinner, being more successful, happier, funnier, sexier, browner, whiter, a better driver, more sparkly than the next person? Why are we telling kids to buy into something that we as adults don’t even believe?

Before you accuse me of Ayn-Randing my childhood, I do understand the sentiment behind the lie. Parents and teachers just want to see children succeed. That’s no excuse to lie to them though.

The best way to see your kid thrive is to not to inoculate them with fear or lie to them and say they’re always a winner or always special—it’s to encourage their talents and forgive their shortcomings. Every human has strengths and weaknesses, and the healthiest children discover and acknowledge both and aren’t frustrated. In my case, I was so focused on my English weakness that I couldn’t see past my actual problem — my teacher — to discover that what I had been told was a weakness for me, wasn’t weak at all.

My frizzy helicopter mom, who now knows that I actually like to write, recently told me that she wonders what Miss Crawford would think of me now. And despite the somewhat flaming nature of this blog, and as much as I say I’ve forgiven her and I don’t really care, I’m really curious too. Especially since I’ve turned out to be quite the winner.

So what do you think? Should we tell children that anyone can win?

Weddings, Old Friends, and Comment of the Week

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Dear friends,

I’m very dismayed that I am posting this far too late in the day. My apologies. And I also forgot to post a very fantastic blog on our topic by a guest blogger. But no worries, I’ll post her blog on Wednesday of this week instead. Just a reminder, our topic last week was “lies you were told and truths you were never told.”

I’ve been busy networking for my new job (I’ll tell more sometime when I feel comfortable). But in addition to that, I flew back to Michigan to attend my high school friend’s wedding. It was lovely and, frankly, surreal to see one of my friends getting married!

As a tribute to her, here she is — the beautiful, blushing bride…Mrs. Kara Conrad!

I removed my shoes so I didn't tower over this cute, petite bride! Isn't she lovely?

I removed my shoes so I didn’t tower over this cute, petite bride! Isn’t she lovely?

Beforehand, I made a pit stop in Chicago for about 24 hours to visit with a friend for her birthday as well as with another long-time friend, Andrew. He looked OK too.

Andrew also majored in journalism. He agrees — it was fun, but worthless!

Andrew also majored in journalism. He agrees — it was fun, but worthless!

Anywho, onward with the comment of the week!

I agree with Lizz — I never considered asking a friend how their marriage was going.

I agree with Lizz — I never considered asking a friend how their marriage was going.

This week, Lizz got comment of the week. I know that’s kind of weird and unfair because she writes for this blog, but our guest blogger Bri’s post on the first few years of marriage being a struggle was way too good not to give a nod!

If you haven’t already, please stop by Bri’s post and give her a comment if you so feel inclined. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the feedback. We know we’re interested in hearing more opinions.

As always, thanks for reading. And just so you know — we appreciate feedback of all kinds. Please do feel free to create a discussion here…we don’t bite!

With love,

Lane

White Picket Fence