Waffles Waffles All Day Long

(Note: I just had to add that my daughter saw this picture of Doris Day as a goth and said "MOMMY!" "Not Mommy." I said. "No," said she, "that's Mommy." So...yeah.)


I've always had a tendency to make a hash of mordant despair.

Other people's misery tends to trigger some latent Little Ms. Fixit in my soul. Religious upbringing? Innate Pollyanna-ness? Post-Mormon perkiness? No clue. But I'm not sure I'm capable of true darkness, past few months notwithstanding.

Even my own existential angst tends to feel more Jerry Lewis than Woody Allen.

I'm pretty sure I'd make a crappy therapist. Something about other people's misery makes me attempt to come out with something cheering, like "well, hey now, at least your OTHER leg didn't fall off!"

And...I was a lousy goth, during that (strangely prolonged) phase of my life. I had the right clothes, but couldn't carry off the right cool, slow, miserable gaze. Ditto my punkrock phase.

When I was 6, a poem I wrote made it into my elementary school newsletter:



"Becky decided to write a poem about our haunted house. We thought she did a very good job:

So...yeah. Clearly my style tends to be more zip than zap. And also? I've used elipses inappropriately from a young age...