Saturday, May 11, 2013

Making Peace With Miss Perfect

Yesterday I finally got off my ass and stopped procrastinating. Yes, procrastination is sloth in five syllables. I had every excuse in the world not to clean my bunker. As a working woman, no not a hooker, I run around all the time earning paper. Then of course there are my club dates and the puppets thrown about making me an errant mother. Thank goodness child welfare hasn't checked up on me. In between that I have been promoting a book-so there are times where there are my books lying next to me. When I wake up in the night my words haunt me just like they haunt Archie and Anthony who heard me read every Sunday. So why clean my house when I got that going on?

Did I mention I started on my musical?

I sort of had a resentment against having what is known as a clean house. When I was a kid my dad made us do room inspection. Every Saturday we were forced to clean. Being one of seven kids he never had his own room, so he wanted us to know not everyone did so to appreciate it. My brother usually flunked room inspection. This resulted in his Nintendo being taken away. Of course my sister passed this with flying colors like she does everything in life. I threw everything under the bed and hoped for the best. My closet was unavailable. This was because my brother was on thin ice with my dad and hid his dirty clothes and stuff in there. It was because my closet was huge and one could do that. Needless to say if there was a monster under my bed or in my closet he probably was seeing some pretty interesting things.

I grew resentful at room inspection and I think became a clutter bug out of spite. Being creative sort of does that to people I suppose. I was never neat and orderly to begin with. At school the girls with the best hand writing always sort of annoyed me. They were perfect. They had the perfect little bodies whereas I struggled with my weight. They said the perfect things in class whereas I am convinced I was smarter than some of my teachers and showed it from time to time. They wanted to be the perfect little housewives even at a young age and I didnt see time for it. I wrote stories. I wrote songs with my friends at recess. When I saw a movie on TV I knew in my heart I could do that too. These perfect little girls were just thorns in my side.

The worst was when the Miss Perfect Squad would gang up on me. This was during the handwriting contest. I always lost because my handwriting looks like that of a serial killer. It's not my fault, I just suck at handwriting, whereas these bitches just sucked at life. When I lost the handwriting competition they started making fun of me. I just remember thinking whatever, I am smarter. The next week my short story won the prize. It was a retarded tale about a cat catching a mouse. My dad was proud, and to get my dad to say something good is hard sometimes. You see, my pops wasn't the kind of dad who told me I was pretty and special and all that happy horse shit. Hell no. When I did badly on a test, my dad would look me in the eye and say, "Kid, you are sucking bottom." Then there would be a pause. And he would say, "But I am here sucking bottom with you." So that was his way of offering support.

When my story won the prize the Miss Perfect Squad was amazed. Their stories never won prizes, because writing involves depth aside from pink ribbons in ones hair. The amazement wore off in Middle School when my weight ballooned out of control and the acne came cropping in. This was one of those things where I knew I didnt look as good as some of these girls with good skin. It was painful and they didn't make my life easy. I told myself they would be choking on it one day.

As time went on I did what I set out to do with my life. I graduated, moved to the city, and pursued my dreams. I have been on TV a few times. Fans have recognized me in the street. I wrote and published a book that has been featured on The Official Website of Britney Spears. Did I mention my room was a mess when this happened?

In my travels the friends I have made have always been colorful. Some have been to jail. Some have worked as hustlers whether it be pimps, drug dealers, or hookers. Some have drama that could play out in Central Park during their summer season but do it with such gusto that I have to laugh. All are wonderful people who love me for who I am and for that I am gratefully blessed.

The tables have shifted over time in another way. On facebook I follow some of the Miss Perfects, the girls who had the good skin and the flawless cursive writing. Their lives aren't that perfect. Many have husbands who look great but really aren't there emotionally for them. A lot of them have kids and often post about the issues their children are having because their husbands are either that clueless or absent. In many of their words, a painful cry from suburbia, they are stressing about whether or not they are a good enough mother. They want to be the perfect mother to their kids just like they had the perfect skin and the perfect handwriting. And it kills them to see their children unhappy. Bottom line, they have problems too. Everyone does. While these people are easy to hate, bottom line, they are still people.

There is no such thing as perfect. Everyone has their gifts and weaknesses. Maybe I am good at writing stories, creating things, giving inanimate objects voices and of course making people laugh. However, these girls were good at handwriting and probably kept a clean room. If the world had too many of me no one would ever be able to find anything, and if the world had to many of them, it would be the planet of the Stepford Wives. Also, I have learned for as mean as some of them were to me not to knock their dreams. Some women only want to be wives and mothers and that is mine. My mom is good at both and I could never hold a candle to her. Hell, without my mom I wouldn't do the things I do let alone exist.

Over time I have done shows and delivered to Miss Perfects. Usually they aren't half bad. Most of the time they were people who had a check list when it came to life, and as long as that check list is making them happy I won't knock it. However, when shit hits the fan they never know what to do. That is when the Miss Perfects in my travels always reach out to me. I have had women write me fan letters, Miss Perfects on the outside, who told me they wished they could be like me. Some of them had terrible backstories. To them, the facade helps hide that pain. Sure I am more honest about who I am and where I have been. I have also done speaking panels with Miss Perfects, while I might not always agree with the clones of Elizabeth Hasselbeck, I think they add a variety to the perspective. Like anyone else they want to be treated with respect. While sometimes it is hard because again these girls made my life hell in school, I know that is more about the chip on my shoulder than it is about them. Most of the time these women didnt know me then. Why should it matter?

Ironically there are some people who assume my life is perfect. One is a young woman who pops up from time to time that struggles with drug addiction and mental illness that is sort of a nuisance. This troubled soul is the current girlfriend of an ex of mine who feels she is in competing with me even though I haven't spoken to my ex in years and don't want him back. She thinks I have never struggled because of the way I look. She believes my childhood was perfect because my dad was a lawyer. She believes I make up things about myself to make it seem I have depth. The sick thing is, she is such a victim she believes she had it worse than anyone and regularly broadcasts this on the internet. Yes sweetheart, you had your issues but don't we all? She didn't know me when my life was real shitty a few years ago and I was living off my laundry money. She didn't know me when my ex said, "Me or the puppets." She didn't know me when that ex's stalking made me get a different mailing address. She didn't know me during that hot summer when I wrote my book in the fourth floor walk up hot box I live in. She wasn't with me this past month when my grandmother died, my mom got injured in a freak accident, and the arrest of one of my drug addicted familial relations made the local paper. Yes, Virginia, Santa didn't bring me the perfect life for Christmas. There are some chinks in this armor. Granted, this young woman is severely disturbed but it is amazing how she just thinks I float along PERFECTLY!

There have been other comedians who assume that I just get things because I am a woman. Meanwhile being a woman I have had to deal with sleazy club owners and bookers who thought they could treat me and speak to me however they wanted. I have been bumped by jealous male comedians with more clout because they were angry my TV credits were recent and they bullied a junior producer. There have been comedians, men and women, who just assume I lie to get on TV. Or they think it is because I am young, perky and blonde. They don't see how hard I work. They aren't with me as I get rejected all the time. They aren't there to see me crying because I am so tired and overworked. But in their victimology they believe things are just handed to me. So I guess unfortunately that stupidity goes both ways.

Last night as I started on my spring cleaning I ended up going under my bed. While many things change some always stay the same. As I got rid of the dust as to expel Mordecai the Magic Mouse from the bunker I call my home, I thought of my parents. I thought of how each never had a room growing up. About how all my mother wanted was her own closet, and she got that when she married my dad. Of course in there I threw in some gratitude. And then the Miss Perfect Squad crossed my mind.

I remembered one of the clones reading a story where she had the sentence, "The contents of my belongings were emptied out of my Gucci Purse." I remember thinking the bitch probably had a clean room and good handwriting. As I fished under my bed I discovered fifteen dollars I never knew I had. Now I know why Miss Perfect cleaned all the time.

Perhaps she knew something I didn't. Hell, this could buy me some vittles.


I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

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