My mom called me a baby the other day, and I didn’t even sass her back. Mainly, because I agree. I’m used to everyone taking care of me, and honestly I’ve grown to like it. It’s really not my fault though. If my mom would have popped me out before my sister, maybe I’d be the overbearing, frenzied one sweating through life, like a time bomb was strapped to my ass. But alas, I came out second. So really, who’s to blame?
My sister just took care of me. That’s what older sisters do, right? Well, besides beating the shit out of you every once in a while. From consoling me – with a bedtime story – about a God-awful haircut, to shaming me from wearing fishnet stockings to church, my big sister had her eye out for me. And, so that’s the role I fell into, even with my friends: the puerile one. It didn’t help that I was the youngest in my class, either.
Either way, my friends have protected and rescued me from many a dangerous situation. Really, had they not been looking out for me, I’d probably be known as Betsy’s Bitch from cell block B, or missing a precious body part or valuable organ. But, that was back then. Now, I’m a big girl, taking care of myself, all by myself. Well, I’m trying my damnedest. This adult thing is way harder than it looks. Back in my Nickelodeon days, I thought being a grown-ass woman would be as easy as Laverne and Shirley made it look. Except for the creepy guy and beer part, I was wrong.
Like a lot of people, there are times I want to wave a white flag high in the air. But, then I hear the whisper of my grandpa’s voice telling me I can do this. I know I can, Grandpa, but I don’t wanna! I want a big sister, any big sister, to swoop in and read me a bedtime story, or at the very least, do my laundry.
At work, I meet a lot of patients, tirelessly fighting for child support from deadbeat parents. And, I feel a sort of alliance. Well, in the respect that I, too, am fighting for some kind of support – for myself. Because, really, supporting oneself is totally overrated. You will not find me in the club, throwing my hands up to Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women”. Yeah, the shoes on my feet, I bought ‘em. And, the house I live in and the car I’m driving? Yup, bought those too. So, I can get down like that. Big deal.
Being financially supported is not what I’m getting at here. As mentioned, I’ve got that covered. What I’m after, rather, is a pair of crutches for my emotions because supporting yourself emotionally is utterly exhausting – and often times, humiliating. I’m not saying that I don’t have a support system; I’ve actually got some of the best in my arsenal. But, I’m not foolish enough to think I’m the only person they’re backing. And, so for the most part, I feel most comfortable relying on myself.
Like the time I graduated from my master’s program. I didn’t want to inconvenience everyone by walking at my ceremony – even I knew I was not worth a six-hour car ride back and forth to Minneapolis. So I settled for a private (using that word makes it sound elite) celebration in my sister’s backyard, with the guest of honor donning a cap and gown. I’m not made of complete humility though; I wanted to make my town aware of my accomplishment. Knowing that I was the one who waited tables in my family’s restaurant, in a black, leather halter top and the one who got pulled over for “dragging Main” with my shirt off, should make you understand why this was important to me. And so I posted an announcement in our local paper – under an assumed name, of course.
And, that time I tried to publish a book, like right now. I am totally, shamelessly, pimping myself out. I’ve written a letter to the editor of my hometown newspaper, passed out countless flyers around my neighborhood, pestered everyone on my social media pages, and contacted local news stations about my endeavor. I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Maybe after thirty-three years of making an ass of myself, I’ve come to terms with it. Anyway, since my boobs are too real (read: small and saggy) to have a reality TV show, the window of opportunity on being molested has surely passed, and I’m not in rehab, I haven’t been offered a book deal. So I’m going the route of social media publishing. This method requires me to get 1,000 people to preorder my book in 120 days (as of press time, I have 27 supporters and only 107 days left). If I succeed, I’m published (yay!) and if I fail, well, we all know what that means. I get a boob job.
You can help me by going here and preordering for just $10! If I don’t reach my goal, you don’t get charged. If I do reach my goal, you get my book and a needy child gets a book too. No worries, though, not my book. So, really, there’s no gamble. It’s a win-win situation!
FOR KREIN OUT LOUD 