The weird way we're wired

Back about five years ago when my kids were whisked away to H-town by the wicked witch of the east, I had a strange conversation with my daughter. I was talking with her about the changes in her life and how she was coping with them. We talked through all the usual polite conversation topics; you know, like how everyone was doing, were they missing their friends and making new ones, was the house nice, etc.... When I asked how she was doing making new friends, she started to get down in the dumps noticeably. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that some of the kids were calling her weird. I let out a slight giggle and told her everything was going to be just fine. I assured her that regardless of wether people were calling her wierd and that she may or may not feel weird; that she was, in fact, weird. I told her that I was weird, that her mother was weird, and that her brother was very weird too(at which she vigorously shook her head in agreement). I let her know right out that EVERYONE is weird, and that anyone who said they weren't weird was flat out denying their weirdness. I hugged her and encouraged her to embrace her wierdness. I actually helped allay my daughters fears about being labeled weird by some punks with which she attended school. It felt great to see my little girl smile with the knowledge that other people's words don't mean squat if you choose to ignore them. She was giddy again and acting weird as usual. Not even two weeks had passed, when I spotted a postcard at Barnes and Nobles. It was by Annie Leibowitz and was of the artist, Keith Haring, who does the big simple stick figure graffiti art pictures. He was standing in a living room of all white, I mean everything was white; the walls, furniture, carpet, pictures, him, ALL!! The artist then painted his signature bold thick stripes everywhere, even on his body and down his little dangly thing. The card just screamed weird at me. It screamed weird so loud that I heard it from across the store and circled, mesmerized to it. I wrote the story, much like the version penned here, on the back of the postcard and mailed it to her at our house address (although their mother may have them in H-town their house is still here). When it arrived, I stuck it away with the rest of the keepsakes in their hope chest and forgot about it. Recently, I was walking by a co-workers office door when I overheard him telling a story about a third co-worker. Liking stories, I lingered for a moment to hear a nice anecdote. To my surprise, this guy was gossiping about our co-worker; and he was not gossiping nice. He was retelling the story of an office meeting in which the third co-worker did something utterly gross and unthinkable in company. I won't go into details about the action, but it is safe to say that it would be quite embarrasing. This grabbed my attention and is being recounted to all my readers (all three of them) only because of the person who was doing the gossipping. Much in a similar manner to my daughter's feelings being hurt by fellow school children, this bout of gossip was going to come of no good. The only thing it was accomplishing was to debase the character of another. But the one thing that sets this action out from all the other office gossip I have been a witness too, is the fact that the gossiper is just as weird and as the guy he was belittling. I could show you a picture of both guys and you would have a hard time picking which guy played which role in this little tale. I bit my tongue, kept my mouth shut and filed this event away in my memory so I could scribble my little thoughts on my blog at a future time to be determined (it has just been determined). So my advice to my co-worker, the gossiping butt-pirate, is to go have a big slice of "shut the puck-up fie" and look in the mirror at yourself real good. Because if you think that you are such a complete person that you have the right to talk badly about anyone you wish to talk about, you will end up with someone's foot in your ass someday.