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I know it’s hard, but only you can do it

Tuesday, July 27th, 2010

Dear Internets,

My name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Last week I ran out of cards, so I spent the better part of the week hiding out in my apartment, painting. IN the olden days, when I would isolate myself in a frenzied paint attack, I would really, really isolate myself. No phone calls, no visitors, no going out for anything but food. I would plonk myself in front of the tv and make myself paint for 12, 18 and sometimes 20 hours in a row, schnelling myself to go faster and faster until I ran out of food and cigarettes. When I finally released myself from the apartment, It was like coming out of some sort of horrible Art Camp. I was sleep deprived, hungry, lonely, and cracked out on tv and nicotine.

Apparently, that’s not how I roll anymore. I blame swmming. I’m not allowed to simply hole up in the apartment for days on end anymore, because I have to swim every day. I paid for a summer pass, and the cheap part of me gets angry if I’m not getting my money’s worth. The rest of me just likes the way that my arms are starting to look.

So, I go swimming and then I go home and paint. And then I sleep, and then I go swimming some more. There’s plenty of food in the apartment, and the swimming keeps me from smoking too much. And last week I had my new friend Fletch over, to paint with me. Patrick (my old room-mate) came over too. I painted, and we got stoned and watched Murder She Wrote and Voyage of The Mimi. Which, if you are interested, is available on Google videos. The Voyage of the Mimi is one of my few childhood memories untainted by suckiness. The moments where we watched Mimi in class were sacred to me. I think that my penchant for the show explains why I prefer Ben Affleck to Matt Damon.

Somehow this middle ground unnerves me, making me think that I’m not working hard enough at painting. For all of last week I worried that I wasn’t going fast enough. But at the end of my 4-day paint attack, I had 387 cards. So I think, in retrospect I was probably worried about nothing.

Tonight, when I started out selling for the first time since the paint attack, I was feeling nervous about talking to people. I got stoned before I left the house to figure out why. I think that this swimming and losing weight thing is complicated. A few years ago, I was thinking about losing weight, and I realized that in the mythology of my head: memories are stored in your fat cells. And part of the reason I’d gained the weight in the first place was so that I wouldn’t have to have some memories. I trapped them in my body, and then buried them under layers of boobs and stomach and ass.

I don’t know if it’s true or not. I do know that my body remembers things my mind doesn’t; like the elementary backstroke: the first time I got back in the pool, after years of not going in the water, I laid on my back, and just started moving. It wasn’t until I’d been doing it for a few days that I started realizing I heard “Chicken, Airplane, Soldier, Glide” in the back of my head as I was doing the stroke. My body remembered before my mind caught up.

So, while I’m not sure that everyone stores their memories in their bodies, I’m pretty sure that I do. And as I work on my body, I realize that all of the feelings I was keeping trapped in my stomach, ass and my thighs are coming to the surface, as my muscles get stronger my fat hovers above them, until it finally evaporates, leaving the feelings I’d stored in it behind when it goes. This is the first time I’ve ever used my body like this. This is the first time that I have ever liked my body. This is the first time I’ve ever thought of it as anything but imperfect; an annoyance. I’m sad that I spent my whole life being disconnected from myself. I’m sad for the little girl; and the girl in her twenties who didn’t get that her body belonged to her.

And I think some of that grief is just normal. Losing weight is just as traumatic as gaining it. And some part of me is sad that I won’t have the layers to defend myself anymore. Sad that I won’t be able to keep people at bay with my girth. Anyway, so I was feeling all these feelings at the bus stop, waiting for the 75 to carry me away from my musings when I stopped and I saw this written in sidewalk chalk. As I was taking this picture a couple walked by “I guess someone hit every stop” the boy said to the girl, looking down at the chalk.

I stared at it, after I’d gotten the picture just right, a little dumbfounded. For once my life felt scripted. I felt bad, and someone had written something on the sidewalk that cheered me up. It was like finding simplicity. All of a sudden, a station wagon pulled up to the bus-stop, and my friend St. Christopher opened his passenger door. I ran, up and got in. “You have 30 seconds or less to catch me up on your life.” He grinned at me. And I felt the glow of understanding that I always feel when I’m with him. Simpatico.

The rest of the night went quickly and easily. I made just enough money, and I got to flirt and talk to my friends. The bartenders were hot, and I got to fondle my friend Mark’s ass. Which somehow always makes me feel like a winner. By the end of the night I had enough money to pay my electric bill and get groceries.

So even though this losing weight thing isn’t easy, The Universe is providing me with comfort in my trials and tribulations. Thanks for listening, Internets.

Love,

Alisa

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Swimming

Thursday, July 15th, 2010

Dear Internets,

As some of you know, my name is Alisa Starr and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Which are huge. So is my ass. We call my ass The Mountain. Well, we call it The Magic Mountain now (Thanks Asa!). I’m looking to get my ass down to normal size. This means we might have to sacrifice some boobs, but I’m willing to go down to a D cup (from my triple D’s) for the cause.

The Magic Mountain: Only the brave will climb it

Creston Pool opened about 3 weeks ago. It’s an outdoor pool, mostly filled with children getting swim lessons, and the 16 year old lifeguards who teach them. I do laps there in the afternoon, and try to swim around the pool on the weekends, while the pool is crowded with people just bobbing and screaming in a recreational attempt to get out of the heat. It’s weird to be the only fat chick at the pool. It’s especially weird to be the only adult swimming who doesn’t have a child taking lessons. Sometimes I eavesdrop on the lessons, trying to improve my strokes. I love swimming. I always have. I think it’s because I’m a cancer, and we’re crabs. But I also took swimming lessons every year from the time I was four until I was ten. My mother kept me in swim lessons for an extra long time, because she liked to flirt with my swim instructors. She was a young mother, younger then than I am now, and the boys who ran the pool liked flirting with her back. By the time I was 11, I actually got on the swim team, in Santa Clara. I competed and won some medals. And then I turned 12, and started to get self-conscious about my body, and the idea of wearing a bathing suit just sounded humiliating.

So, I forgot that the pool is a perfect place, where I’m always the right size, and it’s OK to be athletic, and nothing can hurt me while I’m swimming laps. Usually by the 25th minute of my work-out I have some sort of epiphany about work, or my feelings, or my life, that makes it all easier. And then I get out of the pool (a little wobbly as the leg I broke doesn’t exactly remember how to climb the pool ladder) and I feel muscular and strong.

I like to walk back home, on Powell, wearing my wet suit, letting it dry in the sun. I think of this as an exercise in loving the way I look in it; trying my best to like my body as it is, rather than wishing it was different. And while I swim, the sound of children laughing and learning things reassures me, bringing me back to a time when my life was simpler, and I was sure I was easy to like.

Last night I went out selling in Southeast Portland, and I met a whole lot of people who’ve been buying my cards for years, and are happy to see that I’m still doing it. It was like a nudge from the Universe saying: You’re still OK. You’re doing a good job. You just have to keep going. Between that and the Magic Mountain plan, I think this summer is going to turn out OK.

I just relisted some cards on my etsy site. Kitty AIDS has been one of my favorites. At first I thought it was a card I could send my grandmother, but recently I’ve realized that she’s actually Hella-Religious and she would probably get upset about me making fun of the baby Jesus this way. Then again, she does hate cats….

Love,

Alisa

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Babies

Monday, July 5th, 2010

Dear Internets,

Is it me, or are these two going to make an Awesome Baby?

As some of you know, today I turned 31. And today Snarky Cards is 3.

And I’ve been having a lot of mental anguish over my family. So, it’s been hard to convince myself to celebrate my birth, or the birth of my loud-mouthed, bitchy company. But I have good news! Two pieces of good news!

First: Thank God for faulty birth control. Usually I don’t believe in faulty birth control. It always sounds like bullshit to me. I mean, there’s a 3% chance that birth control doesn’t work. It seems like there are a lot more babies attributed to faulty birth control than that. And I really hate it when people don’t own their shit. But right now, I love faulty birth control. I believe in faulty birth control. It’s my favorite thing. It’s real and it happens to regular people. That or, Stephenie’s got super-hero sperm. Which is what he keeps telling me. My brother, Stephanie, has knocked up his girlfriend, Christina. They are delighted. But I am more delighted. I don’t think that there’s any way for me to be more excited about another person. I now call Stephenie once a week to get updates on Baby Awesome. And I’ve been racking my brain, trying to remember all of the horrible things that he’s done in order to blackmail him into actually naming the baby Awesome. So far, Stephanie has declined. Almost all of the other names they are actually considering are Alisa-approved.

Here is Awesome’s first picture. Stephenie has very kindly circled all of the important parts of Awesome’s features, which may be hard to make-out, because Awesome is, at present, very, very tiny. Awesome will grace us with his or her presence on or around January 22, 2011. So, on this momentous occasion of my birth, and the birth of Snarky Cards, we will look forward to the birth of my new family, Baby Awesome, Stephenie, Christina, and Claire, finally becoming “That lady who lives with your Aunt.”.

This may be a good time for me to explain something. Stephenie is a boy. He was born Stephen Daniel Shumaker. I call him Stephenie because I was a really mean older sister. When he was 8, Joy and I gave him a choice. We would call him Stephenie or Becky. Becky was an option because our parents were convinced he was a girl, and had planned to name him Rebecca. It was a mean (but hilarious!) nickname, which somehow became less mean and more endearing. As most nicknames do, in time. I also tried to make him gay when he was in high-school. (because what’s more awesome than having a gay brother? Nothing.) It almost worked. I got him wearing my prom dress, shaving his legs, dating guys, and hanging out at the Billy De Frank Center. Which is the only gay community center in Santa Clara, CA. I tried to make him start smoking when he was 11. So, while it isn’t miraculous that he knocked up the illustrious and amazing Christina, it is however, miraculous that he thinks it’s a good idea for me to be around Baby Awesome at all.

Secondly: My cousin Deanna and I are going to be working, this summer on Snarky Cards Undies. They should be available in the next month or so. The first pair will be American Apparel Boy Briefs, with “Fuck you and your fucking Feelings.” We’ll have them available in stores, and online. This picture is a facsimile of what they’ll look like.

I’ll give you updates, while I work on them.

These are the two projects that gave me some solace. This birthday has been the hardest that I’ve had in a long time. When I started Snarky Cards I gave it three years. I thought that by the third year I’d have a book deal, and an apparel line, and I’d be mass producing them across the country. I probably would have gotten that far, had I had any funding. Which I also expected to get. But, finding funding, and a publishing company interested in producing a book of Snarky Cards has, thus far, eluded me. I’m continually surprised by the rejection that I’ve gotten from major and minor publishing companies. I’ve now sold 29.705 Snarky Cards. I have them in stores in Seattle, San Francisco, Eugene, and Salem, Oregon, Louisville, Kentucky, Brooklyn, NY, Detroit, and -of course- Portland. That’s five states and seven cities. It seems clear to me that a book would sell well.

Anyway, I thought it would be much farther along by now. My other project for the summer is to lose weight. When I was 20, I started therapy. And I gained about 40 pounds. As time went by, I gained another 20 pounds. For the last five years or so I’ve hovered around 200 pounds. But then I broke my leg, and I gained another 40. This summer I realized I was done carrying all this weight around. I think, in my 20′s, the weight comforted me. It separated me from the person I’d been when I was younger. My larger body was not the same one that had been abused. I liked being part of the big girls club. I liked my big boobs.

But my back hurt. And it kept getting worse. And this year I realized that if I lost all the weight, and replaced a lot of it with muscles, I could probably stop seeing my chiropractor. So, this summer, I’m losing the magic mountain that was my ass. And I’m going for a flat stomach. I’m eating more healthily, and I’ve started to find some solace in exercise. Now a nice long walk will clear my head, almost as completely as weed does.

So, I was hoping that I would be thin (and possibly buff), and outrageously successful by now. And I think I’ve been really hard on myself for the last couple of weeks, because instead of being super-thin and internationally famous; I’m thinner than I was, and moderately successful. It feels like failure.

Joel had this picture taken of the two of us at Kelly's Olympian. We look pretty good, right?

Yesterday I woke up feeling terrible too. I walked around the apartment in my pj’s moaning about my life, checking my neck for wrinkles, eyeing my tummy. This week my friend Matt turned 40. I went to his birthday party, and it was fun. Usually I spend parties thinking “I should be working.” But this time, I let it go.I didn’t even bring my cards, I talked to people all night, not the Snarky Card Chick, just Alisa. Matt was drunk, and happy. And the party was packed. Everyone there was so happy to be there. It felt like a real celebration of Matt. “You know, I never thought I’d live this long.” His porch looks out on Broadway, and the city lights were luminous behind him. “I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

While I was moaning around the apartment Claire tried to think of things to say to cheer me up. “You don’t look 31.” She soothed. Nothing seemed to work. When I thought she’d given up she said “You know what? Matt’s party the other night was so great. If I have a party like that when I’m 40, I’ll be so glad. There were all kinds of people there, all ages, and all kinds. And Matt was so hot. And he was making out with his boyfriend all night. And it was so beautiful.”  Somehow, that propelled me out into the night with my cards. And I made it as far as Kelly’s Olympian, which is one of my happy places. People recognized me as I walked through the door. A few girls shreiked “You’re here! I want some cards!” and a few boys said “Hey, I’ve heard of you. Can I see some cards?” which made me feel kinda famous. I had some celebratory whiskey. I went over to Mike’s house, where I drank more and hung out with him, and Todd (also of the famed Fenbi) and we got more plastered. Mike announced that he was going to church today. I said I’d go with him.

Which is why I found myself hung-over and surrounded by hippies at 11am this morning. I was miserable. Mike was a champ. I was pouty, and hung-over, and convinced that my life sucked. “I’m fat, and ugly, and I’m going to die alone.” I whined. Mike just made reassuring noises and hugged me. “I’m going to become a spinster.” I moaned later. “What’s a spinster?” Mike asked, reminding me that men don’t live in constant fear of becoming an old-maid. And I didn’t used to either.

And somehow, in the middle of the inspirational talk that Science of Mind pastors call a sermon, I started to realize that I can’t be this hard on myself forever. The service forced me to be quiet. Instead of whining or pouting or trying to be funny, I sat quietly in my pew, with tears running down my cheeks, trying to give up all of the shit I’ve been piling on myself. Mike occasionally patted my hand, to let me know that I wasn’t alone. But he seemed just as absorbed as I was in the message.

We had a hangover breakfast at Holman’s, and then I went home, where I laid in The Nest (a pile of blankets and pillows we keep in our living room) and Claire got me things. I got birthday texts from friends all day, but all I wanted to do was sleep away my alcohol poisoning. I took a nap, waking up to twilight. The cats cowered and Claire and I stood on our porch, watching our neighbors fireworks. She went to Safeway, to pick me up a birthday dinner, and on the street, halfway between our apartment and the store, she found us a new recliner for the living room.

She came home to get me out of The Nest, and we spent the next half hour pushing the damn thing back to our apartment, with the fireworks going off all around us. “It feels kind of apocalyptic.” She said, in wonderment. “Um, I think the apocalypse will be less celebratory.” We were very, very stoned. It’s been 5 years since I moved to Portland, and I’ve never gotten used to the idea of legal fireworks. This is Claire’s first 4th of July in Oregon. “You know there are going to be a lot of handless people tomorrow.” I predicted darkly. “Why isn’t everything catching on fire?” She asked. Finally, we rested in the parking lot of the strip club across the street from our place.

Angela Lansbury can be very comforting.

As we caught our breaths, she twirled around, gaping at the pretty lights in the sky. “What if the propaganda we grew up with is wrong?” She sounded puzzled. “What if when people set off their own fireworks they don’t blow their hands up and set their neighborhoods on fire?” I looked around us thoughtfully. “Well. Maybe everything we heard growing up was wrong. Let’s wait for the news tomorrow, and see how many fires and missing limbs are reported, and then decide whether to turn our backs on everything we believe in.” It’s comfortable and not-smelly. And it made us feel luxurious. We took turns sitting in it, while watching Murder She Wrote.

And somehow, I got through it. Thanks to Kelly’s Olympian, and my enthusiastic customers, friends, cats, and Claire, I made it through. And now that it’s over, I’m ready to make the underwear and lose my weight. And I plan to spend the next month figuring out how to be nicer to myself. And also: I didn’t plan on sticking with Snarky Cards after 3 years. I figured whatever size the company was by now, I’d sell it, and use the fame I’d garnered to leverage me a job writing television scripts. I didn’t make any plans for Snarky Cards beyond now. I can’t walk away from it just as it’s getting exciting. So, I’m going to spend the summer figuring out a new timeline for Snarky Cards Success. Maybe something a little more realistic this time.

Thanks for all the Happy Birthday Wishes, and thanks for digging my shit.

Love,

Alisa

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Bill Carter is a genius

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

Dear Internets,

As some of you may know, I am friends with Fenbi: The Best Band On Earth. Mike, the front-man from the group, has a regular job. Or, you know, a career as a marketing god. Bill Carter is one of his projects. He’s been talking about Bill for a long time, and I listened to him talk, because I’m a good friend, but I always thought of Bill as an abstract. Not a real person, but a project.

And I’m a busy girl. I don’t do a lot of things that are not working. But I’ve been trying to change that, since it’s come to my attention that not hanging out with my friends might increase my depression. So, when Mike sent out the last call to all of his people saying “Bill Carter is speaking tonight, I know you wanna come! And it’s free!” I said. Well, I said “I don’t know, I have to go out selling tonight, Mike.”

Hot and deep, who could ask for anything more?

But 7pm came rolling around, and I was tired, and hungry and I wanted to hang out with Mike. An idea that wouldn’t have occurred to me if he hadn’t woken me up at the ungodly hour of 10am. So, I called him and asked if he wanted to go to dinner. And he said “Um, hello? I’m about to start my show? Bill Carter, remember?” So, I gave up and went to see this guy speak.

I was late. I’m always late, but I got there. A cute guy wandering the halls had to let me in. “You’re Mike’s friend?” he asked. I smiled and nodded, shyly. Bill, turned out to the be the cute guy, who was wandering the halls because they were showing a clip of his film, Miss Sarajevo, and he has a hard time watching it. Because it was filmed in the war-zone of Sarajevo, when he lived there. And it sucked. And it was awesome. And sometimes it gives him the shakes to think about it.

I missed the film clip entirely. But I spent the next two hours listening to Bill recount the war he became involved in. Before I went to hear Bill talk, I knew a few things about Bosnia. My friend, Marin, who I used to drink with in high school, was from Croatia. He was hilarious. And intense, and he liked to start shit. Eventually, I believe, he fucked my sister on a beach. And once he showed me pictures of the Croation beaches. While Bill talked, I realized that Marin showed up at school in 1994. He must have been fleeing his country just as the war started. He never talked about it. But then again, he was busy drinking and chasing my sister.

In 1999 Kosovo was raging. As an angry 19 year old girl, I wanted to go help Kosovo. I didn’t know what I would have done. I probably hoped to do something dangerous. But, in truth, I would have been happy to change bandages and offer comfort. It seemed like horrible acts were being committed against people who had done nothing. At 19, that felt a lot like my life. And I wanted to stick up for the people who were being hurt. Like I tried to stick up for me. Someone’s mother talked me out of it. My parents would have probably liked a martyr as a daughter (as dead daughters are easier to love than live ones), but this women was sure that putting myself in danger was a bad idea. She didn’t seem to like me very much, but she seemed very sure I shouldn’t sacrifice my safety in order to help others. Her ardency countered mine.

And so I filled out a form online, but didn’t pursue it further, more because I was intrigued with this brand of motherhood she had presented. In her world, my mother would be hurt if I got killed in a war zone. I liked the idea of a mother who cared about me like that. Even if she was a fictional mother, that this Australian woman had made up, the thought of that kind of parent was enough to stop me from hitch-hiking my way through Europe in an effort to help keep people safe in a war zone.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I’d be if I’d gone to Kosovo.  I like to think I’d be a lot like Bill.

As I watched him talk, I realized that Mike is right. Bill is a genius. A hot ball of energy, who loves really hard, and swears well, and tells the truth, intensely who has no problem saying “I don’t know” rather than bullshitting. Watching him was breath-taking. In some ways, he reminded me of me.

This book is beautiful and important. And it has some really hot sex in it.

I bought Miss Sarajevo, his documentary about Sarajevo and Fools Rush In, his book. Reading Fools Rush In was like being submerged in a beautiful, scary, drunken world. I alternately devoured and savored it. I wouldn’t let myself read it unless I was on the bus, going to or from work. I wouldn’t open it at home, because I knew if I did I would just sit. Until I’d finished the whole thing. (Snarky Cards don’t make themselves, I can’t afford to sit around finishing books when I could be painting or typing). When I read it, I gave every sentence some serious thought, delighting in the fact that I had become so consumed by it, my own life seemed like a dim memory.

By the time I’d finished it, I was in love with Bill Carter. I pined for him. He’s so heartbroken and grief-stricken through-out the whole story, I was so glad that we’d met, because I spent a good amount of time, worrying that he wouldn’t find love again. When I’d find myself in the middle of this worry, I would remind myself. “You met Bill. He’s happily married. His wife is good at Scrabble. Chill, Alisa.” Bill is one of those people who believes in magic, and love tethers him to his life.

I’m not one of those people. My work tethers me to my life. And love, more often than not, seems like too much to hope for. I admire people who can fall hopelessly and deeply in love. And while I was reading his book, I got to fall in love like that too. It was exhilarating. The idea of loving like that terrifies me. I have a hard time trusting men enough to let them get that close. And even if I trust them, I have a hard time trusting me. That kind of thing has been coming up more and more lately. I think my childhood has been haunting me. It usually does, around my birthday, but this year has been worse. Some of the shit that happened to me when I was a little girl made me think I wasn’t loveable. Some of it made me think that I was a bad person. And my wires got crossed. So, most of my adult life, I’ve been trying to change the penchant I have for men who hurt me. It’s been hard, because I was raised to believe that all men would like to hurt me. And there’s really nothing I can do about it. So differentiating between bad men and good men isn’t easy.

I think a lot of this shit has gotten stirred up because I started talking to my parents again. Well, that’s not accurate; I have been talking to them for the last year or so. But in the last few months, they have created some crazy-ass plans, and suddenly, we’re not just having stilted conversation every other month. They are moving to Turkey because a demon told them that he and his legion were preparing for their final battle here on earth. He told them this as they were casting him out of a person. They wanted me and my sister to help them empty, organize and then sell their house. The house where I grew up. The house where all of the abuse I experienced in my childhood took place. A house I had hoped to never enter again.

“So, I heard a demon told you to go to Turkey?” I asked my mother on the phone. “Of course not!” she laughed. “Good, because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be getting reliable information if you are getting it from a minion of Satan.” I really was relieved. And in this moment before she explained I was so happy. My parents aren’t crazy. They’re nice to me. My childhood was a bad dream. These are different people.

“No, we hold a high court, with God, after we cast the demon out. And we ask God how long the demon has been in our lives. He told us to go to Turkey.” She assured me. “Well. God’s a much more reliable source than Satan. So, I guess that sounds less insane.” I was cavalier, as she giggled uncertainly. And in that moment, I became a little unhinged. My parents are still the insane, abusive people who raised me. They have changed, they have made some progress. They have said that they were sorry about what they did to me (with some prompting). But they are still religious zealots, committed to their own, unnerving brand of religiosity. They’re the same people who have been kicked out of at least one church for their weird beliefs. They are still the people who hurt me.

Mary Chapin-Carpenter said “We’ve all got two lives, one we’re given and the other one we make”. In my most clear moments, I understand that all of that is in the past. That they are part of the life I was given. And I am now firmly planted into the life I made. But, since my parents pronounced their insane plan, I’ve been slipping in and out of time. Losing the confidence I’ve earned. Becoming the little girl who was afraid of her father’s rage. Or the teen-ager who’d been told I’d be raped every day by my mother, because of what I wore.

Bill’s book was a mirror of how I’ve been feeling. He weaved his past lives together, shifting between an abusive childhood, the act of falling in love, and living on chocolate baby-food in a warehouse, without heat, power or water in the middle of a siege.

His shitty childhood comforted me. I mean, he didn’t have it much easier than I did. And yet, he still dives right into love.

I saved Miss Sarajevo for when I’d finished Fools Rush In. I was nervous. If it made Bill nervous, how was it going to make me feel? I’ve been trying to be careful, the last couple of weeks as my childhood keeps flitting through my mind my emotions have been veering out of my control. And I need to be happy in order to sell things. I need to be calm. Or at least, I need to not want to cry all the time. So, if I deemed something emotionally draining, or if I thought that watching/doing/talking to someone would make me feel bad, I steered clear. But his book was beautiful. And so I steeled myself for a good cry, and turned it on.

The movie, it turns out, is a visual guide to the book. I’m glad I waited to see it, because I was watching it thinking “Oh, this is Vlad after he goes a little crazy because all of his friends are killed. This is the satellite link-up Bill did when he was really depressed. This is the gorgeous little girl singing Ace of Base in a broken down VW.” The idea that most intrigued me, from the book, is the Miss Sarajevo beauty contest that Sarajevo held, in the middle of the war. I’m not one for beauty pageants, but somehow, knowing that the people who attended this one had to run past snipers shooting at them, to attend, made it sweet. And important. The sign that they held “Please don’t let them kill us.” is poignant. And it means that this pageant wasn’t just for the people of the city. It was also a message to the world. “We still exist. We need your help. We are trying to live.”

And somehow, when faced with the senseless violence that befell an entire city for years; my problems seem smaller. And with that perspective, I try to balance my inability to trust men and my fears that I am too broken by the past, against the success of my cards, and the fame I’ve garnered for my tits and my tongue. When I pit them against each other, they come out a wash. And I’m grateful to Bill, for lending me courage, and telling me his story, and making me fall for him a little bit.

So, seriously dude, you should probably read his shit.

Love,

Alisa

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Vagina Feelings

Saturday, March 27th, 2010

Dear Internets,

See? They're huge! And they help me pay my rent.

I’ve going out to bars selling a lot lately. For those of you who don’t know, I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. And lately, the bars have been seeing a lot of me. And I’ve been seeing a lot of them. And there have been some cute boys, and flirting, and I’ve made a bunch of money, helping me pay my electric bill and keeping my cats in food. So, thanks Portland!

Oh yeah. And guess what, internets? I’ve decided to stop having sex! Forever. Just kidding! I’m going to try to go a month. A month that will feel like forever. I know, I’ve said this before. And some cute boy (or my period) would usually come along and screw up my resolution. But I figure if I keep trying to quit having sex with strangers, over and over again, eventually I’ll get it. At least, that’s how my business manager quit smoking. She just kept quitting. I figure if it worked for cigarrettes, it can work for anonymous sex, right?

See? I'd like to give this to someone. Someday. Maybe soon. Ish. I'm embarassed about this. But I'm glad that I can come out to you, internets. Thanks for understanding about my Vag having feelings.

OK, so here are the rules: flirting and making-out is ok. But making-out is a maximum. You might be asking yourself “What the fuck is Alisa’s problem? Why is she putting herself through this?” You might also be asking yourself “Why do I care what happens in Alisa’s Vagina?” I don’t know why you care what happens in my Vagina. I just know that I’m compelled to tell you what’s happening in my Vagina. But I can tell you why I’m going to turn perfectly awesome hook-up potentials into high school make-out sessions.

See, when I wasn’t looking, some monster jerry-rigged my feelings to my Vag. So now, while I can still have awesome sex with boys I meet at bars, I find myself wishing it was more than a one night stand when I get home in the morning. I keep finding myself wallowing in regret. So, I’ve decided to try not to have any more one night stands for a while. This is going to be hard, since random hook-ups have been my primary dating experience for the last couple of years. But it looks like I don’t have a choice. And I promise you this, internets,  if I find the fucker that hooked up my feelings to my Hoo-Haa, I’m going to beat the living shit out of them.

Or Hell, I'd even like to deserve this card again. I kinda just wanna take a chance on somebody, you know? Even if they might suck.

I feel really validated by the fact that Dr. Mc Steamy from “Doctors who cry in Seattle” (also known as Grey’s Anatomy) is having this very same epiphany right now about his penis. It’s like our genitals are acting in concert. Although, these are his fake genitals, and they’re my real genitals. So, not really. But his fake-epiphany still validates my real one. Which is yet another example of television working to make my life better.

I think I’m headed back to San Francisco sometime next week, for Passover. Until then, I’ve been loading up the internet with new Snarky Cards, for your pleasure. Some of which, are displayed above. I hope you like the new cards. And thanks for understanding about my new Vaginal status.

Love,

Alisa

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Posted in Alisa has feelings, It Happened In My Vagina | 8 Comments »

Rule 13

Wednesday, March 10th, 2010

Dear Internets,

Can you honestly imagine me playing hard to get? Because I can't.

When I was 19, The Rules came out. The Rules were written by two skinny Anne-Coulter-esque women. You know, the kind of chicks who think that they’re hotter than shit because they can wear a pencil skirt and have long hair? Anyway, these bitches wrote The Rules, a book which proclaimed that the only way to “capture” Mr. Right is to be unavailable, and make him chase you. On a Rules first date, you’re not allowed to stay for longer than ten minutes. Whether you have something else to do or not, you have to look at your watch and say “Oh! I have to go!” and jump up and run away after ten minutes. After said date and for the rest of the relationship, you’re not allowed to return his first phone call. You have to wait until his third, or fourth. Or something. Apparently, the recipe for success is a combination of being unavailable, and maintaining mystique.

The book that insults us all.

As we all know, I am super-aggressive; sexually and in every other way. And I couldn’t maintain mystique to save my life. So, I fucking hated this bullshit. Probably because they created a program I have no hope of following, and then called any woman who didn’t follow their program lonely and stupid. But that’s not all of it.  It pissed me off that this philosophy is based on the idea that men need to be manipulated into love. Because for all of the slutting around I do, I like men. I respect men. And I’ve spent the better part of the last 17 years trying to work through all of my shit so that I can figure out how to have healthy relationships with them. The idea that I need to manipulate one into loving me means that I’m not lovable all by myself, and I can’t trust a man to make his own decisions about his feelings. All of which sucks.

The Rules Bitches: Arch-nemesis's of everything awesome

About two years after their books hit really big, both of those bitches found themselves divorced. Which gave me some satisfaction. I don’t usually delight in the misfortunes of other people. But I considered these women the Arch-Nemesis’s of everything awesome. And so, their divorces fed my desire to see them sad. Unfortunately, these divorces didn’t stop them from continuing to offer dating advice. They are continuing to wage their war against honest dating, even now. Their website is stocked with pictures of them smiling next to real celebrities. There’s even a quote from Oprah, saying that they are genius’s.

I understand their popularity. I think everyone wants to create some order out of the chaos of our lives. Especially when it comes to dating. Everyone has lines they won’t cross. I have name rules. Like the other night, I met a Ryan. Isn’t it weird how all Ryan’s are hot? And while he was charismatic, I knew he was Hell-bent on his own destruction. As well as the destruction of anyone else who said that they liked him. So, even though he had Dylan-hair, and was trying to throw some (pretty good) game at me, I passed, because it doesn’t matter how good a Ryan is in bed, the mind-fuck you’re getting afterward makes the whole thing feel like a bad sexual decision.

After I’ve met 3 different people with the same name, I can make general observations about the name. My name rules have helped guide me through my life.  I try to believe in exceptions to the rules. They exist. I’ve just never met them. Michael’s always try to fuck with my head. David’s kinda hate themselves. Kaytea’s are always a crazy-ass party, that you will never regret attending. But you should rest-up first. Emily’s are steadfast friends. And Becky’s are bitches. Rebecca’s are usually nice, thoughtful and sensitive. Steve’s are good friends, who will always listen, and seldomly put out.

As much as I depend on my name rules, they’re subjective. They’re based on my experience with people who have those names. The Bexter (note, she goes by Rebecca, not Becky, because she knows Becky’s are bitches too, and has therefore never let anyone call her that)  has had different experiences with different names. So, she is open to dating a David, or a Justin (although, she’s dated a lot of Justin’s she might be done with that particular name). So, basically, while I love my name rules, and they are the guiding light of my life, I can’t pass them along for public consumption, except as a party trick.

Recently, I was updating the list of people I’ve slept with. I’ve got 83 people on the list… And I feel like I’m missing some people. So, if we’ve slept together, could you please email me, so that I can double check and make sure I’ve alredy counted you? Please don’t email if we only made-out. You dont’ count. Wait. Unless we made-out and it was good, and you’d like to make the list. In which case, please email me, and I will consider your request. You can send your sexual requests (and tales of our dalliances together) to snarkycardsatgmaildotcom.

I have noticed lately, that I have a collected a lot of wisdom, from all these different boys, and situations I’ve found myself in. I give great dating advice. Which I can’t figure out how to follow myself (much like the evil bitches I despise). But my observations have helped my friends (and strangers I meet at the bar) navigate through their own dating debacles.

So I’ve decided to put together my own list. The Rules by The Snarky Card Chick! I will feed them to you in the form of cards, until we have enough for a book of our own. And then we can give America a choice, The Rules for girls who like men (by Alisa Starr) or The Rules for girls who like to manipulate men(by some heinous bitches).  Rule #13 is the first rule I ‘ve written so far. I wrote it for my friend, Tina. Who is a cougar. Which is kind of exciting, and it makes me very, very proud.

It’s a good rule, I think. But it’s not going to be part of the top ten. I don’t know how long the list will be yet. I’m just writing down things as they happen to me. Or as they happen to my friends. If you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Love,

Alisa

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Posted in Alisa has feelings, It Happened In My Vagina, New Cards, Snarky Cards | 7 Comments »

Fenbi Finally

Friday, January 8th, 2010

I am a woman of many talents… Or at least, that’s what my friend Sheila told me last night. I kinda knew that before she said it. I mean, I know I’m charismatic. And, of course, very beautiful. Although, I think I keep most of my beauty in my boobs. The combination of which means that I’ve talked a lot of people into giving me a variety of jobs over the last twelve years. And I have hobbies; I knit, sew, paint, write, scrap-book, collage and I can make a pretty good avacado-banana salad. But Sheila was just surprised because she found out that I read Tarot Cards.

My brother, Stephenie, the novelist.

My sister, Joy, the artist

My sister, Joy, the artist

I guess I don’t talk about tarot cards that much, so I get why she’d be surprised. All of the kids in my family read cards with amazing accuracy. My brother also writes novels, and my sister makes jewelry, and paints and draws, and makes clothes. I’ve always wondered if it was an artistic thing. And then I don’t know, so I give up and spend a few minutes pitying my parents, who wanted us all to go to college and get real jobs, and have careers with clear trajectories. And then I get distracted thinking about my brother’s short stories, and I worry about finding him a publisher. And then I worry about finding me a publisher. And I forget to figure out if reading Tarot with accuracy is connected to creative ability.

My first cat’s name was Tarot, because even though he was completely feral, he looked like he knew how to be loved, and love me back. I got him from a crazy-cat lady in California. She’d found him in a garbage can. He was six months old, and he’d never lived inside. It took me a year until he let me pet him, and even then, I had to corner him in the bathroom, and use thick gloves my sister gave me to pick him him, and put him on my lap, while he yowled. I prayed he didn’t scratch my eyes out, while I pet him over an over again, saying fiercly “Someday you’ll like this!’

I was pretty feral when I got him, I’d just estranged myself from my family, and I was 22, living in my hometown, all of my friends had gone away to college, and I didn’t know how to make new ones. I was working 90 hours a week, and I wasn’t sure if my life was going to be worth fighting for. Taming Tarot was one of the few things that gave my life direction and trying to show him love injected compassion into my angst-ridden existence. And slowly, as he started to look to me for love, so did I. I got some therapy, and started coffee-shop slutting around again, and he started letting me cuddle with him at night.  And all the while, I read my own cards over and over again, for guidence.

This is a picture of my third costume change of the evening, at one of our blow-out Fun House parties

The thing is, my cards always told my future. And it scared me a little. And one day, four years later, I was at college -I’d gone back to school to get my tiny Sociology degree- and I got the New Location card. Which always means I’m going to move. I called my Fake Husband, who I lived with at The Fun House and told him. “You don’t have to move just because the cards say you do!” he blustered. “No. You don’t understand, I don’t want to move, but the card came up, and when it does something outside of my control is going to happen, and so I’m going to.” I was sad. And a little frustrated. I liked our ginormous house of awesome. But Steve and I always seemed to be arguing this was just one more thing. He’s still kinda Christian in his thinking. And things like Tarot cards are spooky and a little wrong. “Well, just because your cards say it doesn’t mean you have to do it.” He hung up quickly. I glared at the phone. Unbenknownst to both of us, Crazy Dennis, our Speed-Freak landlord was  breaking into the Fun House at that very moment, so he could leave an eviction notice in my bedroom on the back of an envelope. I found it when I got home from school. “What do you think about Tarot now?”  “I just try not to think about it.”He replied uncomfortably. And I thought “Well, if Steve can ignore the fact that Tarot’s real, than I can too.” So, I put my cards away, and I moved to Portland. Tarot died when we moved here, he’d gotten into a fight and some other cats sharp parts had knicked his lungs. The vet said if I’d had a million dollars, I might not have been able to save him. And I was so sad, I couldn’t say the word for a long, long time. I ran out and got two kittens to replace him three days after he died. They were cuddly and cute and open and loving and so opposite him, I put the cards and the cat away in my mind and I haven’t thought much about either since.

But the last six months have been hard on me. I love my life. But it’s become unpredictible and extreme. And every day something huge happens, and I have to figure out how to deal with it. Some of it is good stuff (which I will reveal to you, dear internet, when it’s all finalized. I don’t want to get your hopes up and then dash them) and some of it is bad stuff. And it’s gotten to the point that I’ve realized that The Universe was right when it decided to give me Tarot Cards.

I had always thought the ability to see my own future was a consolation prize for giving me such a shitty childhood, abusive parents and a stubborn nature. But now that I’ve had some therapy, and my abusive childhood is no longer the defining thing in my life. I mean, I still think about it sometimes, but it not longer hurts my feelings that those things happened to me. And I’ve started to accept my stubborn nature, and give it some begrudging props. I wouldn’t have gotten this far with my Snarky Cards if I hadn’t been so sure that this was the best way to make myself a writer. I’ve wanted to be a professional writer since I was 6. I made a promise to myself that I would one day be a writer. Which is why I’ve worked my ass off, 90 hours a week for two and a half years, hungry half the time, promising myself it would get better if I could just stand being poor and scared and tired and hungry for another year. Stringing myself along, ignoring kind-hearted people who told me over and over again to get a real job and work on my dreams part-time. “Like a normal responsible person”. Because I’m stubborn. And I said I would finish this. And I said it would make me a writer. And I don’t have a goddamn book published yet.

Lately I’ve begun to think that rather than being a consolation prize for a hard life, my Tarot Cards tell my future because my life is so weird, and totally unpredictible, and I need some advance warning about what’s coming up so that I can get ready. And The Universe knows that, and so it gives me a heads up out of consideration. And, maybe the advance warning of what’s going to happen next will allow me some mediocum of security in a world where I depend on Strangers in Bars to pay my rent. Or, as I did last night at Kelly’s Olympian and Meridian Gold Dust, the electric bill and phone bill. -Thank you Strangers in Bars! Todays electricity is brought to me from you! And also: Cute-Boy-Rich: Please stop intonating that we’re going to make-out and then disappearing. You are a cunt tease. Nobody likes a cunt-tease. Next time I see you, you better be cornering me in a bathroom and trying to grope me.

They sound as good as they look. I promise. Ass-shakin good!So, tomorrow night Fenbi’s playing a show again. FINALLY! They’ve asked me to read Tarot for anybody and everybody. I will be doing that for $5 a reading at the Ash Street Saloon from 8pm until close-to-closing. A word of warning though: When Fenbi plays, you need to shut-up and dance. That’s what I’ll be doing.  So -before and after the cute boys entertain us with deliciously dancable music-you can get your present, and possibly your future read for $5. I’ll bring some Snarky Cards too, so anyone who wants to peruse through those can.

I’m off now, to try and make some sort of gypsy costume, so that I’ll look like a vagrant fortune-teller. I hope to see you tomorrow night!

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Shag saves the Day

Thursday, December 10th, 2009
See what I mean? You're already titmitized

See what I mean? You're already titmitized

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars, from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Which are huge. They will crack you the fuck up. Not my boobs, they will tittmitize you. The Snarky Cards will crack you the fuck up.

Lately it seems like the highs and lows of my life happen all at once. In the last two months, I’ve started to feel like my life is much bigger roller-coaster than ever before. It’s hard to figure out how to feel about it all, because everything changes so quickly, and my emotions are slow and laborious. And it seems like I’m always stuck on the last thing that happened to me. Instead of enjoying the now. Especially if that last thing was negative, and the now is positive. It’s hard to find the chocolate, when it’s embedded in the shit sandwich in front of you. Or maybe it’s hard to eat chocolate after you just had a shit sandwich?

Like, three months ago, I came back from California to find that one of the coffee shops that carry my cards had closed. Without telling me. And without paying for the stock I’d left there on consignment. I was blinded by my rage, at them, and at me, for not seeing this coming. -And if you know any of the guys who used to own Chance of Rain Coffee Shop, tell them I’d like my cards or my money, please. (Yeah, I’m still a little pissed).

chance of rainI spent the next few days worked myself into an angry frenzy. Nothing could convince me that this wasn’t a sign that I’m a shitty business person, who makes shitty business decisions. More than that, it was the fact that these guys who had sold my cards for years couldn’t so much as email or call me to tell me that they were closing the shop and did I want my Snarky Cards back? It was a violation. And it made me feel bad about myself and bad about them. And impotent. I couldn’t find them. I didn’t have their phone numbers, I tried finding them online, but it’s easy to ignore someone’s email. It’s hard to ignore a phone call. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop feeling mad. And that made me more mad.

The next day, I got a wholesale order from a store in Brooklyn, NY. But I was still so mad at Chance of Rain, this order didn’t assuage the impotence and rage I felt when I walked up to Chance of Rain and saw the closed sign. It took me a while to let go of being angry at those communist-cafe owners.

So it took me weeks to realize that Shag, The Brooklyn store who bought my cards for their grand opening is a much bigger, better deal than my continued business relationship with that coffee shop. And it’s OK if those hippie, anarchist dicks left town without telling me (although, those dude still owe me money, so if you see any of them, please ask for my money back. Or maybe discreetly shit on them).

flyer_final_for_emailIn fact, Shag’s buying Snarky Cards makes them bi-coastal! That means that I can make something happen in other people’s vaginas on every coast of the country, ultimately bringing me a great deal closer to world domination. Which has been my plan all along. in case you can’t tell. So after a week or two of recovery time, I went around preening, telling people offhandedly “Oh, yeah and Snarky Cards are selling in New York now. Oh. Didn’t I tell you? Yeah, a sexy store in Brooklyn bought them.” I tried to be subtle but I’m really bad at subtle. It didn’t matter, my friends were thrilled that I’d gotten my cards that far into the world.

shagAnd Shag rocks. I couldn’t afford to go to New York for their opening, but they’ve gotten great reviews (note the pics of Snarky Cards right before the pics of the vibrators!) on and offline. They’re a swanky sex boutique.

Early next year, Swag’s owners are planning on launching their own line of organic homemade lubricant, made with all natural products and no added preservatives. A condom gumball machine is in the works too. And they do casting. Which means that you can go into their store with  your partner and have a cast made of his or her sexy parts, so that you can make a sex toy shaped exactly like the one you love. How cool is that? I’m so excited that I’m affiliated with such a swanky, innovative shop! They’re like Good Vibrations and a sexy art studio all in one. All in all, it kinda seems like the perfect place for Snarky Cards. And now I have a reason to visit New York!

So in the end, after my stomach turns a little bit, when the roller coaster of my life slows down, I find that everything is a little bit better than it was before all the ups and downs. So I’m trying to take a deep breath, and enjoy the ride.I’m trying to have faith that it will all turn out right in the end. And what’s better for faith than a room full of vibrators? So, thanks Shag for giving me an upside, and saving the day!

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An Ode To San Francisco

Wednesday, October 7th, 2009

Your big enough cockFor those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. tip money boobs faceThey will crack you the fuck up.

I am back from San Francisco. Coming back from California is always weird for me. When I’m there, my phone rings constantly; friends, needing to know where I am and when I’m going to come hang out, giving me suggestions for where I can sell. Cute Californian boys trying to lure me into bed.

In San Francisco I’m the hot new thing. When people see my cards for the first time, they scream. And they have more money in SF than they do in Portland. So after they stop screaming, they buy more cards.

In Portland, I’m a staple, a “very Portland phenomenon” and people nod and smile and say “Nice to see you again”. They  say “I’ve always wanted to meet the person who does this.” And shrug when I ask if they wanna look at the new cards. They say “Oh, I can buy them at Tiny’s.” Or, “I see these all over!” and I have to work a little harder to dazzle them, to eek my rent out of my Snarky Cards.

I love my Portland life, but it’s very solitary. I spend about 90 hours a week making cards, or selling cards. Most of my good friends are Bad-Ass Bitches who own their own businesses. And they’re busy, trying to build their empire. So I steal a girls night here and there. So the phone is silent, and I’m old hat here, and switching between the two worlds is confusing, and a little depressing.

pegasus-pendragon-books-berkeley-ca

Pegasus Bookstore! Now carries Snarky Cards!

In conclusion: I love The City. And the City seems to love me back. It’s a nice change from the solitary life in Portlandia.

As of last week, Pegasus Books now carries Snarky Cards! It took a year, but Victory is now mine! Now that one store has succumbed to my charms, more will fall! Mooo-hahahahaha! (Is that an evil laugh? I can’t tell. I tried to sound it out, but I’m not sure if I nailed it or not.) So if you love Snarky Cards, and you need some, and you live in the Bay Area, you can go to Pegasus and get yourself some!

Divorce Season's around the corner people! Dig it! I can comfort you in time of need, and help you get laid again!

Divorce Season's around the corner people! Dig it! I can comfort you in time of need, and help you get laid again!

But as I get used to the sweetness of my own company again, I find myself becoming one with the Portland Art Scene once again. I’ve been going out selling at bars almost every night this week. This Saturday, I’ll be at Missisipi Pizza, getting my groove on to The Chapman Swifts. And this Sunday I’ll be at Crafty Wonderland, with my typewriter, Bob, bringing you custom Snarky Cards, and sage advice for those feeling lost in love.

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My Fake Mom

Wednesday, July 15th, 2009

For those of you who didn’t know, last week I turned 30. I am pretty stoked about the new decade. Usually I get nervous about my birthday; and for good reason. Every year, I become a totally new person. It’s not something I do on purpose, it bubbles out from inside of me. And the next thing I know, I’m rearranging my life with new priorities, changing my friends, setting my life on a totally different course.

I try to set my life in order in the months before it, but that usually proves pretty useless. It’s like cleaning your room before you let someone else move into it. The new 30 year old me might not like the carpet, so what’s the point of steam cleaning it before the event? I’ve never wanted all the drastic changes, and once I make them, I freak out a little bit. But in the end, they’re usually good for me. When I was 22, I estranged myself from my parents for my birthday. When I was 27, I started Snarky Cards. Last year, I bought a bikini.

This year, I don’t know what will happen. I’m still waiting for the bubble inside of me to to hit the surface. I think my Aunt Judi knows that it’s hard on me, all this change. And that’s why, periodically, she comes to stay with me, to see me through the event. Judi is my Fake Mom. She’s always been there for me, even when it was hard for her to figure out how.

The first time I had sex, I told her about it. She was the only adult I told. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and worried that I’d made a terrible mistake. But all that fell away when she beamed at me and said “Great! How was it?” When I started Snarky Cards, I asked her what she thought, and she said “Well, I think it’s really brave. 90% of businesses fail in their first year.” I thought she would tell me that I was doing something really stupid. But she was stalwart in her realistic support. I think what she meant was “I understand you have to do this, and it’s ok, whether it works or not, I get that you have to try.”

The four days that she spent with me this year were amazing. She was happy to run to the bus stop with me, and and meet all of my favorite bartenders, and she and Lisa hit it off. Like, I think Judi and I might end up sharing my best friend. Which is awesome, because they both like the same kind of boring shit. Like if we’re walking somewhere, Judi would say “I wonder what that building is made of?!” and Lisa would say “Yeah! Let’s go look at it!” and they would both tromp off across the street to touch the building and talk about material. Which is great, because I don’t care what the building is made of. And I don’t want to go across the street to look at it. So I’m glad Lisa and Judi had each other. It makes time with both of them way easier.

The three of us spent my entire birthday walking and talking and eating and drinking. It was perfect. We got to talk about our feelings and our dreams. I love that shit. And I saw my cousin Deanna, who dropped in on the girl-time we were having. She and I managed not to piss each other off, in the hour that we hung out. Which is a first.

I hope your Fake Mom is as rad as mine!

I hope your Fake Mom is as rad as mine!

In the four days she was here, Judi and I went over my whole life; she was making small corrections in my thinking and my future plans every day. I finally get how annoying it is when I do that to other people. But the thing is, she was right. About almost everything. It’s nice to have a Mom. It’s nice to have someone in my life who cares about me and can give me advice, or just plain tell me to straighten my shit out. And her and Lisa getting along felt really good too. A Mom who likes my friends? Awesome!

Judi would tell you that you don’t need anyone else to approve of your life. That you should just do what you think is right, and try not to hurt anyone else. And she’s right. But it still felt really good for me to have her to come see my success and smile. Maybe that’s the radical change for this year. Maybe I just admit that it’s OK for me to have a family; to need other people. Maybe that’s Big Enough.

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