You're Never Weird on the Internet (Almost) (3 page)

So how did I get this super-awesome career? Well, you’re in luck, because this book is designed to tell you how I got here! Short answer:

A) By being raised weird.

B) By failing over and over again.

C) And by never taking “no” for an answer.

This isn’t a typical lady memoir. I appreciate my beauty sleep too much to have crazy “one night in Cabo” stories. I don’t have emo ex-boyfriends to gossip about. And I haven’t been on any quirky drug trips that ended in profound self-realizations. Guess I’ll get busy in those areas for the next book. (Send in the prosecco! That’s alcohol, right?)

There will be video game references galore, and at one point you may say to yourself, “This book might be too nerdy even for ME.” But the heart of my story is that the world opened up for me once I decided to embrace who I am—unapologetically.

My story demonstrates that there’s no better time in history to have a dream and be able to reach an audience with your art. Or just be as weird as you want to be and not have to be ashamed. That lesson’s just as legit.

Between the jokes and dorky illustrations (I’m addicted to Photoshop), I hope you can find a teensy bit of inspiration for your own life—to take risks and use all the tools at your fingertips to get your voice out there while you’re still not a corpse. Be who you are and use this new connected world to embrace it. Because . . .

Okay, turn the page. Let’s get this over with.

- 1 -

Why I’m Weird

A brief survey of an eccentric, homeschooled childhood.

For the record, I was homeschooled for hippie reasons, not God reasons. And it wasn’t even
full
hippie. There was no “communal family in an ashram” sort of thing, which is SO disappointing. I’ve always wanted a glamorous messed-up childhood like that. Raised without clocks. Around kids named Justice League and Feather. Winona Ryder had that, right? She’s so pretty.

Nope, I had a middle-class hippie upbringing. More hippie-adjacent than anything. We recycled before it was cool and wore “Save the Whales” T-shirts and . . . that’s about it. Oh, and my mom fed us carob instead of chocolate and gave us vitamins that made our breath smell weird. But since my brother and I weren’t around other kids that often, we didn’t realize the breath thing until
way
later. (Pro tip: put the pills in the freezer to avoid vitamin B mouth stink.)

Before being educated at home (i.e., sequestered in social isolation for nearly a decade), I went to a few different elementary schools from the ages of five to seven. There, I learned several important things about myself:

A) If a boy has an accent, I will fall in love with him. If he has an accent
and
glasses, I will want to marry him. (That means you, Charlie with the Scottish brogue from preschool. You could have had
all of me
. Fool.)

B) I am never going to be passionate about only one subject, unless you count “teacher’s suck-a-butt” as a category. I learned early in life that being perfect is a HIT with adults. Who gave special gifts to her kindergarten teacher Miss Julie on every holiday, including Presidents’ Day, even though it technically isn’t a gift holiday? This girl!

C) I will never be the popular one. That’s for girls who wear hair bows that match their dresses and hang out with
other
girls who wear hair bows that match
their
dresses. Back in the late ’80s, the hair bow was the rich girl’s scrunchie. I had no hair bows
or
scrunchies because we were poor and shopped at Goodwill, and my mom cut my hair in the shape of a salad bowl.

Lastly:

D) The popular girls would never acknowledge that I was destined for respect and high status, so I was happy to go, “Screw those chicks!” and become the leader of the class misfits. Albino boy? Girl with lisp? The “slow one”? Join my gang! We’ll show the cute bow-girls how much more fun it is to play dodgeball when you’re not worried about that expensive outfit that makes you look all rich and adorable! (Not that I was jealous.)

Me and my first-grade group were TOTAL
Breakfast Club
: Zoe from Puerto Rico, who owned a guinea pig; Marcus with curly red hair, who always smelled like milk; and Megan with the walleye, who I didn’t really want to spend time with, but my mom made me, and then the kid grew on me because she always seemed delighted by my company.

We’d hang out in the corner of the homeroom, the corner of the playground, the . . . generally we hid in corners, defying
everyone with our independence and stuff. Like sharing our sticker books
amongst ourselves only
. (Those popular bitches
never
saw my Pegasus page, and it was EPIC.) Once, we even stood at the back fence of the school grounds, near the freeway access road, and made the “honk” noise at passing trucks, even though it was
technically against the rules. Oooh!
Since I had an “in” with the teachers, I told my crew, with all the sincerity of Gregory Peck leading a platoon into a World War II battle, “Don’t worry, guys. I’ve got your backs.” Being a leader was nerve-wracking, but with responsibility comes great admiration.

So I was fine with it.

It seemed like I was laying the groundwork to become a well-rounded, appearance-aware but antiestablishment woman. A future Susan Sontag, no doubt. Unfortunately, a few life hiccups threw the whole “growing-up-around-other-kids” plan into the emotional meat grinder.

[
 Jesus Loved Me! 
]

For second grade, I transferred to a conservative Lutheran elementary school. We weren’t religious, but Mom had gone to public school as a child, and the only stories she told us about her education were about kids not wearing shoes to class and the time where she had to shave her head because of lice. Oh, and something about “knocking up” people too early, which I didn’t understand, but she was very specific: it ruined women’s lives.

Saints Academy was the best school in the cosmopolitan town of Huntsville, Alabama (Home of Space Camp, repreSENT!), and I loved it, except that we had to attend chapel
every day
. I considered this hour a threat to my intellect, because Mom always said, “I don’t
want you or your brother becoming a Deep South Bible Thumper.” I took her warning literally. A woman named Ms. Rosemary led religion class, and whenever she’d touch the Bible with the SLIGHTEST velocity, I would fold my arms and scowl. “No
way
, lady! You’re not turning me into a ‘Thumper!’ ”

The only thing that got me through the daily service was a big Jesus statue hung behind the church pulpit. I thought his face, although a little depressed about being up on the cross like that, was kinda hunky. So I sat there every day, tuning Ms. Rosemary out like the trombones from the
Peanuts
cartoons, imagining me and J.C. cuddling in front of the television while we watched
Family Ties
or
Scooby-Doo
together. Sometimes we’d even go to Disneyland on our imaginary honeymoon. J.C. hated Goofy and loved the teacup ride the best, just like I did. We were the perfect pair in my dreams!

But after a few months, my crush on Mr. Christ transferred to a Mr. Hasselhoff from
Knight Rider
, and after that I prayed to my ex-boyfriend’s dad for
anything
to get me out of the daily religious misery. Ms. Rosemary was not a good communicator, and whoever these “John,” “Matthew,” and “Judas” people were, they were NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME. How could I escape?!

And one day, it happened. Ms. Rosemary and a guy named “Timothy One” gave me the key. After school, I ran into the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to throw my match into the parental tinderbox.

“Mom! Mom! Guess what? They burned money in church today!”

My mother stopped making her hemp yogurt or whatever other disgusting health food she used to force-feed us. “What?!”

“Yeah, they set
fire to money
. Ms. Rosemary said it’s the devil’s paper!”

“Are you kidding? How much?”

“
Hundreds of dollars!
More than any money I’ve seen in my life!” It was actually a handful of fives, but the dramatic inflation seemed appropriate. And they
did
burn American currency in front of a bunch of seven-year-olds. That part was true. The flames reflected in Ms. Rosemary’s eyes. Even my ex-boyfriend Christ looked creeped out, and he was a statue.

My mom went through the roof, just like I knew she would. She’s a lovely woman, but cross her about something she cares about, like politics or discontinuing a face cream she loves, and her attitude is, “I will fight you. Right in this department store, throw it down NOW, Clinique associate bitch!”

Her temper could be intimidating, but in this instance, channeling it was in my best interest. And therefore, the BEST!

“Do I have to go to chapel again, Mom?”

“Absolutely not! Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of it.” Ooh! The Thumpers were gonna get in TROUBLE!

The next morning, my mom went in to talk with the principal. She put on her special dress, the Liz Claiborne with the sleeves puffed up like the Hindenburg, so I knew she was serious about saving me. While I waited for her to come home, I fantasized about how I’d use my free hour at school. Organize my sticker album or tend to my vast My Little Pony herd. You know, things that would contribute to my future.

But when she returned home a few hours later, her big puffy sleeves were deflated. The school wouldn’t apologize for the money burning, and for some crazy reason, they wouldn’t make an exception to their curriculum for an outraged partial-hippie family. I couldn’t believe it didn’t work! I mean, when Mom was upset about things,
like my refusing to eat chicken liver, it was
scary
. What was wrong with these people?!

“So I have to go back to chapel again?”

“No. You’re not going back to that school at all.”

“Cool! Wait, huh?!”

Yup. The Money Burning Incident of 1985 got me yanked out of school completely. Oops.

I briefly got put into another school that was into “unschooling.” I can’t remember much about that place except it closed abruptly and stole all our money. Adult problems. At the same time, my dad got orders to move from Huntsville, Alabama, to the
Deeper
South—Biloxi, Mississippi—to finish his medical training for the military. And that’s when the shit hit my educational fan.

To most of you outside the Deep South, Alabama or Mississippi? It’s the same. I mean, they’re ass-to-ass anyway. Might as well combine them and make a super hick state, right? But to my Southern extended family, it was bad. They thought we were moving to an antebellum wasteland. My dad was a Yankee himself, so he was even
more
concerned. (Everyone north of Kentucky was referred to as a Yankee in my mom’s family. It took me years to realize that wasn’t official.)