crazysexyguilt: part three.

“Sin, guilt, neurosis,they are one and the same, the fruit of the tree of knowledge.”

–Henry Miller

Years before Division Street became a series of upscale restaurants and hipster-themed bars (the sort where the person serving your drinks is not a bartender, but a “mixologist), Clinton Street was the hub of nightlife in that part of SE Portland. My best friend Reyna and I spent most of our evenings at the Clinton Street Pub, with only occasional forays across the street to Dot’s for greasy vegan food. CSP was cheap and hosted some of the best pinball games in town. It was not the sort of place one visits in search of The Beautiful People. The space itself was tiny and strangely laid out. The pool table was so close to the door, that once, during a particularly bad shot, I found myself chasing the 8-ball down the street until it’s quickening pace was abruptly halted by a speed bump.
One summer, CSP offered an ill-advised $10 Pitcher of Kamikaze Shots special. Always value-conscious, Reyna and I could’t resist this bargain. Usually we would draft one or two other comrades to share THIS INCREDIBLE DEAL with us. A ritual soon developed: We each took turns pouring a shot for each person at the table. While pouring, we were obliged to tell a “mostly-true” story. Of course, we never stopped at just one pitcher. By July, I had became incredibly adept at making the wobbly uphill bike ride back to my house. No matter how many kamikaze shots had found their way into my stomach, I always found myself soundly asleep in my own bed by 3 am. I had no reason to suspect that the evening forever hereafter known as THE DRUNKEST I HAVE EVER BEEN would end any differently.

crazysexyguilt: part two.

Around the time I was four, my mom decided it was time to start breaking life’s harsh truths to me.  I was her strange little semi-adult buddy, after all.  I deserved only the purest honesty.   She handed down the first revelation just after Thanksgiving that year.

“Listen, your cousins and your brother are going to go around getting SO excited about Santa for the next month.  And probably their parents will even trick them into behaving themselves by pretending that Santa actually cares about whether or not they stayed in their seat during dinner at Pizza Hut.  But I’m going to be honest with you, because you are too smart for this nonsense:  There is no Santa.”

I opened my mouth to ask her how EXACTLY she knew that for CERTAIN, but the look on her face told me that issue was not up for debate.

“Now I expect you to spend the next few years being really, really excited and playing along for the benefit of the other kids, because they aren’t as smart as you.”

And so for the next several years, I squealed with forced delight every time “Santa” arrived at my grandma’s house on Christmas Eve.  I now knew that it was really her childhood friend Jake (a member of the slowly dwindling cadre of old men that had been smitten with her since she was a teenager) and somehow I could even recognize the scent of irish coffee on his breath.  I labored over long letters addressed to the North Pole because I realized that it was the best way to make my gift requests known.    No one suspected a thing.  Once, in an ill-advised attempt at first-grade rebellion, I hotly asked my mother if I could be Santa for Halloween.  Her response was a plastic Smurfette costume that smelled like nail polish.

Tiny unnecessary tidbits of truth were dispensed for the next few years.  I knew which of the grown-ups around me were drunks, yo-yo dieters, and adulterers.  I knew which of them were “bad with money” (one of my mom’s most dire insults) and who “couldn’t keep a job.”  Around this time my mom made me solemnly swear (GIRL SCOUT’S HONOR) that I would never ever EVER get married.  “You’re too smart to waste your time being someone’s wife.”

In third grade my mother said she had something very important to discuss with me.  I both hoping and dreading that it might be a puberty conversation.  I had recently read Are You There God?  It’s Me Margaret so I had an inkling of the outline of that conversation. I could barely imagine hearing the phrase “maxi pad” spoken in our house.  Still, it would be thrilling to recount the details to both my actual friends and my super secret best friend, a Ramona Quimby-themed diary (a gift from “Santa”).

crazysexyguilt.

…yes, this is a TLC reference.

PART ONE.

My years in Philadelphia were defined by a comforting, reliable celibacy.  Occasionally a Portlander would pass through town in an attempt to challenge my commitment to sexual solitude.  Sex became an afterthought, after years of seemingly being the motivation behind all of my most foolish, reckless actions. I was no longer drunkenly climbing into the second floor bedroom windows of unwitting conquests.  There were no delirious late night bicycle rides to rendezvous with top secret lovers.  I was barely remembering to shave my legs and I was officially on the pill for “medical reasons.”   Most importantly–and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m still nostalgic for this state–every aspect of my life was so much simpler, and always, ALWAYS about me and my feelings.  I did not miss waking up in bed with a bad case of cottonmouth and some dude I barely liked.   Ahhhh, the delight of waking up well-hydrated in one’s own bed.  I definitely didn’t miss waiting waiting WAITING for someone to call or text, wondering what or who was possibly more important than seeing me.

Around this time my mom cautioned me “Beware…being single is addictive.”  I assumed that she was referring to the revolving door of casual sex and drunken dates that generally dominate the life of the average bohemian single woman.  I could see how variety and excitement were addictive.  Meanwhile I was spending my weeknights in yoga class and my weekends with my family;  of course the soothing embrace of repetition and solitude is more subtly habit-forming, like cough syrup as an insomnia cure.

And then I abruptly moved across the country.

keep the windows open.

We all got holes to fill
them holes are all that’s real.
Some fall on you like a storm,
sometimes you dig your own.

–”To Live Is To Fly,” Townes Van Zandt

One of my best friends is leaving town very, very soon and “closure” has been a frequent topic of conversation as she prepares to move on to the next phase of her life.

My dead boyfriend visited my dreams for years.  I spent most nights futilely chasing his shadow through the streets of Wicker Park.  I pedaled my bike so hard and so fast, I thought my heart might just explode.    I raced through red lights as I weaved between cars.  But he always eluded me.  Other times I questioned our mutual friends about their involvement in his semi-mysterious demise.  Conspiracies abounded, but I could never get the pieces to fully fit together.   On the rare occasion that  I actually spoke to him he was completely perplexed by the flood of emotion that surged uncontrollably from me.  

“Pull yourself together, Amanda.  You’re acting crazy.  I just saw you yesterday!”

For a moment I would allow myself to belief that this was true, that our chance passing on the Damen El platform would result in dinner, followed by waking up with him in the morning.  But when dawn began to gently nudge me out of my dreams, I found myself alone again.

It wasn’t just the endless dull ache of missing him.  It wasn’t just that his death had simultaneously resulted in the rapid unraveling of every aspect of my life.  It was the realization that we would never, ever get to really talk about what happened.  It was the agony of carrying thousands of unspoken words around with me for the rest of my life.  Years later, in yet another weepy session with my therapist I would  practically scream “IT’S ALL OF THE THINGS THAT I’VE NEVER SAID THAT ARE POISONING ME.” 

3 dreams about 2 people.

Someone somewhere some time told me that dreams are only interesting to their owners.  And that may be true for some, but I’m constantly fascinated with both my own dreams and those of others.  I would love to share my current developed-in-the-shower treatise DREAMS ARE MORE THAN JUST A FLEETWOOD MAC HIT, but alas, it’s late and this story is long.

I apologize for any grammar/punctuation/spelling errors…for an individual with elaborate dreamscapes and scripts, I receive a remarkably small amount of sleep.  My attention to detail suffers most.  I’m in the market for a proofreader/dishwasher, if you know anyone.

I. You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Imagine the most picturesque landscapes, the sort of stunning views found on vintage postcards and posters for old westerns.  That was all I could see in every direction, in this house of almost entirely windows.

“Didn’t the Puritans think windows were a sin? Or am I just imagining that?” I looked at A. for confirmation.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “Don’t confuse reading Hawthorne with actually knowing history.”

self control (this is not a tribute to laura branigan).

The living is easy in Portland.

Or more accurately…finding motivation is difficult in Portland. Imagine an endless series of theme parties, extra-long happy hours, afternoons at the park, meandering bike rides, movie nights, cute boys, thrift store outings, ultra-extended inside jokes, new bars, dive bars, goth clubs (okay, there’s only one, but still), craft projects, sleepovers, friend dates, social intrigue, passive aggressive non-dating, drunk hook ups (followed by awkward-but-tasty brunches), heated classic rock discourse, and committed instagramming.  And oh yeah, conversations about things that have happened on Facebook.

And sooooooo…suddenly you find yourself (let’s just pretend that YOU are ME, Amanda McCarty/McParty) thinking, “Um yeah, so basically I haven’t written anything in two years and so yeah, I kinda have nothing to show for my life (except for some really amazing outfits). Remember when I was miserable/lonely but SO PRODUCTIVE in Philadelphia?”

too many frequent flier miles later…

home sweet home.

Eight years ago, I arrived in Portland. If I close my eyes and listen to Either/Or, I can see it all clearly: I stumbled down the jetway with a tiny Dylan slung on my left hip, my messenger bag strapped across my chest, and a car seat in my right hand. I wore what I called my “Angsty Single Mother Costume”: beat up Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and one of the few pairs of sneakers I kept after dumping most of my Chicago belongings at the Salvation Army near my mom’s house in Central PA. Dylan was gnawing on one of my pigtails as strangers cooed about her cuteness. My mouth tasted like Cheez-its. The day had consisted of three thousand miles, two airplanes, and half a dozen diaper changes. I had a headache and a baby and a couple thousand dollars in my checking account. All I could think was “should I reset my watch now, or wait until we’re all settled in M’s car?”

totally feeling like a pro today.

Hi, everyone!  This week my story “Bedfellows” was published on Storychord.com, “thoughtfully curated” by Sarah Lynn Knowles (sarahspy).  “Every other Monday, Storychord.com features one story, one image, and a one-song ‘soundtrack’– each by an underexposed, talented up-and-comer.”  I’m really excited about the artists I was paired with for this week’s issue.  Check it out here.

a tragic character: part four.

I wrote the first draft of “9″ (“The Wife”) on a flight filled with rowdy children, hurtling between Orlando and Philadelphia.  I have to say, I just needed a few days of daytime drinking, good friends, and forgiveness  (all in Austin, TX) in order to cure the writer’s block that has been plaguing me for the past few weeks.  My new question: Does every story require a happy/hopeful ending?  You tell me…

8.

Carrot’s nose is bleeding all over the pillow. I fall out of bed trying to retrieve a box of tissues from the bedside table, hitting my head on a nearby bookshelf. When I climb back onto the bed, he is pressing a t-shirt (hopefully his) against his face.

“I think you should put your head between your knees,” I suggest as I rub the bump forming on the side of my head. I silently add, “Or maybe you could consider snorting a little bit less blow this weekend.”

As if he can read my thoughts, he exclaims, “I’ve fallen in with a bad crowd!”

I laugh. There is a lot of this sort of talk at NA meetings: gateway drugs, peer pressure, and bad crowds. I couldn’t disagree more.

Some people are just born to look for trouble. We are the Trouble Seekers. When we gather, we form a bad crowd, but we are just as dangerous on our own. No one is to blame for our undoing but ourselves. It doesn’t matter if one’s parents were neglectful or high school was traumatic. Popular, well-adjusted individuals can also be Trouble Seekers. Bad sexual experiences, child abuse, and bountiful disappointment might unlock one’s desire for danger. And of course, this tendency toward ruin can be genetic. I come from a long line of poor decision makers and self-destroyers. I was this way from the moment I was aware of the world outside my pink little girl bedroom walls. I’ve always wanted to drink too much, sleep around, and kill myself with drugs. I had to be the first to lose my virginity, smoke pot, and drop acid. I wanted to bed every cute boy and girl I saw.

further ways to get your dose of foolish stories!

Yeah, yeah…things are getting really serious here at FRIGHTENED BY BEES, aren’t they?  Lots of sad stories about really intense situations, right?

You have hankering for a different flavor, something a bit zesty?  With a sweet aftertaste of foolishness and the tang of teen angst?

We here at FRIGHTENED BY BEES WORLD HEADQUARTERS (my bedroom in Philadelphia) have something new and exciting for you:  Swap Meet.  ”A journey through space, time, bad haircuts, confusing sexual orientation, big cities, small towns, and many, many record stores.”

Check it out!

xo

Amanda (aka The Heiress)