True Crime

Something is very wrong with me.

(This isn't news to anyone who's been reading my blogs or who has met me, or even, really, seen me in public).

I go through these phases with regard to what I'm reading. I tend to enjoy nonfiction lately much more than fiction, as it seems lately I can't find anything to read that moves me enough to want to pick it up every night before bed. By 'moves me', I mean either makes me laugh so hard I start peeing my pants (has happened more than once), or cry like a little bitch, or get so frightened I have to throw the book across the room and later hide it where I can't find it again (also happened once. But I was smoking a lot of pot at the time). Anyway, maybe my threshold for being really affected has gone way up...maybe I'm desensitized (probably...too much porn)...but it seems like life is too short to waste time reading things that don't really do things to you.

Hence, my love affair with true crime.

It all started one winter when I was on vacation in the Adirondack mountains. I wandered into a used book store (sadly, these establishments are getting less common these days...I hate the thought that my daughter might not ever get to experience the sheer giddiness that comes from the smell of thousands of well-worn books waiting to be re-dog-eared and inhaled and savored) and picked up a few things that I thought might be fun to dive into in front of the roaring fire (note: the cabin I ended up renting had one of those gas-powered portable fireplaces, which totally ruined the effect). One was an old paperback of The Stranger Beside Me, Ann Rule's memoir of her friendship with a handsome, gentle young man who would later be known as one of America's most terrifying serial killers: Ted Bundy.
Oh, shit. It was SO ON.

From Bundy I moved on to Diane Downs, the narcissistic serial surrogate-mom who shot all three of her kids point blank in the back seat of her car and then blamed it on a black guy. I read about wives killing husbands, husbands killing wives and unborn children, hell, I even went through a Jonbenet phase (short-lived, thank god). I just could.not.get.enough. To this day I continue to I gulp down biographies of Charles Manson and Richard Ramirez and John Wayne Gacy without taking a breath.

Then just like that, I can't do it anymore. I'll stop. I'll get myself so freaked out laying in bed with a twisted, horrified look on my lips, only kindle light to keep me from falling into total terrifying blackness, and I'll say, OK Kristin. You're cut the hell off.

And like the junkie that I am, I'll go cold turkey. I'll jump right into Fifty Shades of Grey or the Sookie Stackhouse series, anything polar opposite, whatever it takes to clean the creepy off.

But I always, always come slinking back. Head hung in shame, I take a resigned breath and once again commence reading something that will continue to crack open the enigma of the human mind gone wrong...I'll float in the sensory deprivation tank of true crime writing until my skin is metaphorically wrinkled with it...I'll continue to drop down into the bowels of mankind in the hopes of somehow figuring out what moves me.

And the Winner is...

Nothing brings out the cranky, hyper-competitive Bitchmama in me like elementary school awards ceremonies. Really? Is a sweaty, two hour commemoration of the many, MANY milestones of the second grade class absolutely necessary? Didn't we all just do this last year? And won't we be doing it again a year from now?

 One of the reasons I get my feathers ruffled about these things is that during Lily's three year tenure at her exclusive, touchy-feely private school, I feel as though I've watched the same small group of kids collect every award from 'Math Superkid' to 'Kindest Friend on the planet' and after a while it grates on me that my kid, a good-hearted and sensitive little person, gets sorta passed over. I admit I have a total double standard here. If my daughter were one of the award-hoarders on stage, weighed down with medals and ribbons and gold fucking stars, you bet I'd be straddling two theater seats, whistling and whooping and acknowledging all the other parents with an "IN YOUR FACE!" crotch-grab. But after a while it gets hard to muster the enthusiasm to keep on clappin as little Susie collects yet another trophy and her parents just sort of shrug it off, "Well, what do you expect? We're both neurosurgeons!" and my kid stays firmly planted in her seat for the marathon celebration of her classmates' accomplishments.

 Funny thing is, this is not Lily's issue at all. It's mine only; mine mine mine. In fact, my kid routinely skips out of these end-of-the-year ceremonies with her self-esteem firmly intact while I feel like I've just had to sit through one of the Saw movies while being force-fed glass. It is my nature to overanalyze and whip myself into a frenzy of worry over things that are beyond my control. It's so fun being me!!! With each perceived oversight of my daughter's awesomeness, I feel myself slipping down a slimy drain of self-flagellation, battling thoughts like,

 "It's your fault she's going to grow up to be a stripper."

 "She didn't win the presidential physical fitness award? Better invest in those leg braces now. She'll probably need them by the end of third grade."

 "You're such a shitty mom that wild animals could have done a better job raising your kid. In fact, there they are now at the door, asking you to give her back."

 Why do I do this to myself??? Lily is FINE. She's better than fine, hell. She's got a better sense of self than I could have hoped to at twice her age. I'm the one with the damned issues. So what if she never wins any awards? She knows she's a good kid, and deep down I know it's because she is being raised well. But dang, I have got to figure out how to let myself off the hook. Any ideas?