Weirdest Kid on the Block

I updated the design of my What the Douglas emails this week and contemplated changing the preheader line, which is something like, "News and updates from the weirdest kid on the block." But I didn't consider it for long, because on a weirdness scale of dry, unbuttered toast to a sculpture of Weird Al made entirely of butter and toast, I'm a solid "high-kneeing it down the street to the tune of Take On Me."

A young Abi G. Douglas ritually sacrificing a pumpkin.

OK, so maybe that weirdness scale is imperfect, because as weird as a breakfast-food depiction of a quirky celebrity is, it's definitely not the weirdest thing out there. The problem with a weirdness scale is that "weird" is subjective and difficult to define. I mean, to the ancient Scots, it used to refer to fate and destiny. How weird is that?

Despite the trouble with defining weirdness, everyone knows what and who is weird.

Except if you're the weird one.

I remember the moment in which I realized people considered me strange. It was toward the end of middle school, and a friend described me as "awkward." She meant it to be endearing, but it also clicked the world into a new perspective for me. Suddenly, it dawned on me that the behavior I considered "normal" for myself was not quite "normal" for everyone else. 

Picture this: The "twist revelation" theme from the Saw movies is playing as the camera zooms in on middle school Abi's face, and a montage of memories flashes by. Little Abi pretending to be a red blood cell in the elementary school hallway. Abi leashing an imaginary, floating elephant to her desk during Social Studies, unaware that her method of practicing tying a bowline would be seen as peculiar. Abi carrying a stuffed animal with her to classes, well past the age that toys are appropriate in the classroom, until a teacher has to stop her because it is just so awfully cringe-worthy. Abi drawing comics starring her friends as animals because she has trouble telling human faces apart and understanding her place in the friend group. Abi talking to her imaginary friends at age 13. Abi licking another girl in the shower and being laughed at, oblivious until now that she'd been the butt of a joke, of so many jokes.

The camera pulls back, and Abi murmurs, "Holy sauerkraut, I was weird all along."

It was both a funny and traumatizing experience for me. The scales had fallen from my eyes and I saw for the first time just how weird and embarrassing and "other" I was. I was so ashamed. I wanted to cry, but would that be "awkward"? I wanted to defend myself, because after all this time thinking I belonged, I now had a mountain of evidence proving that I didn't, and it had been right under my nose all this time. How could I not have known? 

That was a turning point. My life became piloted by shame and the looming question: "Am I being weird right now?" I questioned everything I said, everything I did, but I still failed to prevent the inevitable outbreaks of strangeness. My impulse to be loud and imaginative and off-the-wall was constantly at war with the new voice in my head that told me I was an embarrassment and a burden and an outsider (and not even the cool, edgy kind of outsider, either).

My entire high school experience was consumed by that war. I felt so separated (thanks largely to my own efforts to separate myself) that I missed out on much of what it was to be a high school student, which served to isolate me even more. It wasn't just that I wasn't comfortable in my skin... All those lessons of "It's what's on the inside that counts" reinforced my fear that who I was, deep beneath the skin, was irreparably wrong. I spiraled in on myself. It was the weirdest kind of narcissism.

I can't remember much of high school. What I can remember is so stained with shame that I rarely care to revisit it. Well, except for when I'm lying awake at night, replaying some bizarre interaction from a decade ago and kicking myself for mistakes that nobody else even remembers.

 By college, I was exhausted from the constant battle with myself. So I let the weird run wild, more or less resigned to living the rest of my life as a punchline or a blight. But then college did what it so often does and connected me to other weirdos who didn't remember the many years I spent insisting that I was a cat named Henry or claiming (and truly believing) that there were clumps of "alien DNA" under the skin of my forearm. 

Two magical things happened:

1. Other people embraced and celebrated my weirdness.
2. I embraced and celebrated my weirdness.

I've been living the authentic weird life ever since.

It occurs to me that, with the substitution of certain memories and words, this could double as my coming out story. The realization came to me at about the same time, and I finally embraced THE GAY in my soul right around when I embraced THE WEIRD. I guess the "licking a girl in the shower" memory could work for both stories...

ANYWAY. I'm still self-conscious and prone to shame and toxic introspection, but I'm also proud of my weird ways. Being weird helps me make people laugh, and spurs me to imagine adventures that I can share through my writing, and allows me to see the world in ways that are unique to me. 

So, you should feel free to be weird, too. Because everyone falls somewhere on that weird scale. Share the odd thoughts in your head. Wear those funky clothes. Don't be afraid of being awkward or embarrassing. I promise there are people out there who love your brand of bizarre. 

I'm one of those people.

Let's get weird.

Start weird, stay weird. Maybe even get weirder. 

Mom Friend

You know what I love? Found families. Found families are my JAM. There's something amazing about growing up and developing a new family unit with which to navigate the stormy sea of adulthood. 

Also, found family members are obligated to laugh at the dumb crap I post.

I'm lucky enough to have a great found family AND a great blood family. But today, I'm focusing on the dynamics of my found family. Sorry, blood fam. 

I read somewhere (here, actually) that millennials don't feel like adults until age 29 or later, largely because the key "grown up" milestones (like financial independence, owning a house, having kids) are less accessible in today's economy than they were in our parents' economy. I often feel like a little kid playing dress-up (in old hand-me-down clothes from my mother because I can't afford new clothes) when I'm sitting at my desk at work. Like I said in a previous post, it all feels like a desperate game of pretend. 

Which is why found families are especially important to many people in my generation. It's reassuring to have a group of people on your side to play pretend with, to fill in for the guidance and protection of the folks who raised you. 

Particularly blessed within a found family is the Mom Friend. We've all either had one or been one, regardless of generation. Typically, it's the friend who sends you those, "Did you get home safe?" texts, or excels at herding and caring for drunk friends, or dispenses warm advice (even when you don't want to hear it). 

In my various friend circles, I know of a few such pseudo-moms. And I have friends who have now become actual moms (holy wowza!). They are pillars of strength, beacons of hope, and carriers of Tylenol. These are the true Mom Friends.

And then there's me.

Usually, I'm the Whiskey Cousin of the friend group. The one that's reeeaaal heckin' strange, occasionally funny in a living cartoon character kind of way, and should not be trusted with adult responsibilities (or sharp objects). 

But found families need some kind of parental unit to maintain order, and as they say in Jurassic Park: "Life, uh, finds a way."

I have falsely ascended to Mom Friend status within my household. Like Trump in the White House, I have no business being there, I'm woefully ill-prepared, and my actions could easily lead to utter disaster.

Why did this happen?

• I'm the breadwinner of the family, kinda. I have a stable job (achieved largely through good luck, good timing, and good connections) with a predictable flow of income. I have no debts to pay (once again, through no merit of my own and purely through the generosity, forethought, and fortunate circumstances of my birth family). Because of this, it makes sense to have most of the household bills under my name. I'm in charge of a lot of the budget (and in turn, the meal plans), which grants a certain authority and responsibility to me.
• I'm neurotic. I worry about absolutely everything, and I worry about the fact that I worry about everything. So I fret over money, my friends' well-being, the diversity of food we're eating, having plenty of toilet paper on hand at all times, etc.
• I'm paranoid that things won't get done if I don't do them, whether or not that's true.
• I'm the oldest member of the household, and also the only one to be the eldest sibling.
• I compulsively give out advice, regardless of how much I actually know about a topic.
• It's my fault that we're all living together, making me the inadvertent glue of our quirky family.

I tend to be the one making decisions and delegating tasks to Kelsey and Cade. I'm usually in charge of meals, or at least am the one that is asked the mom-est of all questions: "When's dinner?" I'm the one who gets up in the middle of the night if the puppies cry (and also the one who almost always takes them out in the morning, regardless of our collective work schedules). I do most of the grocery runs, or when we all go together, I'm the one slapping Kelsey's wrist for sneaking Fruity Pebbles into the cart and getting unnecessarily flustered.

I take on a lot of Mom Friend responsibilities in keeping the house together, but I'm not a good Mom Friend. I'm the equivalent of the mom that had kids too early, is prone to emotional breakdowns, and gets wine-drunk on the back porch and tells her kids way too much about her sex life.

Fortunately, I'm not alone.

Actual footage of me, Cade, and Kelsey getting crunked in the kitchen (Source)

I may have Mom Friend tendencies, but so do Kelsey and Cade.

Cade is absurdly thoughtful and gave us Christmas gifts so perfect that Santa would feel sub-par as a gift-giver next to her. She makes tea to comfort us, offers to help in any way she can, and helps keep the house from being a cluttery disaster hole. 

Kelsey has repaired broken doors, torn porch screens, missing tiles, and more. Does that make her a Dad Friend? I mean, between that, the beer, baseball hats, and the terrible jokes... But she also introduces delicious recipes to us, decorates for the holidays, and often greets me with a bourbon cocktail when I come home from work (and if that's not right out of a 1950s Home Economics book, I don't know what is). 

We're a bunch of surrogate moms to each other, and I think that's a good way to be. We learned lessons of love from our parents, and it's nice to pass those on to each other, using our various abilities to solve the diverse challenges of growing up in the 21st century. 

Perhaps we're not top-shelf Mom Friends, but I think we make a good family. And really, everyone could stand to mother each other a little more.

The Great Grey Beast February

The sun may be shining and my wife may be wearing shorts (when isn't she?), but it's still winter in the Midwest. Clive Barker describes this ugly month as a great grey beast in The Thief of Always, and I've never heard a more apt description. 

Billie and Binx agree.

Last night, after I finished whining about a persistent, yellow-glowstar-snot cold that I've been trying haplessly to overcome, Kelsey observed that this is the time of year in which there's nothing to look forward to. The good holidays are in the rear-view mirror, our work schedules have come unsynchronized, and the cheery colors of spring look so far away.

In the past, I've had a lot of trouble with this part of winter, and I either overcompensate for my misery or let the great grey beast swallow me like it did Harvey Swick. My timehop app informs me that last year, I was in full overcompensation mode. Around this time, I published Necessaries and was taking it to workshops and a book signing and had started a GoFundMe to raise money for a booth at Pride. On top of that, Kelsey and I were planning our wedding. The future was radiant.

As for this year? There are definitely some beacons of hope on our calendar, including a much-anticipated wedding for some good friends of ours. Heck, as I've been drafting this post, I received an email notifying me that my bridesmaid (bridesmatron?) dress is ready for pick-up, and I'm pretty jazzed about that. I also have some painting commissions that will be fun to complete. Check out this one, the first I'd done in about a year:

It was a Christmas gift for the aforementioned betrothed, actually. They have such marvelous furbabies.

But the weight of the winter is still pressing down on this household. I've been more stressed and anxious than usual, fretting over bills and deadlines and a financial planning course that often makes me feel like an ignoramus. On top of that, there's the whole thing with our president ushering in the apocalypse and whatever. I worry about not doing enough, not saying enough, but when I see the horrors unfold, my heartrate spikes and I have to take a timeout to re-collar my rampant anxiety.

Historically, I've used writing to calm my nerves, and I've been doing that non-stop in any free moment since last summer, but in a very strange way. After publishing Necessaries, I got a bit anxious about the future of my writing. I have one project that I really love that isn't working the way I want it to, and another that I've thoroughly plotted but haven't made much creative headway with. I decided to set those projects gently to the side and write something completely different to get back in the groove. Something to experiment with some character-types I'll be using in another story. Something low-pressure, high-reward. Something quite ridiculous.

It was supposed to be small. It is now about the length of Necessaries. 

I accidentally wrote a free three-part novel under a pseudonym that, for reasons you'll quickly understand, can never be published. And, since it's out there, I thought I may as well share it with you, in case it helps you to withstand February as it's done for me.

But I'm neurotic and self-conscious, so if you want to know why I'm being a secretive weirdo about this side-project that has devoured my creative resources for half a year, you'll have to search for the answer yourself. I've hidden an Easter egg on my website. Well, I didn't do a great job of hiding it, but it's here somewhere. It will take you to my accidental novel.

Why did I do this? I don't know. I think I needed something that didn't have the same weight riding on it as my usual writing does (not that there's actually that much pressure there). I got addicted to getting feedback for this story, and I think that's why I've let it turn Audrey II on me. So many people are enjoying this story, and if I can bring a little sunshine to their lives during these batty times, that's worth something! 

Anyway, my real books haven't been neglected, and I'm coming up with a schedule for myself in which I can balance my various projects, hobbies, and studies. Whatever I do, I want it to make people happy, and make me happy, too.

Take that, February.

Bad at ________

Yes, that is our basement. Yes, the water is up to Kelsey's ankle.

Every so often, I write a "Bad at ______" post in which I talk about how ill-equipped I am for basic real-world struggles, because I think it's funny how bad I am at being a human. The thing is, lots of people are bad at being human, because the concept of being a good human is based on a perfect vision of humanity. A good human pays the bills on time, eats balanced meals, has healthy spending habits, doesn't cry over things like "the puppies are such good girls and are too perfect and pure for this world," etc. 

Nobody hits all the "good human" marks all the time. If you know someone who does, then they're an android, and it's your civic responsibility to turn them over to the authorities before they can achieve their sinister goals.

An English teacher I had in high school loaned me a life motto that I didn't understand at the time but have come to embrace so completely that the words have likely embedded themselves in my DNA and will be passed to my offspring whenever Kelsey and I have the money, emotional stability, and tolerance for human feces required for child-rearing. (That English teacher would NOT have approved of the previous sentence.) The motto is:

Fake it 'til you make it.

The best part about that mantra is that everybody uses it. We're all a bunch of fakers, doing some human things right ("I paid the gas bill this month despite it increasing by almost $100 from last month!") but doing other human things wrong ("I had a panic attack because an adult was mildly disappointed in me and so I made a giant plate of nachos for myself to soothe my nerves!"). Sometimes we hit somewhere right in-between ("Our basement flooded and instead of falling face-down in the water and waiting for the devil to take my soul I dealt with a plumber, didn't cry in front of him, and then drank a celebratory Manhattan instead of checking on the damage to the basement right away!"). 

We're all playing the same game. We're pretending to be grownups, and in the process, we are grownups. We'll never be the perfect human. But we'll be pretty much good humans, who pretty much go to the dentist sometimes, and pretty much know how to file our taxes. It's OK to be bad at stuff. 

This post has been brought to you by: "I need to justify why I stink at adulthood," "Please laugh at me; it's how I determine my self-worth," and Doc Hudson, the Actual Best.

Happy New Fear

Holy wow, I'm just now recovering from my wild NYE celebration! Man, you should have been there. The music was bangin', the drinks had flecks of actual gold leaf, and at midnight, Catwoman-era Halle Berry descended from the heavens and kissed me.

Just kidding. Here's a picture of what actually went down:

Not pictured: Kelsey's favorite CAH card, "tasteful sideboob"

That's not even wine in our glasses, guys. It's grape juice. Straight up "Communion at a Methodist church" grape juice.

Anyway, brushing aside that weird thing I said about Halle Berry (and how middle school me kept a novelization of the 2004 Catwoman film in my locker at all times so I could stare at Halle Berry in a catsuit on the cover between classes while fiercely repressing my homosexuality), happy 2017!

At least, I hope it's a happy 2017. Let's face it. If we ask a Magic 8 Ball if 2017 will be better than 2016, I guarantee it will answer: "OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD," followed by condescending laughter. There is a lot to be afraid of this year. Take it from a professional worrier.

But I'm still holding out hope. Out of the pessimism of 2016, many new and impassioned voices are rising. I see movements of love on my Facebook feed, and hear people asking, "What can I do to help?". In our last days before the regime- uh, I mean, before the inauguration, that kind of desire to protect and support each other is vital. 

With that in mind, I truly wish you a happy 2017. May it come with endless love, safety, and progress. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of tasteful sideboob.