And Now, Please Do Not Welcome...Constructive Criticism!

The critic subject to criticism? The hater gets poked back. Do yourself a solid. Read what my friend Claudia has to say about the theater critic for the New York Times and his review of the new “Barefoot in the Park” production. This is classic critical critic- hater satire and I cried laughing.

My mind cannot digest constructive criticism. Let’s say my boss tells me, “Shannon, your rapport with customers is fantastic. They’re comfortable and relaxed with you, and that’s great. But you might want to make an effort to be more professional.” In the nanosecond it takes my synapses to relay the message to my brain, my mind edits it with an unforgiving red pen and comes up with this wrist-slitting gem. “Shannon, you’re a disgrace to your Ann Taylor suit. Why don’t you just wear a clown costume?” I perfected the kicking of my own ass listening to Hannibal Lector tear Clarice Starling a new asshole as a means of expressing his purported admiration. My feet are covered in bullet holes.

In my thick Woulda Coulda Shoulda file of witty comebacks that never happened, I say this back to my boss, “Everyone calls you Fat Bastard. That’s not very professional, is it?” I am the reigning ex post facto quip champion of the imaginary world! Wanna throw down? Step up and do some battle? I’ve got a virtual grenade between these ears, baby! Immediately following any attempted crucifixion (normal people call it feedback), I pull the pin. Moments later, sometimes well into the following day, I perform countless verbal vivisections, ending the lives of the helpful. Thumbs down, send in the lions. Fuck ye.

Shannon’s Mangled Psyche 101: All schools in the Archdiocese of Chicago distributed report cards in a standard format. These report cards were designed to crush the spirits of Catholic children. In addition to the regular old’ grade, which even the poor underprivileged public school kids got, we had myriad other measurements of humility. On the report card were covert, seemingly harmless little statements, like “Heeds suggestion for improvement.” Next to that there were these boxes in which the teacher would make 1 of 3 marks:

+ meant you were awesome, outstanding. All I ever wanted to be was outstanding, worthy of the +. I longed for + after plus. Other girls chased boys and dreamed of their first kiss. My fantasies were filthy, gluttonous ++++++ orgies.

∙ meant that you were O.K., but just O.K., though. You were average, indistinguishable, in the middle, a measely dot. Ugh! The horror of being average! To me, average is the same thing as invisible, banal and sad. When I received a ∙ (which happened like twice, and I’m totally over it and have never discussed said incidents with a therapist), I felt like the Hester Prynne of the 4th grade, the Mary Magdalene of St. Colette.

√ meant that you were below average. Let’s face it, check mark kids had room reservations in jail.

Next to “Heeds suggestion for improvement” I’d always get a ∙ Shocker, huh? If someone dared suggest that I was anything less than a gleaming personification of perfection, they could fuck off, die and be wrong forever. Might as well stab me with a poisoned dagger, fiends!

Don’t ever tell me what to do or how to do it. There is no better way unless I think of it first.