by Jenny Lawson
Dust as a metaphor for life, now that I’m thinking about it, is a pretty tired cliché. Even Jesus used it in the Bible during his “Ashes to ashes” speech. Except my mom just read this over my shoulder and reminded me that Jesus didn’t actually write anything himself and that most of the Bible chapters were named for the guys who actually did all the work (probably soberly) editing and writing down all the good shit. My God, that woman knows a lot about Jesus for an atheist. Also, she pointed out a lot of grammatical errors. If this were the Bible this chapter would be called “The Book of Nelda.”
Nonetheless, there’s a reason why dust and life go together naturally. Sometimes it comes together in the most perfect way to make the very building blocks of life. Sometimes it sweeps in and makes everything seem hazy and dark. Sometimes it gets in my amaretto and then I have to pour a new glass, but mainly that’s cat fur, which is not really the same thing.
I have had a very odd and strange life, filled with more ups and downs than the average woman could shake a stick at. (Which would be weird because it’s been my personal experience that average women hardly ever shake sticks at anything. Normally it’s strange women like me shaking sticks against windmills, and cougars, and bushes that you thought were cougars because you’ve had too much amaretto.)
When I look at my life I see high-water marks of happiness and I see the lower places where I had to convince myself that suicide wasn’t an answer. And in between I see my life. I see that the sadness and tragedy in my life made the euphoria and delicious ecstasy that much more sweet. I see that stretching out my soul to feel every inch of horrific depression gave me more room to grow and enjoy the beauty of life that others might not ever appreciate. I see that there is dust in the air that will eventually settle onto the floor to be swept out the door as a nuisance, but before that, for one brilliant moment I see the dust motes catch sunlight and sparkle and dance like stardust. I see the beginning and the end of all things. I see my life. It is beautifully ugly and tarnished in just the right way. It sparkles with debris. There is wonder and joy in the simplest of things. My mother was right.
It’s all in the way you look at it.
Well at Least Your Nipples Are Covered
The Fifth Argument I Had with Victor This Week
ME: Does this outfit look okay?
VICTOR: Yeah. It looks okay.
[I huff off to change.]
VICTOR: Why are you changing? WE NEED TO GO.
ME: Because you hate my outfit so now I have to change.
VICTOR: I SAID YOU LOOKED FINE.
ME: No. You said I looked “okay,” which is pretty much the same thing as saying, “Well, at least your nipples are covered.” If you’d said I looked “fine” I’d feel better but I’d probably still change, because “fine” equals “You might as well just give up.” Which I won’t, because I care about my personal appearance.
VICTOR: That is the craziest fucking thing you have ever said.
ME: Not even remotely. If you really thought I looked okay you should have said that I look great.
VICTOR: YOU LOOK GREAT. STOP BEING MENTAL AND GET IN THE DAMN CAR.
ME: No. Not until I look okay.
VICTOR: I TOLD YOU THAT YOU LOOKED OKAY.
ME: EXACTLY. But my “okay” is not your “okay.” I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M EVEN HAVING TO EXPLAIN THIS.
VICTOR: THAT MAKES TWO OF US.
ME: Okay, let me put it in perspective. Imagine we just had sex for the first time. You ask me how it was. I say, “It was okay.”
VICTOR: Ah.
ME: Exactly.
VICTOR: Fine. You look amazing.
ME: Really? So I look okay?
VICTOR: I don’t even know what to say here. Is this a trick question?
ME: No. Just nod and say something nice about my shoes or my hair or something.
VICTOR: Fine.
ME:… Sooner rather than later would be nice.
VICTOR: I’m thinking.
ME: Wow.
VICTOR: I like your skin because it keeps your organs from falling out onto the carpet.
ME: If I had a nickel for every time a man told me that …
Winner: Victor. Because now he understands how words work.
Death by Swans Is Not as Glamorous as You’d Expect
We recently moved, continuing our pattern of buying a house, fixing it up, and then putting it up for sale about fifteen minutes before it actually feels like home. When Victor decided we should move again I told him that this house would be the last one because I wasn’t moving again unless it was in my coffin. Then he waited until I was out of town and bought an old (but very sweet) house that needed massive repairs, had lots of issues, and could probably kill us. In short, he bought the “me” of houses.
Before we moved, Hailey, Victor, and I all decided on the one thing we wanted in “the perfect house.”
Victor wanted something safer in a gated community because I had a bit of a stalker problem last year. (Please don’t stalk me. I’m very boring in real life, I assure you.) I wanted a smaller place with big trees and a nice yard. Hailey wanted a pool.
The week we moved to our new, gated community a man rammed the front gate and had a full-on shoot-out in his driveway with the local police department. Luckily for him, the police have extremely bad aim and just arrested him. The alleged gunman in question lives in our neighborhood. We have succeeded in locking the crazies in with us. Also, we got a flier from the homeowners’ association saying that a cougar had come down off the mountain nearby and eaten some lady’s dog WHILE SHE WAS WALKING IT. We were told to keep our animals indoors but I was a little concerned that would just make the cougar even hungrier. What if the dog was just the appetizer and the cougar is now hungry for people? This is all true, by the way. (Also, I just assume the sewers are filled with panthers because that’s the direction this seems to be taking.)
A few weeks later, I watched as a man ardently sprayed what I thought was ant killer all over our green lawn. Turns out he was ardently spraying plant poison. Apparently he had the wrong address and was supposed to be destroying the yard on the next street so they could put in different grass. He did an excellent job doing exactly the opposite of what we’d want. We are now dirt farmers and the harvest is plentiful.
The view from our front door. I’m sure our neighbors are very pleased that we’ve moved in.
After that debacle I decided to just take a break from all the insanity of busted pipes and roof replacements and angry mountain lions and simply relax in the pool.
Someone bring me a damn piña colada. (Courtesy of Victor Lawson)
Also, the house was old and had a lot of issues, which is how we were able to live in a fairly fancy, country-club neighborhood. But it meant a lot of contractors at our home all the time to bring the house up to code, and to pull down all the pieces of the house that apparently wanted to kill us. If you’ve ever remodeled your house, or added on, or just brought contractors in to see if your marriage can survive it, then you already know the particular hell it is. If you haven’t, let me expound …
The Subtle Changes Between Your First Thoughts and Your Final Thoughts During the Process of Redoing an Older House
Your child says she saw a kitty frolicking near the house.
A giant possum is under your crawl space.
A giant dead possum is under your crawl space.
A giant dead possum is marking the spot where the gas leak is.
The gas leak is actually spirits escaping from the Indian burial ground that was desecrated when this house was built.
The angry spirits now have your chain saws. Plus, they killed your possum.
The contractors have come to fix the angry spirit/possum problem. They estimate it will cost four dollars and take twelve to sixteen minutes to complete.
The contractors have to leave because it’s dark, and it’s taking longer than expected because they didn’t realize that “purple is a color” or some other ridicu
lous bullshit that sounds made-up but that you can’t question them about because you don’t understand enough about possums or angry spirits.
A gust of air the intensity of a newborn kitten sneezing rips down the plastic tarp the contractors affixed to the twenty-foot hole they cut into the side of your house. Also, the plastic tarp was affixed with spit and air and a shitload of hopelessness.
There are now forty-two possums living in the twenty-foot hole on the side of your house. They create a wild, all-night disco after partnering with the angry entities. They play “Call Me Maybe” and “Gangnam Style” on a loop and sell ecstasy to the neighborhood children.
The contractors say they’ll be there within the hour to fix the problems, which they’ve actually made worse. They are referring to an hour that will occur sometime in the year 2032. They send you a bill for eleventy billion dollars for the work they’ve done so far. The possums eat the bill. The contractors sue you and you lose the house. You end up living in the crawl space with the bitey possums, who are like, the worst roommates ever.
You ask the contractors to please finish the last paragraph of this post since they now own this computer and WE’LL BE BACK TO FIX THIS “TOMORROW.” HAHAHAHA. YOU OWE US ELEVENTY BILLION DOLLARS.
* * *
I am a girl who believes in signs. Not necessarily traffic signs (which I think of more as helpful but unnecessary suggestions from an overly concerned great-aunt) or signs from God (which I only got once, when God sent me a mushroom on my lawn that looked like a severed boob and my very religious grandfather assured me it was less a sign from God and more of a sign that I was watering the lawn too much). No. I’m talking about giant flashing signs from the universe that you are doing awesome, or that you are fucking it up for everyone and need to get your shit together. I received one of those glaring, blinking signs the first week we moved to our new house.
The new house seemed perfect. It was old, but the trees were beautiful, the neighborhood was tranquil, and there was a rumor that Stone Cold Steve Austin lived on the next block. (True story: A famous honky-tonk singer lives four doors down from me. Technically it’s three doors, a small mountain, a heavily guarded gate, and then another door, but still … it’s our claim to fame and we’ve seized it.)
Our former old country house had been wonderful, but after several years of rattlesnakes and scorpions and chupacabras we were ready for something a little more suburban. This gated community seemed perfect for the kind of people we were pretending to be (normal people who had their shit together). I was fairly certain I’d immediately be found out for an imposter.
The first day we moved in I still felt out of place as I walked down our road toward the picturesque little neighborhood park and tried to look as if I belonged. I sat down on the slope of a man-made stream and that’s when I saw my sign. Two beautiful, snowy-white swans turned around the bend of the pond and glided over to me, staring at me curiously. I sat perfectly still, mesmerized, as the noble birds swam together, making accidental heart shapes with their bowed necks as they crossed each other’s path. And then I sighed a sigh I didn’t even know was there, and I realized that I was going to be okay.
And then a herd of swans tried to eat me.
At this point you’re probably rereading that last line and wondering what’s wrong with me and the answer to that is that SWANS TRIED TO EAT ME. THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME. Surely, you’re probably saying to yourself, you exaggerate. Swans don’t eat people. And let me assure you that oh yes, they fucking well do.
These swans jumped out of the water, snorting and hissing and running at me like goddamn cheetahs. Cheetahs who were good at football and had been coached on how to surround their victim. I screamed and ran back toward our house, certain I could hear the deadly flip-flopping of webbed feet behind me. When I got near the house I saw Victor out front watering the lawn and I screamed, “ARE THEY BEHIND ME?” He turned and looked at me. I was certain they must still be because he looked fucking terrified, but then I looked back and there was nothing. It turns out he was terrified because his wife was running down the road screaming, “ARE THEY BEHIND ME?” like it was the beginning of the zombie apocalypse and no one had thought to tell him. I stopped to catch my breath and was about to inform him that I’d just been accosted by an angry mob of swans, but then I considered how that might sound. Also I wasn’t sure if two swans could be classified as a mob but then I decided that you should always be honest in marriage. Victor disagrees with me about this, mostly because my honesty often ends with me insisting that I’ve just been assaulted by swans. And, yes, I know that it’s not technically assault if they didn’t actually touch me or pull out a knife, but I can recognize intent and I’m fairly certain that the swans were not furiously chasing me down in order to scream “HUG ME!!!” Mostly because swans are mute. And maybe that’s why they’re so angry. Maybe it’s because they can’t scream their feelings. I don’t know the psychology of swans.
Victor insisted I had misunderstood the swans and so I looked swans up on the Internet and it was mostly pictures of their being all graceful and regal but when I looked hard enough there were plenty of websites saying “Oh, those motherfuckers will tear a bitch a down. DO NOT FUCK WITH THOSE ASSHOLES.” Seriously, they will break a man’s arm with a well-placed kick and last year they drowned a man in England. This is true and not just something I found in the National Enquirer. Swans are dangerous but are never held accountable, I suspect because of racial profiling. Also, according to the Internet if you’re attacked the best way to escape is to “grab the swan by the neck and heave it as far as you can,” which sounds like an Olympic event that PETA would be boycotting. You can also slap it across the face as hard as you can but I’m fairly certain that I’d fail at that because swan heads are notoriously tiny. It would be like playing tetherball, except that the pole would be moving and the rope would be a neck and the ball would be trying to eat you. Deadliest tetherball ever.
“Oh, holy hell … this website says I might have been impregnated,” I yelled at Victor.
“From a swan running at you?” he asked incredulously. “Do you even realize how crazy you sound right now?”
“Well, I’m problemly in shock. And possibly pregnant with waterfowl, so god knows what my hormones are doing right now. I just found a medical journal that says you need to seek ‘prophylactics’ after a swan attack. THAT’S HOW DEVIOUS SWANS ARE.”
Then Victor tried to explain that “prophylactics” means “preventative care” and doesn’t automatically equal birth control but I was too busy to listen because I may have just been forcibly impregnated by a murder of swans. Then Victor pointed out that it’s a “murder of crows” and that a group of swans is called a “lamentation” but I’m pretty sure that just proves my point because swans are mute, yet they’re named after a word that means “wailing in horrible pain”? If that’s not a sign then I don’t know what is. Victor says he agrees, but less about the fact that it’s a sign and more about the fact that I don’t know what a sign is.
Regardless, it was an issue and I couldn’t get near the swan pond without fear of being attacked by the swans, whom I had named Whitey and Klaus Bananasnatch. Whitey was the more violent of the two, but neither would ever make a move when any other human witnesses were near and at most they’d just walk at me semi-aggressively. Probably to make people doubt me so that they wouldn’t be suspects in my certain and untimely future murder.
After that day I’d drive slowly by the swan pond on the way home and the swans would glare at my car. I’d pass by (as they likely plotted ripping off my bumper or disabling my brakes), and I’d roll down the window and scream, “DON’T EVEN START WITH ME, WHITEY!” which, admittedly, is one of the worst things to scream in the middle of a posh Republican-stronghold neighborhood, but I had no real hope for ever fitting in and so I had already given up. (In fact, our new neighbor invited Victor and me to a welcome-to-the-neighborhood party, which sounded terrifying, but then she
mentioned that it would also be a Republican fund-raiser and that was a relief because then I had an excellent excuse not to go. I explained that I was the designated non-Republican in our marriage and she said it would be fine so I handed her a copy of my first book. A week later I got a very nice letter from her explaining that she’d read the book and now understood why I shouldn’t come. So basically I was uninvited in writing but in a way that we all felt good about.)
Victor blamed my “imagined” swan persecution on a manifestation of imposter syndrome, a very real problem I struggle with. Basically, it’s when you’re convinced that any success you have is due to luck and that at any moment everyone will realize that you are a tremendous loser and that you aren’t as cool as they thought you were. It’s disconcerting because most people think I’m insane at best, so I think that means that I’m convinced that I’m not even successful enough at being crazy, which is sort of the definition of being crazy. Regardless, I’m pretty sure these swans were onto me. They had identified me as an outsider, which should have endeared me to them since all swans start out as ugly ducklings, but no. These swans had obviously forgotten where they came from and they were doing their best to make sure that nobody else remembered either.
No one else ever seemed to have any problems with the swans but I’m still certain they would eat you if given the chance. Victor disagrees but I’m pretty sure that swans have probably eaten a lot of people and they’re just really good at it and that’s why no one ever suspects them. They’re like the Spanish Inquisition of flightless waterfowl. In fact, I have a hunch that most of the missing people of the world were outright eaten by swans. Victor suspects I’ve had too much to drink. It’s possible we’re both right.