Failure #11: Attend overnight camp

Just as television, books and movies had planted romantic notions about high school and breasts and Jesus in my head, summer camp was a glamorized unattainable fantasy. But it was not my destiny to don terry cloth shorts and frolic around the great outdoors with people who were not part of my normal world. I would not spend balmy summer evenings underneath the stars, roasting marshmallows and singing campfire songs. Instead of bunking with strangers in the woods, my youthful summers were a little different.

My earliest summers were spent with my mother’s mother. I hesitate to call her “grand.” She was rarely without a frosty can of PBR in her hand, with a paper towel beer cozy because that’s how classy she was. Oh, and her pet name for me was “the little retarded one.” My days with her were spent in her seniors residence, sitting with other little old ladies and making crepe paper flowers. In the three years I visited the old folks’ home, I never saw any other children. Most likely because they were away at sleep away camp.

I spent a couple of summers in my default after school hang out—the snack bar of the Montgomery County Court House, where I alternated between reading Lewis Grizzard books and fielding questions about how I liked school, who my sister was dating and whether I was enjoying my summer. Occasionally my mother enlisted me to “help” her with her work, which mostly meant copying information from the microfiche and then looking up the parents of my classmates. I was the only nine-year-old who knew about second mortgages and tax liens. Also, I was probably the only nine-year-old reading Lewis Grizzard.

When we could afford it, I would participate in daytime summer activities. One year I was fortunate enough to indulge my creative side by taking dance lessons and a ceramics class. I squished myself into a brightly coloured leotard and learned routines to popular 1980s hits on the even days and painted tacky knickknacks on the odd days. Then I went to day camp, which compressed all the popular summer camp activities into eight hours a day. While I was involved in these programs, I actually spent time with people my age. To a normal child, it might have been a relief to hang out with youths and indulge in youth culture. I came into it after spending years in the company of the elderly and was unaccustomed to a summer day that didn’t smell like death, Vaporub and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The trouble with any “camp” is that it implies that copious amounts of time be spent outdoors. After age seven, I wasn’t encouraged to be outdoors ever. Even without my allergies, interacting with nature doesn’t rank high on my list of interests. I like looking at photographs of nature. I hope that nature can hang on for a few dozen more years. But nature and I won’t be playing a round of Boggle anytime soon. My idea of “roughing it” is staying at a bed and breakfast without internet access. Sleep away camp would’ve meant spending time in the wilderness and out of the jurisdiction of my mother. My mother and I have always had differing opinions on how far away I should be from her. She’s been on the losing end ever since I outgrew the papoose. Anyway, overnight camp was never a possibility.

Those of us who attended day camp managed to accomplish most of the things kids do in overnight camp. There were brief summer crushes. The pudgy girl with the pink glasses and black elastic sports strap was ridiculed and pushed down on the playground. Unlikely friendships were forged. The pudgy girl was ridiculed in the pool for wearing inflatable floaties on her ankles. Lessons were learned about sex and gender. The pudgy girl avoided ridicule on the swing set and made up parody songs that could be viewed as morbid foreshadowing. All achieved with minimal adult supervision. At the end of the day we went home to air conditioning and television.

Do I imagine sleep away camp would have been a better experience? Given my track record with insensitive bastard children at school and day camps, it would’ve been absolute misery and I’d have called my mother to retrieve me from the hell in time for Saturday morning cartoons. After I hit puberty, my mother left me at home with cable television and Cheetos and I was content to live vicariously through Hayley Mills times two and the Camp Anawanna kids.

I think summer camp provides an opportunity to reinvent yourself, a chance to try out new fashions and affectations without interference by those who’ve known you since diapers. The closest I got to reinvention was when I tried on my grandmother’s wig and tried to learn the harmonica. Maybe if I’d gone away to camp, I would’ve found my life-long BFF, mismatched bunk mates turned bosom friends. Or, perhaps while on a nature hike, I could’ve found Jesus skinny dipping and teaching bears about love and kindness. Oh, the failures that could have been avoided! Okay, so I can’t join in when people share anecdotes about camp practical jokes or sing campfire songs. But if you want to go swinging and reminisce about microfiche and crepe paper, give me a call.

All that said, if there was an adult summer camp for people who are inept at dealing with woodsy environs, I might consider attending. They have wi-fi, right?

Robot of Leisure – teaser video

Preview/trailer for Robot of Leisure, a series of illustrated novellas to be available by Spring 2010.

Visit robotofleisure.com for more information.

©2009 KLM Designs, Katharine Miller
katharinemiller.com

Music: Robots Never Cry by Lester Norton
solonor.com

katharine revives boris

In 2003 I created a funny little robot character called Boris. From 2004–2006, I developed a line of gift ware and paper goods featuring Boris, inspired by Paul Frank’s Julius, Emily Strange and all the other characters who seemed only to exist to sell merchandise. Boris could be found all over the internet in several indie shops and we went around to a number of indie/craft events around Central Florida and the GTA.

After we made the Big Move and I was thrown back into school, I had to put Boris aside. This broke my heart more than anything else. Now, with the floundering economy leaving me “fun”-employed and The Curable Romantic out in the world to fail or succeed, I’m turning my attention back to Boris.

The hiatus may be a blessing and a curse. It gives me a chance to reboot the character and the story but leaves me scrambling for an audience again. I’m looking forward to telling Boris’s story. I think the themes will connect with people a little more these days as Boris wrestles with his obsolescence and freedom.

The new project is in its infancy but I’ll reveal details as it takes shape.

Failure #10: Join Team Sports

Some people may be born athletes. Others may be pushed into athletics by over-achieving parents vicariously pursuing latent Olympic dreams. The rest of us are left to fumble and flail about in various playing fields to measure our own athletic aptitude. I discovered, through nature and nurture, that I am not an athlete.

My elusion of sports-like activity stems from a combination of lack of opportunity and disinterest. This makes my failure list for physical and social reasons. Thankfully, despite women’s lib and athletic equality between genders, being a girl who doesn’t play sports doesn’t hold the same social stigma as it did for boys. I’m no less of a woman because I didn’t have a catch with my mom. But maybe I could’ve fared better in a social realm if I hadn’t feigned injury to get out of playing volleyball in junior high.

There are a few things you should know about the wee Katharine. When I was seven years old, we discovered three important things:
1. I needed glasses.
2. I couldn’t hear very well.
3. I was allergic to insect bites/stings.

As a result, we also learned:
4. Children are insensitive little bastards.
5. I am a crybaby.

I invite you to reach back into your own childhood psyche, to imagine that you are six or seven years old, everything’s kind of a blur, sounds a little bit muffled. Then imagine 20 kids shouting and taunting, with some sort of vaguely round-ish object hurtling towards your face. You might shed a couple of tears of frustration yourself.

My newly discovered physical handicaps were enough to convince my mother that I should be indoors at all times. The public school system rarely agreed with her. And in lower Alabama, the weather doesn’t much warrant much indoor play. However, after a few convincing notes from my doctor, the Phys. Ed. coach gave me an exemption from kick ball. In grades four through six, the school found indoor activities to occupy me with during the outdoor sessions of P.E. But the earlier years scarred me just enough, thank you.

My one official experience in being on a team comes from my grade school. It had a school-wide mandatory program that split each class into two teams: the Green team and the Gold team. I was on the Gold team. My spiky-haired boy crush of the time was on the Green team. O ill-fated stars! Woe! Every spring, the school would hold a festival where the teams played different games, did some sort of a relay race, and other activities which I have blocked from my memory. I think of my five years at the school, the Gold team won once. Which led to the next lesson:
6. I am a sore loser.

During school hours, we didn’t have many opportunities for team sports. When it was kickball season, one half of the class would be pitted against the other half to battle it out for half an hour. Sometimes other kids would show up to school in various sporting jerseys, advertising their upcoming game against some other pee-wee league team. Only then would I feel a twinge of envy, that someone belonged to something that I didn’t. I felt the same way about the Girl Scouts. Did I really want to wear a uniform? No one ever asked and I just assumed these were secret clubs. For all I knew, getting into girl’s softball was like trying to join the Freemasons.

Eventually puberty and laziness set in and I couldn’t be motivated to do anything but watch cable television and listen to my Billy Joel tapes. Most sports took place outdoors and I still wasn’t allowed to play outside. Indoor sports at school were limited to basketball, volleyball and the occasional roller skating excursion. Roller skating tended to be first. I remember because I would injure my ankle and bench myself for the rest of the winter.

If I am not an athlete, you’d be correct in assuming that I am not an athletic supporter. The closest I’ve come to being a cheerleader is making an off-colour remark while watching my high school boyfriend kick his friend’s ass at Mortal Kombat.

Occasionally I’ll see a casual game of softball or watch a bowling league in action and ponder what it might be like to have that kind of social interaction. Though my handicaps haven’t wholly disappeared, I am not the same crybaby confused by blurry rounded objects. If I joined a team, would they be good natured about my lack of skill and natural athleticism or roll their eyes and heave impatient sighs when I goofed up? Are there beginner level teams for people my age? Could I wear a uniform? Most importantly, could I get over the fact that I am a Sore Loser. Maybe I can find a group of disaffected thirty-year olds who hang out on the bleachers and make snarky comments instead.

katharine makes a book trailer

As part of my continuing and exhaustive efforts to promote my book The Curable Romantic: Advice for the Romance-Impaired, I jumped on the growing trend of book trailers—videos created to promote books. Previews are no longer limited to movies.

My promo is very simple and made up of illustrated stills with a midi track. Over the course of two days I drew the new illustrations, imported them into iMovie and imported a karaoke version of Doris Day’s “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps,” which I modified slightly in Garage Band. For a freshman effort, this isn’t terrible. I suspect I’ll work up a few more of these and do a series of book trailers.

Feel free to share the link to the trailer amongst your friends and internet viewing audience.

Failure #9: Participate in Public Nudity

Most items on my 30 Failures list are things that might have had some impact on my social life. When I think back on my youth, I don’t recall any invitations or occasions for public nudity. In general, public nudity tends to be frowned upon, though I suspect for the wrong reasons. Failing to bare more than teeth in public isn’t so much of a failure in itself—it’s the lack of bravery to even consider doing it. Bawk ba gawk.

[image redacted]

And I don’t think I’m alone in my reluctance to drop trou amongst strangers. You might be struggling to think of instances in which public nudity would be appropriate. Has Emily Post ever covered this sort of thing? Certainly Miss Manners laid down some etiquette for skinny dipping!

I’ve never gone skinny dipping down at the quarry. My hometown probably didn’t have a quarry. But there might have been some swimmin’ hole where the youths would strip and frolic ‘neath the moonlight. My invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Perhaps none of my young beaus needed to resort to such trickery to get me unclothed. (Miss Manners had a chapter on that, too, right?)

Streaking is another act of public indecency that I haven’t had the occasion to perform. But then, I’m not prone to any bouts of athleticism. Which is also why you’ll never see me at one of those clothing-optional bike rides or at the Co-ed Naked Jai Alai tournament.

I will also confess that I haven’t exhibited any signs of exhibitionism. I have never, on purpose, participated in flashing, mooning or anasyrma. If I owned a classic trench coat, I might entertain notions of traipsing about town in only my London Fog and bowler hat. But not in winter. Or on Thursdays.

Now those are just the deviant deeds. We haven’t even considered the legally acceptable forms of social nudity—the nude beaches, nudist colonies and naturist clubs. Just the word “nude” conjures up grand fantasies of airbrushed bathing beauties and hard-bodies. In theory, these places could be great locales to toss off your trousers and your inhibitions. That is, if you’re willing to have your dreams shattered by the lumpy bottoms of reality.

For whatever reasons—body issues, fear of skin cancer, lack of bravery—I’m not quite ready to shed my threads for all the world to see. But, who knows? Someone might decide small breasts are high art and want to paint my portrait for public viewing. Maybe I’ll get involved with a local burlesque show. Or maybe I’ll take a road trip where I moon my way across the TransCanada highway. In the meantime, I’m going to look for an Emily Post’s Guide to Nude Etiquette on Amazon.com.

katharine turns 30

And so I’ve passed that critical milestone. Like millions before me, I have survived my twenties. My feet now firmly planted in adulthood, I reflect on my partially squandered youth. I think about my accomplishments, the things of which I’m most proud. And, of course, I think about my failings. I am not famous. I am not well-liked. I am not gainfully employed. I don’t get enough protein. I spent too much time on the Internet. I do not call my mother. I am not what I envisioned I’d be at this point.

Some life-long goals have been met. A few dreams were realized. Nothing achieved without compromise. I left my small hometown with chest puffed and hat tilted forward, muttering “I’ll show them! And how!” I don’t know what I intended to show. Whatever Big Plans I had to prove myself to imaginary naysayers have been discarded and forgotten.

In the modern world, youth comes with great curiosity about the world but it also comes with an inflated sense of self-importance and entitlement. When we’re young, we imagine that we will change the world. In my own youth, I was so certain that, one day, people would be impressed with my talents, my wit, my beauty. Now I see that I am merely adequate. I am competent in my skill set, but thousands more far excel in talent and knowledge. I am not a whiz or a hotshot or a super star in my field(s). No one has been immediately won over by my work.

I’m not struggling to remain relevant because I was never completely relevant in the first place. Absent are the urges to decorate my body with tattoos and superfluous piercings. I have been fortunate enough to retain enough of my youth (in appearance, at least) that I don’t feel the need to go chasing after it. In fact, I get so many unwarranted comments about how young I look, I should write an article or a book on my secrets. Turning 30 means I’m officially old enough to take it as a compliment when middle-aged women coo about how young I look. But if someone wants to call me ma’am, I won’t protest too much.

I have learned, in the grand scheme of things, that I am insignificant. The words I publish on a blog or my silly little robot drawings will not have an impact on the world. They will not cure cancer. They will not influence politics. They will not inspire greater works of art.

Okay, so I’m insignificant. But I still exist. Now is the time to make peace with all the things I am not. It is the time to seek approval from within. It is time to appreciate life as it is, to recognize that things aren’t so terrible, really. This does not mean my life will be all granola and wind chimes, zen gardens and bamboo tunics.

My youth was plagued with multiple failures but few regrets. If given the opportunity to return to the past and alter events, I’d probably reject the idea in favour of watching videos of Maru. Anyway, I’m not sure that anything in the past could be tinkered with to prevent my random spurts of adult acne or sciatic pain.

These days my chest is a little deflated and my hat sits perfectly centered atop my noggin. The challenge in this new decade will be to balance the negative with the positive, while never forgetting the other exists. I’ll continue to recount my failures so we can both see where things went astray, while also entertaining you with drawings of silly robots and passing fancys. I will still spend an exorbitant amount of time on the Internet.

Failure #8: Keep a Best Friend

If you’ve been following these installments of The Many Failures of Katharine M., then it should not surprise you that I have trouble with friendships. If I had only one regret in life, it’s that I didn’t have that steadfast bosom friend, that one person to turn to when things got rough. Where was the Anne to my Diana? The Mame to my Vera? The Denny Crane to my Alan Shore? I mean, I wasn’t totally friendless. I just never got my best friend. Well, not one I could keep.

In the early years, my mother arranged play dates for me. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim amongst the morally superior set and my “friends” were limited to a girl whose mother dressed as the Icee polar bear, a girl named after a soft drink brand (not RC), and a boy. None of them shared my enthusiasm in staging stuffed animal vaudeville revues. Neither did they want to know how dreamy I found Peter Scolari and whether he was dreamier in Bosom Buddies or Newhart.

By the time I’d entered grade school, I’d lost my morally superior pals. And it seemed like everyone was already paired up. I did fall in with a few other chubby awkward girls. In my grade school’s speech therapy sessions, I bonded with the spiky-haired boy from Illinois and the girl with the lisp. For a while, I was “best friends” with an adopted South Korean girl, whose mom would take a group of us to the museum. But one friendship never truly prevailed over all others and my friends each had someone else to confide their deepest desires and secrets.

Occasionally one friendship would become more predominate over others. Phone calls with this one person would increase in frequency and length. We’d sit closer at the lunch table. Then the tides would turn and I would lose favour with this person. Because my friends lived in different neighbourhoods and my mother couldn’t get out of her bed most weekends, the majority of my friendships ran their courses over the phone and through notes passed in school hallways. There was no one in my ‘hood that I could trust to tell me that leggings were not pants and that, although I might blare Billy Joel and TMBG from my stereo, the oversized black t-shirts indicated hardcore headbanger. My BFF and I weren’t having sleepovers, trading clothes and experimenting with whatever teenage girlfriends experiment with. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t so keen on all the hyper-girly stuff. And the girls I knew weren’t terribly interested in listening to the Shelley Berman album I found in my mother’s closet.

My most treasured friendships were ones with boys. This is because these boys were able to think about things outside themselves. The girls could really only think about boys. Sure, they could talk about movies and television…as long as there was an attractive boy involved—either on screen or in the room with us. I can’t tell you the number of movies I missed because of a girl friend’s Boy Drama. Admittedly, I was guilty of thinking about boys myself. Of course the “boys” I thought about were unattainable and not really boys so much as grown men. While my friends were swooning over the high school drum major, I was sighing heavily over the guy who ran the local comedy club. I was always closer to my boyfriends than my girl friends. At least the boyfriends were willing to endure Shelley Berman. Still, no one was willing to discuss the geeky dreaminess of ’80s era Peter Scolari.

Without a lifelong BFF, I have been able to go through permutations and reinventions with minimal criticism. No one’s been there to remind me of my Bad Decision Dinosaur moments. No one to whom I could confide my own deepest desires. No wind beneath my wings.

If I were on the path to become a better person, I would contact my former BFFs to find out why our friendships fizzled. I suspect that we’re all better off as Facebook acquaintances, with the ability to leave comments on freshly uploaded photos without the messy drama of everyday life. No one really wants to dredge up old heartbreaks and failures…unless they’re writing a blog about old heartbreaks and failures. Onward and upward.

As I get older, it gets more difficult to find kindred spirits in a 10-mile radius. My closest friends reside miles away, across several borders, which makes meeting for bubble tea and giggling nigh on impossible. And without the assistance of a place similar to a certain nightclub set in another era, I’m unlikely to meet the dopplegangers of my most favourite people. These days my partner serves double-duty as lover and best friend, which some might look on as a great thing. But I feel bad that he has to endure my gripes along with my gropes. Thankfully he’s very tolerant of my silliness and ideas involving finger puppets and burlesque shows.

I haven’t given up on the possibility of finding a proper BFF. Boston Legal has given me hope that I’ll find my bosom flamingo. Until he (or she) comes along and invites me for balcony visits and sleepovers, I will endeavor to tend to existing friendships, foist my silliness on them once again and maybe remind them—and myself—why we bonded in the first place.

Failure #7: Join Organized Religion

“Personally, I don’t have the talent to believe.” – Arthur Miller, The Atheism Tapes

I am a godless heathen. I have not be seduced by any one deity. I have not been programmed for the kind of fanciful thinking that most religions require.

As a mere observer of organized religion, it’s very easy to dismiss them all as lunacy. But this isn’t about the rejection or dismissal of all religions. I don’t begrudge the believers for their beliefs. If your religion motivates you to stick to the moral high road and helps you make sense of this realm, then pray on, brother. This is simply a reflection on my experiences in faith-based matters.

Technically, I was born into the second-most widely ridiculed religion on the planet. My parents were a couple of (supposedly) devout Jehovah’s Witnesses. They were dragged along when their mothers had been seduced by the promise of impending Armageddon and righteous immortality on Earth. If you’re only familiar with Jehovah’s Witnesses from hilarious stand-up comedy routines or tidy boys leaving copies of the Watchtower on your doorstep, you don’t know the half of it, buddy. Here’s what I know: they convince their members that the outside world is doomed. Witnesses are forbidden from celebrating holidays or birthdays. Forget Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, kids. Witnesses refuse to vote or participate in any act of national patriotism. They are encouraged to limit socializing with non-Witnesses. If they manage to remain morally superior to everyone else, when the current world order has been destroyed, the righteous will achieve physical immortality on this planet, which will morph into a global Garden of Eden.

By divine providence, I was spared from participating in their special brand of crazy. After my mother’s second divorce (not entirely by her choice), she/we were disfellowshipped (shunned!) and did not return. Thereabouts, she lost her faith. You might have a crisis of faith as well if you lost your one true love, were rejected by those who you thought were your friends, unceremoniously excommunicated from church and your own mother treated you like dirt in public settings, all while working a crap job to straddle the poverty line with two children to support. Her sacrifice prevented me from further ridicule. Can you imagine if I’d been a pudgy, bosom-less, bespectacled, hearing-impaired girl and a Jehovah’s Witness?!

So I was raised without faith. Without faith, it’s difficult to accept—and be accepted into—organized religion.

When I was 16, I did attend a few church sessions with my boyfriend at the time. The Southern Baptist services were solemn and without much ceremony, alternating between standing and singing and listening to some guy yammer about the moral issue of the day. The girls in Sunday school were excited that Easter was approaching which meant chocolate (!!!). The pastor took his family to Disney World for spring break amidst the Southern Baptist boycott of the company and its parks. They all seemed quite content to leave me be on the outskirts, rather than embrace a potential new member of Team Jesus.

I don’t discount the social values of organized religion and the routine of attending church. If anything, I might give it too much credit. Organized religion provides community and social activities that one might not get from public school or cable television. Could my social life have been improved by a couple of church-sponsored bowling trips? Perhaps. But I don’t think gutter balls and rented shoes and soda pop with the youth pastor would’ve renewed my faith in a higher power. My bowling score might be a little better, though.

In my thirty years, I have yet to experience a religious awakening. I didn’t have it when my father died. I didn’t when my sister laid in a hospital bed for several weeks with severe blood clots after giving birth. Based on those school assembly lectures from former druggies/ex-cons/crack whores who found Jesus in a dingy motel bathroom, one gets religious when one has hit their lowest point. I obviously haven’t hit my lowest point yet. Or maybe Jesus should find nicer places to hang out. Panera Bread has free wi-fi. The food court at the mall has some questionable characters who could probably use a hug from Jesus.

Since abandoning the Bible Belt for a pair of atheist garters, I haven’t encountered much in the way of religious pressure. Most people tend to be tolerant of other’s religious practices though I’ve learned to not discuss religion with strangers. Telling people I don’t attend church prompts the follow-up question, “Well, what would you be if you did go to church?” They don’t respond favorably when I say, “A unicorn.”

If this were a Hollywood movie, the act of writing this essay would’ve taken me on a spiritual journey and it would end with me having found faith in a lovable deity. This is not a movie and I remain a faithless cynic. Don’t pray for me just yet. I haven’t fared so terribly as a non-believer. Despite what I might feel in my darkest moments, my most basic needs (and a number of frivolous whims) are fulfilled. Aside from a couple of missteps during a turbulent stretch of puberty and a few adult indulgences, my moral GPS and common sense have kept me out of dingy motel bathrooms. Maybe there is some Heavenly reward for living a pious life. Maybe I’m cheating myself out of my own Heavenly reward by not subscribing to a brand of worship. Right now I’m content to celebrate the birthdays of my loved ones, participate in patriotic hoopla for two countries and just enjoy mortality.

katharine has a minor success

Taking a short breather from the onslaught on failures to reflect on my recent success. A few weeks ago I made my book, The Curable Romantic digitally available for the masses. It pleases me to announce that the book is now available in print via Amazon. I’m officially joining the ranks of the self-published and working diligently to legitimize the process.

The publishing world is evolving. Writers and readers are able to interact more freely than ever before. We can release creative content without interference of the publishers who can reject projects based on their own needs or the perceived needs of a choice target demographic. That does mean more crap can take up valuable shelf space and bandwidth. But let’s be honest, even with the middle-man, a whole lot of crap gets the green light.

Anyone can write a book. Now anyone can print a book. Can anyone sell a book? The Curable Romantic is a funny little book that has a chance to find the right audience, if I can market it well. In the coming months, I plan to make the effort to connect with potential readers, to tiptoe out of my comfort zone and do what’s within my power (and budget) to make this project a success.

If you’d like to follow along with the progress, please join The Curable Romantic Facebook group. Celebrate the tiny successes with me.