“The intense need to get to the top and then stay on the top seems very lonely.”
Graffiti Wall in Bisbee Arizona
Blue is not blue, black is not black, yellow no longer lives strong, and Fifty Shades of Grey is a crass and poorly-written novel that somehow found its way at the tippy top of the NY Times Best Seller list. And books like The Secret, well, they have twisted our minds so perversely that now we believe that our secrets will not make us sick, instead the truths we hide away will somehow give us super powers. Shazam! Our well-crafted guise, our posturing, or our little white-rationalized lies, otherwise known as our deceptive convictions, will take us to that very special place, a place where if we click our heels together and say three times out loud, “there is no place like home, there is no place like home, there is no place like home,” or better, if we say three times out loud, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky, I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky, I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky,” our buried secrets, our self-deceptions, our bald-faced lies, small town or big world, will ensure that our kids get straight As, medal in their sport [come on, I had to list this one. I live in an Olympian-Ski town], will always be the other kids’ fault, not get us kicked out of our church, get us invited to the right party, get us invited into the best book club, damn it, and if we dream big, our giant exaggerations will get us on, say, Oprah, land us our very own Reality Television Show, or at the very least, get us on Babbles Top 100 Blog list! Hollah! People, we can win the Tour De France or be President, the President of the United States! We are not liars. We are rephrasers of the truth.
Seriously, shame on anyone who calls us out. If someone ever exposes our truth we will not stop until they disappear. When questioned about an exposed truth, we will bully, deny, scream, and kick very, very hard. We will call the truth exposer crazy, but not fat, never fat. We will tell their friends and our friends they are crazy. We will get all of our friends to call them crazy. We will shame them, make a giant pariah out them, and we will pour a little gasoline all over them. Then we will walk right up to them, look them straight in the eye, because that’s what people who tell the truth do, match lit then tossed, and watch them burn. As they burn we will scream, “See. See how they hurt me! See!” As they burn, we will stand strong, stand high and stand proclaiming our truth! We will do anything to stay on top!
Is this really our world?
When you think about it, this false life our world begs us to play in is actually propelling us back into a creepy and backward-thinking parallel universe, a heavily-draped-and-veneered-1950’s-June-Cleaver-lovely-dinner-on-the-table-at-5-he-does-not-beat-me-if-the-bruises-do-not-show-and-the-photo-I-display-online-is-really-how-I-look fantasy world where things like competitive Facebook status updates, cleverly crafted Instagram shots, and all your Twitter followers only serve to perpetuate. You want us to know that in spite of your low blood sugar (severe clinical depression or bipolar disorder), your three-week-work-related-I-will-not-be-able-to-respond-to-any-calls-texts-or-emails training sessions [nudge nudge wink wink, your secret is safe here (REHAB)], your healthy eating habits, hey, you are even a RAW Foodie (Obsessive exercise, calorie counting & starvation), your Irritable Bowl Syndrome (Cocaine or Bulimia), your super awesome wardrobe (overwhelming debt or maybe a simple shopping addiction), your happy marriage (then why do you always take separate vacations, always), your kids who never do anything wrong (because you are always too drunk to notice), well, that you are much happier, richer, more successful, Christ loves you more, your teeth are whiter, your kids are smarter, and you are just happier than the rest of us, damn it! I do not blame you. It is this crazy world we live in. You are simply attached to the Matrix via that big giant plug shoved into the back of your skull like the rest of us.
Because Oprah talked to Lance the other day, I keep asking, what happened to the Oprah of yesterday, a time where she interviewed us common folk and interviewed us common folk with reckless abandon while we shared our truths; identical twins openly and proudly sleeping with fraternal twins while one was a cross dresser, the other gay, all the while fighting over paternity? And then I ask, “what happened to yesterday altogether, a day where things did not seem so damn competitive, litigation-based or fearful; a time where people were good enough simply because they lived the truth?” Ok, maybe that was an imaginary time, because when I think about my past, I technically know that before now I was young and if you think about it, young people tend to be honest, not jaded and open. My past was not daisy-filled. I just thought it was, and I am glad I did. Then I started to grow up and quickly learned that my what-you-see-is-what-you-get perspective had no place in this world. “You are too honest and too direct,” is what I was told. “Keep your mouth shut!” I always thought it was me.
From where I sit now and it is really from where I lie, because I am tucked away here in my bed, it seems that even Oprah has been affected. James Frey may or may not have been the beginning with his Million Little Pieces SNAFU, and who cares if he lied. James is living the dream, writing bestsellers, making movies, making lots of cash, and in truth, his big lie has been a small price to pay. James Frey, Oprah and up until now, Lance Armstrong, were the types of people we have been taught we should aspire to be.
Call me crazy. Wait. You already have [wink wink], but I want to aspire to the truth. I want to be ok saying how I feel. I want my boys to feel good, even though they are not on the ski team. It is so weird because I know I have been blessed. I know I live in a lovely house, which is located in a lovely town, yet even my boys feel the tug of being less than? “Mom, why isn’t our house as big as so and so’s?” What the what? Why can’t we just be ok? Why can’t being a good cyclist be good enough…starters, just for starters?
Somehow I fear that slowly, but surely our Little-Engine-that-Could-you-can-have-it-all world with all of its lies, cruelty and competition is turning into a Post Apocalyptic Dystopian World I have read about and fear, a more, every-man-for-himself-literally-to-the-death Cormac-McCarthy’s-The-Road kind of world then a Stephanie-Meyers-(The Twilight Lady’s)-latest-incarnation-The-Host world, which really with its sparkles and paranormal teen romance wouldn’t be all bad, would it? I mean, come on, what’s a little sparkly-alien-body-possession really going to do to you…Oh wait! It already has done something to us and that is the point, isn’t it?
[Update: I originally wrote and then tried to post this entry on May 27, 2011. Thank Mercury that Raquel called me today. Thank Mary and Carrie for appreciating that which is Free to Be You and Me and its 40 years on this planet. Happy Anniversary to my very favorite Kids Album-television-special ever! If it were not for these stars aligning I would not have found this forgotten post. And really, this post is how I am feeling now and today, exactly 18 months later, I am feeling brave enough to re-write and post it!]
The word that keeps popping into my brain is override. I could be all ninth-grade-speech-contesty and start my lengthy diatribe (post) with the definition. (Yes, I was in a ninth grade speech contest and yes, I did quite well I must say with my dictionary definitions and poems I stole from the Especially for Mormons special thought book.) No and simply writing out the definition of the word override just will get in my way, an earnest poem will totally distract me. I will giggle as I think of ninth-grade-me boldly reciting the words from my ninth grade speech contest, “Stick to your task, till it sticks to you. Bend at it. Sweat at it. Smile at it too. For out of the bend, the sweat and the smile, will come life’s victories after a while.” I will totally get caught up in the Kitsch Factor, yet I will actually see that ninth-grade-me was on to something.
Rocks on Volcanic Beach, Maui, Hawaii
As I think of that earnest poem, the one I recited all those years ago, I think that maybe I had something on all those Midwestern non-Mormons, something that now I need to embrace, not delete, perhaps just reorganize. I need to fight the urge to hide the whole me and not hide, for starters, my intensely religious upbringing. Sure, my classmates were convinced and often told me that my crazy cult family could not drink Coke or dance, but because I was a Mormon, I also had my secret-poem-book weapon. In fact I had two volumes of my secret-poem-book weapon, a poem-book-weapon that carried me to the ninth grade Oratorical Speech Contest. Mormons, in all their cultish ways [wink wink] are on to something. They have cornered the market on public speaking. Steven Covey’s 7 Habits ring a bell? While all the other ninth grade orators had to go to the library (no internet back then) and read card catalogs that led them to books which led them to quotes, quips and impactful sayings, I had two action-packed and organized-by-topic volumes of thought-provoking anecdotes in my arsenal. Pow! Pow! My topic: Endurance. And in my special Mormon book were pages and pages of stories and quotes all about enduring to the end. Those Mormon books made the research easy, painless and involved no Dewey Decimal Systems. Take that Card Catalog. All I needed to do was speak, and with my Mormon training, speak I did well. That memory is something I can keep. I do not need to re-write or change.
OVERRIDE
The word looks like it is spelled incorrectly, and really it seems like it should be overwrite. I checked. It is not. It is also not two words either, over and ride; and there are two r’s, not one. Override is today’s epiphany and yes, I plan on having as many epiphanies as my soul can handle. When I heard the word override in reference to my life, instantly images and pieces of my past shot into focus, yet all in a new and restructured view. Of course, what was bouncing around in my brain is the utter realization that you really cannot delete your past. Instead, you can reshape, reform and, most importantly to me after today, you can override.
Our feet in Volcanic Sand, Maui, Hawaii, 2011
As I sat listening to the sage advice that I can override my past images shot through my head. I immediately saw myself hopping over my crappy dark memory abyss. Ok, too vague. What I saw was me hopping over a Volcano. I mean, me, leaping with long, sinewy legs over an awesome Hawaiian volcano; steam rising out next to the deep black volcanic rock with the lush green Big Island backdrop. Did you ever listen to Free to Be You and Me? I did. I loved the soundtrack and cartoon TV special and still love it today. Free To Be You And Me is [insert super awesome chorus here] Awesome!” If you are too young to know or lived on another planet in the 1970s, let me tell you. “Free to Be… You and Me, a project of the Ms. Foundation for Women, is a record album, and illustrated book first released in November 1972 featuring songs and stories sung or told by celebrities of the day.” As I heard the word override I saw me as Free to be You and Me’s character Atalanta, based on the athlete in Greek Myth. In Free to be You and Me, Atalanta wins the race and thus overrides her destiny and wins the rite to choose her husband. And seriously, without even remembering the story at that moment, that is what I saw: Atalanta, leaping, in her 1970s-sinewy-legged-animated glory, leaping over the giant Hawaiian volcano.
Volcanic Rock, Maui 2011. We still had no idea how sick Kyle was
I can override. When I get in my way, I can push easily-influenced-by-others me off to the side. I can hop over confined me and I can simply override the dark and crazy me stuck in one place. Pretty cool, that whole ability to override.
As my husband, Dave, and I walk the pathways along Park City, Utah’s Swaner Nature Preserve my thoughts are clear. My words come easily. They come in strings of vivid analogies, perfect metaphors and complete, well formed thoughts, or, at least in that moment, that is how it seems. The sun is shining, and my thoughts are pushed forward by our momentum. I feel solid. Then I declare why I will not vote for Mitt Romney.
“People should use their own experiences to decide!” I firmly state.
“Absolutely!” Dave responds.
“Believe me. I am using my own experiences and they may not make sense to anyone, yet they are what I stand on and stand for.” I laughed.
Maybe it is because, like a cheesy 1990’s Tom Cruise movie, Dave really does complete my thoughts, or maybe because I knew Dave was listening and was not feeling threatened, defensive or challenged by my words, in that moment, I knew I was safe. I was free to figure it all out and process my conclusions.
Then tonight I read Dave my post over the phone. He asked if I (really) wanted to post my thoughts here. See, I read to him while he was stuck in LA traffic and was wearing a headset while we spoke. Consequently, I knew I had his attention. (By the way, he is probably still somewhere on the 405.) I know he is concerned about pushback and pointless debate. I am grateful he is. After I heard his concern, I told him what I will now share with you.
See, along the way I decided that sometime, somewhere I need to stop having one foot in and one foot out, get off that fence, and stand on my own two feet. My two feet may be shaky and poorly worded, but they are the two I will try to stand on. It has not been an easy thing for me to do and here is where I start. You may not like what I have to say. You may want to pray for me or even try to save me. All your prayers are welcome, by the way. My thoughts are real and believe me I am not trying to convince you how to think or even how to vote. I want everyone to think about the why. Why are you voting the way you do?
Be informed.
As we walked and worked through our words it was increasingly apparent that my experience with the LDS church is central to why I am voting the way I am. Why wouldn’t it be? As hard as I try to be just Beth, the fact that I was raised in the Mormon church is and will always be a part of me, how I am perceived and how I am treated. It is no picnic living in a community where the non-Mormons only invite you to daytime (non-drinking) activities, or simply exclude you or are afraid of you because they hear your name and the word, Mormon in the same sentence.
Worse for me are the Mormons. It is worse because I know what they have been taught. And really, I am talking specifically about the Mormons who keep you at arms length. The ones who only talk to when they are assigned to, or show up at your door with a chicken concoction when someone close to you is in the hospital or has died. These Mormons do not let their kids play with yours, yet when you see them, they hug you and tell everyone what good friends your kids are such good friends. Confusing at best. I am guessing we experience the local-Park-City-Mormon “Pariah” treatment because Dave and I do not go to church. Nothing is worse to a Mormon than a lapsed Mormon. At least non-Mormons have hope. They still can be converted. Thank God for the Mormons I know who seem to know I am not evil. They still accept me even though I do not drink the Mormon beverage of choice: Diet Coke and not the cafeine-free variety [wink wink].
It is hard because people are fluid in their choices while in the moment seeming very black and white. When someone criticizes me for not wearing my Mormon Temple Garments, I feel like I am bad. Years later, when that very same black and white soul no longer believes, I equally feel less than when they accuse me of believing in an invisible God. Why would I vote for someone who is proven to be so black and white in his words, yet seemingly so fluid in his plan. It makes no sense. I have researched and tried to figure our what Mitt’s plan is. I do not understand why he cannot share his taxes and I think it is lame that he can write off his tithing donations or charitable contributions into a tax shelter, but my friends who seek help from their local church leaders are treated like they are less worthy because they are asking for help. Google it. My experience with people who make bold, black and white statements is that they will always change. Extremes are just too hard to maintain. This minute they firmly believe A, the next they say that A is dumb and you are dumb for believing A. Makes no sense. Do I?
For some strange reason Dave and I have always remained firmly planted in the grey. We tend to see-both-sides and I am grateful for this perspective. When friends on all sides of the line openly share their opinions, I want to hear what they have to say, and consider their words. I can be swayed, that is, until someone shoves their words down my throat and has no interest in my response. Why would I want a president who not only sees people on welfare as lazy and worthless, but sees people raised in his own faith as not as worthy, because they are not as wealthy or do not go to church? I want a president who values me as much as he values my friends on welfare and as much as he values someone who does not believe in God. I want to know that there is a place for me, and what I have to say. I am not sure Barak Obama is that person, but for me, at least he was not raised in a Mormon Patriarchal society.
We kept walking and really my thoughts were emotionally driven, I know. I am going on character and not policy yet character is how I vote, at least right now. “Dave, I like talking politics with you. We never fight. We discuss and we work through our issues, and even when we don’t completely agree, we are cool. It is safe. You do not shove your ideology down my throat and you trust me to make the best decision for me. ”
Ok. Sure. We are married. Dave knows me and knows how I think. It was completely refreshing that he did not criticize me when I said, “birth does not begin with conception.”
He knows me. He knows my story. He has bothered to ask what I think and because of these things, he showed compassion, “If birth began at conception then I guess you would be going to Hell after all of your many miscarriages.” He said.
Thank you Dave and then he continued, “Actually, the Mormon Church holds the same view that birth begins when you are born.” Sure, sure, I know this statement could be argued and some would say life begins in the pre-mortal world before you were born. And I am not here to talk Mormon doctrine. I am not the best on the subject anyway. I am here to share what events have shaped my opinion and consequently my vote.
We were rounding the bend and I continued, “For me, I was raised in the Mormon church. I have been raised in a culture where for example women are taught to submit to their husband:
“A married woman’s place is in the home, where she sustains and supports her husband…”
~Bruce R. McConkie, Our Sisters from the Beginning, Ensign, Jan 1979
I do not know if I want a president who thinks he knows more than I do, because of the simple fact that I am a lady.”
And then there is the whole the-richer-you-are-the-closer-you-are-to-God philosophy. Living here in Park City, UT with all of these very rich, well-educated Mormons, I feel like we are culturally in the epicenter of this particular bias. Dave, you grew up in the Potomac, MD area, where this same culture persists.”
“Yes and that is why my ward boundary was so long and narrow. The LDS church tried for many years to impose socioeconomic diversity. They eventually gave up.” Dave responded.
“Remember during the 2008 campaign? Barak Obama came to Park City for a big fundraiser. Do you still have that picture?” I asked.
“I might.”
“Barak Obama stopped on the side of the road and held an impromptu rally. I thought it was so cool that you and the boys happened to be there. We all felt so hopeful. I can’t tell you how I think the Republicans would spin things now if McCain had won. I bet they would say something about how he was fixing the debt even if our world was exactly the same. I can’t stomach it.”
“I think McCain would have done a fine job, perhaps even better. He would not have had all the Republicans pushing back and making things so hard. He probably would have gotten more done.” Dave continued.
“I agree.”
“Around the same time Obama came to Park City I saw Mitt Romney at church. I was still trying to go to church and be a part of the community. He was in the back playing with one of his grandchildren. I remember all of the church dudes walking up and high-fiving him like he was one of their frat brothers. I knew I could not go up and say hello. He was two feet away and I still felt less than. What is that?” I shared and then continued, “I could see he was a good man. I could see him hanging out in the back, a place I liked to wander when I was bored. He seemed like we could have something in common, but we didn’t. I know those people. I grew up with these people. It is the Mormon Aristocracy, an extension of our US Aristocracy. Don’t fool yourself into thinking a rags-to-riches-living-the-American-dream experience exists anymore. Even Al Gore has a strong pedigree. Mitt Romney’s dad was a politician. He was born into wealth. He was not called of God. He was born into good and fortunate circumstances.” I was on one.
And then Dave said, “It’s like Marianne. She is a single mom. She married a man from Africa. How different would her children’s lives be if they had a solid foundation, upbringing and educational opportunities like Obama had? Even his being black helped.”
“Just like Mitt’s being rich?” I cheekily shot back. “What would you call white-rich-affirmative action? Obama is not aristocracy, but he had opportunity and I see him more like me than I do Mitt. Mitt Romney and this crazy upper class makes me lose faith in our world and really in the American Dream.”
I have always been able to talk politics with Dave. Even when my ideologies seem aligned with others, I still find it hard to say. People are strong, their words on politics and religion even stronger. Long ago I realized that my words will not change anyone. I have always wondered why people come on strong, mean, and never appear willing to listen.
Standing at the brand new park near our home, the evening was the kind of Autumn chilly I love. It was just cold enough for me to zip my hoody all the way and wear a favorite hat (kind of an aqua blue with a grey pom-pom on top). I promised Eli we could go to the park if he finished his homework. Dave was leaving for San Francisco the next day and had a million things to do beforehand.
It was already dark when Eli finished his homework and I heard him from the other room exclaim, “Dad, I am finished. Let’s go!”
“Eli, I’ll throw the football outside with you for a few minutes.” In my mind I wanted to hit pause putting both Dave and Eli in suspended-animation. During this time-stopped moment, I would run over and fill Dave in about the promise I had made. Oh life, where is your pause button when I need it?
Instead and because I felt Eli’s temperature rising, before a complete melt down ensured, I said, “Hey guys, let’s go. Dave you can stay home if you want, but I promised.”
“Beth, it is so dark and I have a lot to do.” Dave replied.
“You can stay home, but I want to follow through.” I said as I rushed the boys first to put on their pajamas (track shorts and an old t-shirt) and then out the door. “Don’t forget your sweatshirts. It is cold.” The boys, indulging me, assured they had them and also assured, “Mom, really? It is not cold.”
Once at the park, I left the boys and Dave (yes, and yay! he came) to play Frisbee (with their brand new Frisbee) in the brand new soccer/lacrosse field while I started to walk the long circle that outlined the field. I had no idea how they could see the Frisbee clearly enough to not get smacked in the face. On my second lap, Dave joined me. We could hear the boys screaming in the darkness and knew they had made it over to the playground. “Mom, can you see us swinging? It’s crazy! If we jump off we fly right into this big pole.” Sure enough, Dave and I made our way through wood chips and playground equipment to see the boys swinging hard. “Mom, look. See the pole?” Kyle said as he swung higher and higher. “Mom, you have to watch this. Watch.” All of a sudden Kyle was airborne and flew right into the pole thankfully with his hands outstretched. The pole was indeed large and also unprotected. The park is new and knowing this Dave and I both uttered, “Poor planning. They are going to have to do something about that.” And then I continued as I often do, “As soon as some kid gets brain damage, you know they will.”
The boys were having a blast so Dave and I continued our chilly, dark evening walk-talk. It has been a hard few days. Between Dave’s frequent business trips, the new and long daily school commute, PMS, a combo sinus infection/double ear infection, I have been off. I mean, crazy off. I sound whiny. I know. Usually I can swim away all of life’s sharks and rise above my own insecurities. I just wasn’t cutting it and felt like I was starting to sink. I don’t know if it was the PMS or the nasty cold, but something definitely shoved me off center. Petty issues were turning into giant monsters and as soon as I would pick myself up or take a deep breath, something small would grab my ankle and knock me over again. And because I was feeling discouraged from feeling knocked down, even smaller things were grabbing my attention. Dave and I walked and talked. I whined. I finally said, “Why does everyone have to be so dumb? Why are some of the most annoying, cruel and undeserving people the most successful? Why do people who work hard and long get screwed? Why do people our age still care about being cool or popular? Blah blah blah I am feeling sorry for myself!”
Dave responded with some harsh words or really what I felt like were harsh words, and I felt worse.
As I walked and fumed I thought to myself, “I know Dave doesn’t mean it. He has my back. I know he does.” Then I thought about what he told me the other day when something else was bugging me, “Even if you do not care to be a part of the group, no one likes to be actively excluded.” I know Dave gets my pain. I knew he understood I was feeling blue. Why the harsh words? In that second I got it. I re-grouped and realized he was just trying to help me SNAP OUT OF IT!
“Hey Dave, I am sorry. I don’t think I am expressing myself well. I feel bad because in this moment I feel alone. I think some people are really lame and I do not understand why things happen they way they do.”
It really didn’t matter what I was complaining about because I was. Dave got it and after I told him I didn’t think I was expressing myself well, then backed up and slowed down, he began sharing how he understands. He explained the pitfalls, ups and unfair aspects of his chosen path. “It doesn’t make sense.” He responded.
It does to me. It is about empathy.
Struggling to climb up for air, all I needed was some genuine I-know-how-you-feel feelings. It is much easier to swim past the sharks when someone is there holding your hand. It is even easier when you are in a life boat together and that they totally get why you need to stay afloat.
Our conversation continued, we were in the car, had found the lost soccer ball (twice), the new Frisbee made it too (thankfully) and were on our way home. Dave cracked me up because when I told him how much it meant that he empathized he informed me that he felt his advice was useless and that his words had merely been selfish: “All I did is tell you the bad things that happened to me.” And then Eli jumped in, “Empathy? Empathy? What does that even mean?” I am not sure he really cared as much as he wanted to be a part so we told him, “It is kind of like sympathy, except you have experience that same or similar things yourself.” “Oh.” He responded.
We were home walking our trash cans to the curb. I brought up our conversation.
“Dave. I am so glad you said what you said. I loved it. You told me things that reminded me that you get it and that I am not alone. You see, my friend, it is much easier floating on a raft with you than all alone. At least when you die, I have you there to eat you so I will not starve.” I shared.
And then Dave added, “Really you need to eat me before I die when I am nice and healthy. If you don’t the meat will go bad and you will starve too.”
Monetizing blogs, especially female-centric blogs, has been a long-discussed, ever-evolving, passionate, competitive and aggressive debate.
[insert a slight cough followed by a crackly old lady voice here]
Long ago and right in front of our computer screens the World Wide Web was new and possibilities were indeed endless. Online opportunities were uncertain, exciting and hard to explain. Short domain names were aplenty. You, a mere human, could actually register for your own URL, and Alta Vista was the browser of choice. Some girl named Jenni was making money with her 24-7 webcam bedroom coverage, AOL was poised to buy Time Warner and third party domain registrations were demanding top dollar. (*True Story: I worked for a guy whose business partner had registered the domain name Windows95.com. The Windows95.com-domain-registering dude then sold the domain name to Microsoft for several million dollars. After that, the guy I worked for, feeling slighted by his business partner and rightly so, went a little crazy and spent countless hours registering every single domain name he could think in hopes of striking it big as well. He never did.) It was around this same time that Dave and his friend, Kevin, thought they should sell products online so they started the online mountain bike shop, Aardvark Cycles (using an “aa” name was intentional so they could come up first on a web browser). They were seen as forerunners and not long after they started their company they sold it to a local business. Those were the days.
Aardvark Cycles 1996. One of the first online Market Places.Dave & Kevin 2012. They survived an online business & are still great friends after all these years.
It was a also time when the dot.com was booming and Dave and I somehow managed to hitch our wagon and join that crazy awesome ride (a few times). We thought the only way to cash out was to make it big. Most regular folks were afraid to purchase items online. “How can the internet be safe? They will steal your credit card information,” is what I often heard. The strange hybrid word, eCommerce, only made things worse yet cash-heavy Venture Capitalists were throwing money at cocktail napkin ideas. I was blogging daily yet my real job was trying to get a local company to believe in something called the internet. I was hired as their online marketing manager and my battle was uphill and then up some more. Their main product was a day planner and they would always look at me quizzically when I mentioned the internet and say (they really did), “why would anyone want to use their calendar online?”
And when I mentioned to friends and family that I had a blog on the side to make it easy for everyone to be a part (davybeth.com circa 1998), many of my friends looked at me with glassy-eyed confusion or asserted that I was cheap (because I wouldn’t pay to print my wedding plans).
I persevered, and according to 2012’s web sponsorship rate cards, by 2004 my website traffic would be worthy of some pretty good swag accompanied with a nice load of cash. Those were the days. For years I was often dismissed and received many an eye roll when I mentioned that I had a blog. “What? Why? How?” were the questions I was often asked. I was grateful to connect with friends who understood and was even more delighted to discover that some of these same friends had their own blogs.
CrazyUS.com Header Fall 2005
And by 2004 I fully realized knew that I was no longer alone in my blogging pursuits. Many folks were blogging after 9-11 and the phrase, “moms who blogged” was working its way into popular dialog. It didn’t hurt that there were a couple of ballsy women out there (not even moms) who were making news because of what they were saying online. Now questions were being asked. People were getting comfortable shopping at gap.com. (You could NOT buy maternity clothes in-store at the time), and things were moving forward. Internet land grabs were a thing of the past. The dot.com had gone dot bust, layoffs were aplenty and people needed to find ways to support themselves.
Women are resourceful creatures and were figuring out how to make a place for themselves online. The internet was expanding in quadruple dog years, yet judgment was in the land, and those women, the women who were accepting money for their “online diaries,” were being accused of terrible, terrible things. These so-called money seekers were the sellouts (demon spawn — no, not really) who were bartering with their souls, or at least that was the word on the street. I remember the talk, “Well, if she is placing ads on her website, how can we really trust that she is writing for us or simply writing for the money?” That question was asked, discussed and debated yet those internet “money making” pioneers pushed forward. The year was 2005. It’s kind of funny if you think about it now. It was somehow ok for this dude from Utah to get a few million dollars for a domain name that probably took him twenty seconds to register, but it was not ok for women to support themselves? I don’t get it. I never really have.
CrazyUS.com header 2010
As I recall the website advertising at the time consisted mainly of a top bar ad and maybe a few side bar ads. That’s it. Sponsorships, if there were any, were few and far between. It seemed more about getting a book deal. The closest I personally came to a sponsorship was writing a guest post for an online furniture store. What I did I get in return? A 35% discount for their high priced furniture; a discount I never used. I did not have to sell their product per se, I just needed to promote the idea of design on their website, not mine. I liked that there was no big push for me to direct people to their website or to encourage them directly to buy their product. It didn’t seem soulless. I felt like I was networking and building relationships with other types of blogs. The end.
At the time, I did not find it at all odd that bloggers were hoping to get paid for the words they were writing. If they had the traffic, why shouldn’t they get paid? I agreed and I saw these blogs as online magazines of sorts. I supported the argument that newspapers and magazines need advertisers to exist, why shouldn’t well read blogs be supported too? I was excited when I watched friends receive their first checks and didn’t mind when I was asked by my blogging friends to teach them about advertising and them set them up with our advertisers. It was easy for me. See, and like I mentioned above, Dave and I have worked in the internet really since the time you could work in the internet. In 1997 we started a website called, OSNews.com and since about 1998 we have been paid by advertisers month after month. Maybe it was because we were financially ok at the time, regardless, I never felt compelled to hustle up my own advertising. May I point out that I was awkward and comfortable being the wife of the super-hero-impressive-young-entrepreneur-hotshot in the family. I was also slightly insecure about my blog and when I heard of my other friends’ successes, I never wanted to step on their toes or take away from their opportunity. True story and if you don’t believe me, please read my last post on boundaries.
CrazyUS.com Header Winter 2006
2006 came and my personal life made it hard for me to blog. I stepped away for a long while and eventually came back and was trying to blog again fulltime by 2011. And people, I will tell you what. I came back to a beast. No. I came back to a crazy new internet multi-faceted Monster. Women who had work offline nine – five jobs were now running the internet. These were business women who know who to come in, take over, bulldoze and make relationships. The simple ads of 2005 were long gone and all I heard about is, well, all I heard was a lot of stuff. When I came back I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I tried to network and I totally reached out. I am still grateful for those who reached back with their easy going acceptance. In attempts to let people know I was back, I also emailed the folks who had emailed me. That is what you do, right? Let me be more specific. When I really came back to blogging I sent out one announcement email that I copied and pasted to several hundred former readers and only those who had contacte me to let them know I was back. I assumed they would be grateful and I would say most were. I was also surprised at how some used my email and what they made it out to be. I should have been wiser. (No. I shouldn’t have been. I assume the best in others and if that is not the case then whatever…) I had been away long and while I was away, I did not read blogs. I needed to turtle and get my life on track. Instead daily, I read CNN.com, the NYtimes.com, People.com and played Peggle. Ask Dave.
Back on the web and totally overwhelmed I sought I did what my experience told me to do and I sought out professional advise from others who have made a business out of their online presence, (and received some unsolicited advise as well). I was curious and wanted to know what I needed to do so I could be current. After asking, here are some of the things I was admonished to do: I needed to hustle, go to blog conferences, social media meetings, seminars, read books and to not even think about talking to advertisers until I paid someone to redesign my out-of-date website. I needed to Tweet all day every day, but I needed to be careful not to post links to my blog. “People don’t like that.” I also need to follow people on Twitter, but not so many that I look like a “stalker.” (I totally suck at Twitter, by the way). I needed a Facebook fan page. I needed a lot of people to “like” my Facebook Page. If people didn’t like my Facebook fan page then having a fan page would mean nothing. I needed to Pinterest. I needed Instagram. I need to spend my day reading and commenting on other blogs. I needed to write just the right thing or I would completely lose my audience. I was told that I shouldn’t even think about money if I didn’t have at least 500 daily readers, and really with five hundred readers a day all I could receive was a gift for being part of a campaign. I heard the words authenticity, sell out and sentiments like, “no one blogs anymore so [insert New Jersey accent here] forget about it.” My expectations were low and I was grateful that people like Tammy, Quel, Andrea, Summer, Nino, Sara and Michelle found me or found me again.
Dave is on the left sitting next to me and lovely Raquel. June, 2012. courtesy of grittypretty.comLovely Tammy in the far right. Me & my boobs the far left. Courtesy of grittypretty.com
What I didn’t bargain for was the extreme change in landscape. I should know better. Even back in the day I didn’t have the hustle and now I found myself sitting at a random lunch watching a really cool business relationship being stolen right out in front of me. Crazy crackers. Out of complete respect for those I knew before, I did listen, try, and then I realized that something somewhere was being lost in the translation. Somehow I was still thinking it was 2006 and when I mentioned advertising or tried to understand Sponsorship, I thought it meant a banner ad or a guest post. I stopped reaching out. I was not making sense and beginning to feel really insecure. Thank God for my gallbladder. What an awesome and complete distraction. I could only deal with my non eating, sick insides and my family. And as soon as my gallbladder felt a little better, I accidentally got pregnant. Yay? Then I stepped back again (because I am such a slow learner) and thought about all of it. During morning sickness and shock, I took time to process, to see and to remind myself what my purpose is online, not your purpose, mine.
I, Beth Adams, have written since I could write. I have boxes full of hand written journals and diaries. The classes I focused on in high school and college were writing classes. Writing has those subjective aspects. Some folks will love you. Some will hate you. Before I publish my post, every post since the beginning of my blogging has always been well edited (by my super-hero-grammarian-editing-aficionado, Dave).
CrazyUS.com Header Summer 2005
That was my goal: well-articulated and well edited posts and sometimes it all came together like a song.
Now that my boys are older and another child does not seem to be in my cards, I would love to make money doing the thing I love to do. I really would. When I add up the numbers, however, I see that I could probably make more money working at the Gap and no, they did not pay me to say this. The market is tight. People are aggressive, fierce and many seem to be sponsored for everything. I know and totally understand how cool it is to get free Playstations and vacations. I know that getting a sponsorship has a certain prestige and I even get the woman who offered that I should buy my own stuff and give it away on my website. “It’s the only way you are going to get people to come back.” Hey and seriously with all the travel we do, if I every get a travel sponsor, I will happily accept and I will also let you know.
Coming from someone who has received advertising for a technology website month after month since 1998, I do not know if I buy it. If the only reason you click on my website is so you can win something, if the only thing I can write about is Cheerios or Smart Water, then what is the point? I started blogging to plan my wedding. I continued because I was traveling the United States with my young and small family. I was able to blog day after for two simple reasons. I am a stay-at-home mom and I love to write. I love to tell my story and I love that people actually seem interested in what I have to say. Maybe I am lazy or maybe I just feel like my writing will become way to filtered pursuing an extra freebie or $50. here or there. I really respect that people have to do what they have to do to make a living or be number one or do whatever fills their world. For me, it’s writing. It’s the process of working through an issue via my written word. I love that people have been there for both of my really heartbreaking miscarriages. I am blessed that other Stevens-Johnsons Syndrome sufferers found us because I wrote about Kyle. I love that people walk up to me and say, “is it weird that I know more about you than you know about me?” The answer, “No, it is not weird. I like it.” I am grateful for all of those who have hustled and blazed a trail for all the others to move ahead. Instead of knocking each other down, I love the idea of owning our spot and respecting each other for who we are. Isn’t it cool that women have been so successful on the World Wide Web?
CrazyUs.com Header Summer 2006
Here is where it is at: I have been on the internet in one form or another for a very long time. I am an outlier. I always have been. I want to be myself and not the person I have been told I should be. My website is what it is. I will redesign it when I can or when I figure it out. Dave even sent me an offer to get a really cool Word Press template this morning. I am always happy to link to anyone yet I need help setting up a proper links page. I know. I am so 2005. Do people even link anymore? I will not have advertising on my website because I am not good at the hustle or better, because I do not want to clutter my words. Sponsorships seem super cool awesometastic (Kyle’s word), but I feel like the market is super saturated and to get a sponsorship of my own may not be worth the price I will have to pay.
9.2011. Me standing in downtown Geneva, Switzerland & yes, I was happy!
If, by some small miracle and because of this blog, I ever get a job offer or a book deal (who doesn’t want a book deal?) or get off my lazy butt and self-publish (thank you Gayla!), I will jump up and down with glee and then I will let you know. Until then, thank you so much for reading, commenting and for standing by my side.
Disclaimer/Just-in-case: If you did not pick up on this earlier, please know this post comes from a happy place, not a sad, feeling stiffed or feeling-left-out place. I am big gril who feels blessed and grateful. I am more of an if-I-can’t-join-them-because-I-am-a-little-weird-and-perhaps-a-little-oppositional-I-will-appreciate-all-of-us-and-will-find-another-way sort of gal.
P.S. If you ever read about how much I love every little morsel of my Kellogg’s Cocoa Krispies or how I could live at the Hilton Los Cabos forever or my great respect for OPI Nail polish’s tried and true color,Lincoln-Park-After-Dark, please know that I am not being paid to market or advertise a product here. I am sharing because I want to. If I ever get paid for anything on this website, as I promised, I will let you know!
xxoo
Me dying of heat at Joshua Tree National Park, June, 2012
I have no idea where the phrase, “keep someone at arm’s length,” comes from and believe me I looked it up. I do think that whoever thought it up was on to something. Boundaries, I never had them and I still have to remind myself to keep them.
As far as relationships go, I was taught at home and at church to love everyone unconditionally and that if I could unconditionally love that I was a really good person. Being good was very, very important to me. I always thought the phrases like, “as I have loved you, love one another,” confirmed that I should open my arms fully, no matter what. The more damaged the other person appeared the more I opened my arms and tried desperately to fill holes that I had no place trying to fill. I was not only fiercely determined to love them, I was determined to get others to love them too. Hey Jesus hung out with the prostitutes and street people, not the Pharisees and Sadducees, right?
I was loving and loving hard while never really thinking about the fact that if there is a God and if he does have a son, that their words are chock full of boundaries, conditions, limits and exclusions. It did not compute. I always heard the love everyone part and somehow missed the whole conditional part (hence my conflict with religion in general, a discussion for another day, if you want to hear it). May I just mention that I also realize even bringing up religion here puts me in troublesome territory. We could totally dissect the appropriateness or inappropriateness of religious boundaries and rules, but again, that is not where I am heading with this, at least not today. Let me say, I sincerely do not care what you do or do not believe in. I was also raised in a religious household and no matter how I feel today those experiences will always be a part of who I am.
Yellowstone Warning Sign
Back on track, and may I also say, my brain was not registering the fact that there are better, more constructive and healthier ways to love. In fairness to this story and at a very young age, I must admit that I finally did keep a boundary. After our neighbors watched, did nothing and let their giant sheepdog eat through my rubber boot, even when I was asked to play with them, I somehow always managed to say, “no.”
Except for my neighbors and their big dog, I took the suggestion to love everyone to literally mean that I had to give of myself fully no matter what, even if the other person was not doing the same. It took me a very long time to digest that my inability to keep boundaries was actually making me a lousy friend, daughter and sister.
Oddly enough I think part of the problem is that I am a visual learner. I could not see boundaries. I just heard what I was supposed to do and then inaccurately interpreted those words. It was not until much later in life, when I was deep in the pit of my own despair, that a dear woman offered a suggestion. Hearing my pain, she, not knowing the full extent of my crappy boundary keeping, insightfully painted a picture. She said, “Beth. Shut your eyes. Notice the red flags. When you do, see yourself on one side of a door and the red flag on the other. I hope you see a really heavy, strong door. Now, shut that door. If the red flag is pushing through or even knocking, then lock, dead bolt and barricade that door. Do what you need to do to keep that that red flag on the other side.” Then she continued with something that caught me completely off guard. “Now that the door is shut. I want you to pray for that person, bad thought or thing that is bringing you down.”
“What?” I thought.
She ignored my oppositional look and continued, “If you don’t pray, chant. I do not care if you are religious or not. Pray. Keep praying until the negative energy is gone. Pray for healing. Pray for the highest and best for all involved. Pray until the negative energy is gone. Stop giving others so much power over you.”
“What?”
Quickly, and maybe because she said it so directly, I realized that it was not the other person who was bringing me down. I was (and am) my own problem. It does not matter if the other person is crazy, terrible, mean or ugly. I get to choose. I get to choose how involved I want to be. Genius! I get to choose how sad or mad or crazy I want to be. If I do not want to answer the phone, I do not have to! Crazy, and I was getting it. I was getting that it was not about love or God or doing the right thing. It was simple. I get to choose and so do you. If you want to act crazy, I cannot fix you. If I bug you, then choose to forgive me or you don’t. It is not my problem. I am kind and I am good. I think 99.9% of us are.
I was seeing so clearly that I had been consumed with hurtful words and unkind actions. Oddly, I was not even mad at the other people. (Remember, I was taught to love?) I was just consumed with making it right. I wanted my family right. I wanted my friendships right. I even wanted my crazy neighbor who put up crazy signs threatening us not to disturb her cats to be right. Crazy!
What seeing all of these visual boundaries helped me understand is that all of these issues were completely out of my control. If I do not like how someone acts, I cannot change them. I can choose to get along or I can choose to leave. Likewise, if someone wants to stay mad at me, there is nothing I can do to make it right. Sure. Ok. Yes, I can apologize and yes, I can try and make amends. After that, if they won’t accept or forgive, I CANNOT FIX THEM! When they tell me my apology does not meet their standards, well, that’s their problem. Believe me I have spent a lifetime thinking I had the power to make things right. I somehow believed if I tried hard enough, you would feel better. You would be ok.
Buffalo Warning Sign Yellowstone
This has not been an easy pattern to break. In the past six years, I have visually shut so many damn doors and have sent millions of healing prayers out into the universes. And what I finally get is that I was healing myself. I have no power over you. My love was this belief that I could make you right. I was wrong and I am very sorry. It was never about you, (and if you think I am talking about you, I probably am. Get in line. There are a lot of YOUs.) And ironically it was always about love. I have spent this time shutting doors, learning to say, “no,” accepting that you are you and I can like it or not like it. Through it all I totally and completely like you all more than I did before. I like you without “my loving” strings. I have learned that I am ok being who I am. It has been tough to stand on these two feet and own it,
Yet totally and completely worth it!
Probably the greatest gift I can pass on to Kyle and Eli is that I have learned to like me and mostly, I have learned to start loving myself, the person I should have been loving all along.
