About a boy. And a word.

I've never met Max, but I feel like I know him. I know him through Ellen's blog and I know him through our conversations. I know him when I look at his pictures. I see his intelligence, his humor, his spirit. I see potential.

There are people who would call this boy "retarded." I would not care to know them.

I knew a man, now gone--my cousin who suffered from a severe form of neurofibromatosis. He became increasingly disabled throughout his life, which endured long, long past the time predicted for him--a testament to his mother's constant care, and his own spirit. I knew this man, who never complained, who was always happy to see his family, when he was enduring what must have been constant pain and discomfort. He was still the light of his mother's life, even when he was in sixties and she over 90, and I saw that light leave her eyes the day he died. It never came back.

Would you have made a "retard" joke around this woman?

The word "retarded" was used when our grasp of what intelligence even meant was incredibly primitive. We still understand so little about the brain. We're beginning to see how people labeled "slow" often have potential locked inside. Research is showing that there are innumerable ways of being intelligent. That the brain is ever-changing, not static. Labels have become meaningless. The word "retarded" is archaic and of no use, medically.

As slang, it is simply hurtful. By labeling someone or something "retarded" you are using a word that has caused people with disabilities and the countless people who love them pain. You are putting down people who deserve our respect. You are perpetrating the belief that some people are less human, are objects, can be laughed at.

Please watch this. And thank you, Ellen, for making this video.

Happy camper

All right! HOOOOO! Let's go! You are all my audience and I am running through the aisles high-fiving each of you! Oh my god you love this!

I returned from Camp Mighty on Monday morning, and first of all, I have in the past told everyone I know, "please remind me never to take a red-eye flight again," and then I book another one, and everyone I know says "but you said you should never take a--" and I bellow "YOU CAN'T ORDER ME AROUND MOM," and then I take it, and then I am a wreck for the remainder of the week. I don't know if it's because I am an especially delicate flower, or I'm just old. I'm sure it's both. I am an old and delicate flower. I'm like Jessica Tandy, not even if she were alive. I am the dusty corpse of Jessica Tandy. (Aw. Jessica Tandy.)

Not to mention, I had two--TWO!--readings this week, both of which were a tremendous amount of fun, but this is all too much excitement for an aging-with-age eccentric like myself.

I'm fatigued and depleted! Where is my vitality-tonic! I require liniments!

Camp Mighty was--and this was no surprise to me--amazing. Like I said before, Maggie and Laura, they are superstars. Superstars with beautiful hair and amazing hearts. I would follow them wherever they might suggest we go. Would you like me to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, Maggie? Say no more. Tether my ankle and let's do this.

There was so much fun that was had and so many friendships that were formed, but what I want to talk about is the life list. Oh, the LIFE LIST. Like some of my more skeptical camp-attending friends, I was deeply unsure about the benefits of a creating such a list. For one thing, everyone knows that when you create something called a "life list," you are reminding the Universe that you're mortal and the Universe then casts its cold infinite gaze upon you and goes "Oh, right, duh," WOMP. ("Womp" is the sound of the Universe placing events in motion that will cause you to get hit on the head with a brick while you're heading to the end of your block to purchase a Snapple.) This is common sense. Or science. It's common science.

But also, creating a life list means sharing your goofball dreams and grandiose aspirations with OTHER PEOPLE and OTHER PEOPLE will probably roll their eyes or explain why it can't be done, and in these ways they will crush your tender inside parts. This is neither common sense nor science, but in fact is my deepest held belief which might be why I should go back to therapy a lot?

I read somewhere, though, that in order to have extraordinary experiences, you have to be okay with discomfort. This has been true for me with just about everything else. I get on planes and stand in front of audiences and those things make me shaky and weak, but they're so worth it. (Of course then I need to spend a week lying down on my couch with my dog curled up next to me and multiple cups of tea, but I digress.)

I was surprised at how much discomfort I felt writing my list, honestly. But that discomfort was valuable information. I also saw how hard I am on myself, how so many items were "finally stop sucking at X" or "get over this ridiculous fear, you ninny."  I had to sit and concentrate on being nicer to me before my brain would give me access to some of the more fun items on the list, or the ones that the critical parts of me would dismiss or criticize. What was that I was saying about other people? Oh, right, that's not other people. That's me. Therapy: no longer needed!

So writing it was valuable, but sharing it with strangers or near-strangers or even good friends who know me? Well. That took a level of trust and faith I'm still working on. At one point over the weekend, we split off into teams, where each member got up to discuss the five items they would commit to accomplishing in the next year. I'd like to say I chose the ones that were most important to me, but pretty much I chose the ones that would be the least embarrassing. And then other people stood up and were vulnerable and honest and I was so inspired, and I realized I need to let myself be more like them. I need to let people in a little more. I need to have more faith. Faith in people. In the universe. Also in myself.

I'm adding all of these to my life list. 

You have to love her. No, really, you have to.

Let's talk about my friend Colleen Wainwright. Colleen writes a blog called The Communicatrix, and I love her. She's goofy, she's adorable, she's brilliant. Her blog is thought-provoking, hilarious, and always, always reflects the goodness of its author. Seriously, if you want to see what a truly good person looks like, spend time on the Communicatrix blog. She is everything I want to be.

In true Communicatrix style, Colleen is celebrating her upcoming 50th birthday by giving. Specifically, she is spending the next 50 days doing her damnedest to raise 50,000 for an excellent cause: WriteGirl, a local (to her) nonprofit that teaches writing and self-empowerment through communication to high school girls.

Here's Colleen herself, talking about her awesome fundraising effort.

Colleen works hard to make a difference. She's the kind of person you want on your team. Please contribute, at whatever level. And spread the word! You'll be making the lives of many, many girls (and one amazing Communicatrix) that much happier. And there are prizes! Come on.

Hey! Let's catch up on some things!

I've received a few emails asking me what ever happened with my Crossfit attempt. Here's what! Nothing. Crossfit is kinda pricey, and I can't rationalize it right now, especially now that I'm working on some longer-term projects that aren't delivering insta-paychecks. Or actually any paychecks at all. At least not yet. NOT YET. So maybe later, Crossfit. Or maybe never, actually. I'm still considering my options.

I haven't even been able to face going back to the gym, for some reason. Actually I know perfectly well why. Before it got super-crazy hot, I got into running/walking/crawling-sobbing in the park--that's why. Also Henry was home, and he's definitely too old for the gym day care, so I was doing push-ups and so forth while he acted as my coach. He's the world's worst coach, I have to say. He kept turning off my timer when I was in mid-plank because he TOUCHED IT when I told him NOT TO TOUCH IT but it's my iPhone, so it's a magical thing that must be touched.

I have no excuses not to go since Henry's been at camp (he's returning in two days! My Littlest Excuse is coming home!).  Except that it's hot, which I know means it'll be crowded at the gym, and UGH. People. Am I right, folks?

I don't think of myself as a total misanthrope, but I had drinks recently with two friends (Hi, Sarah and Jennifer! I'm talking about you!) and I brought up the topic of Other Parents and how I hate chit-chatting with Them at school pick-up and what if they want to be FRIENDS, what do I DO, and from Sarah and Jen's reaction, it was clear I was alone with this feeling. Look. LOOK. I like lots of parents at Henry's school. I just don't like Parents as a category. I like people. It's Humanity I have a hard time with.

It's possible I'm just a dick.

Oh! Speaking of being a dick! Here's a little story for you that's been haunting me for, well, years. I was living in New Jersey, and I was at my then-psychiatrist's office. She was someone I had a great rapport with, so I felt chatty one day, and decided to (gently?) poke fun at this artwork that was on her wall. It had a purple flower on it, and it said, "Love. Faith. Believe." I was staring at it, and before I knew what was happening, I was saying, "Why 'believe'?"
"Excuse me?" she said. (Or something like that. Let's pretend I remember.)
"If you're going to write 'love' and "faith,' shouldn't it be 'belief'?"
Here I thought she was going to chuckle, as she was wont to do, and think, oh, Alice, that is so you. Or maybe she'd think lord when will this asshole leave my office, isn't her time up? But either way, she would appear to tolerate my antics.
Instead, she looked vaguely stricken, and said something noncommittal about not having considered that. I may have imagined the tension, but I don't think so. I am usually oblivious to tension that I've directly created, so for me to be aware of it really says something.  I left feeling like I'd turned into Larry David. Her MOM probably made that, you guys. And now I had ruined it for her.

And the next time I came in? It was gone. GONE. What could I say? "Hey, remember that print that you had up that I mocked? Why's it gone? DID I MAKE IT GONE?" There was nothing I could say. I thought about it every time I came back. You want to know the reason we left New Jersey? There you go. (Not really.)