An ice storm is moving into the area, or at least the area around my area. People don't handle such frosty weather so well around here, so there is always a little (to a lot) of panic.
The stores were filled to capacity today with people trying to buy everything they may need to survive the ice. My guess is this mostly consists of toilet paper and beer, beating out chips, soda, and bullets by a small hair. This is close to the list of things people need during zombie movies too. On that note, there really REALLY needs to be a zombie/ice storm combo movie, just for the simple pleasure of watching zombies slip and fall on the ice.
Ice storms are a real, if infrequent, weather hell in this area. The last one was two years ago and a lot of people around here lost power. We didn't, thankfully. At the time, we were living in the world's most questionable trailer and relied on electric for our heating. I'm honestly not sure how we would have handled things if we'd lost power. Even on the days when the heater was working well, the place was still freezing.
The ice storm that I will always remember most happened back in the early 2000s around Christmas. It was deeply horrible for a lot of reasons. For one thing, the power DID go out almost every where. Thick sheets of ice froze onto the tree limbs, power lines snapped, in a lot of places, there wasn't even water. People who worked on electrical lines came from all over the country to help with the patch job. It was a mess.
When the snow started, I'd been at a friend's house celebrating Christmas. It got bad quickly and I knew I needed to stay and wait it out. I really didn't understand I'd be there for days. Because of this, I was not a physical witness to the great war that was to take place.
My mother lived about 12 miles out of town in a small rural community, small enough that while they have city water.....which they've only had for about ten years or so....they have no stores or gas stations. The nearest convenience store is about five miles away and only where it is because of a thriving recreational lake. Really, my mom's area consists of a church, old and/or crazy people, and graveyards.
Mom and her husband managed to get one of their old vehicles to work well enough to drive into town. The trip involved getting over to rather nasty hills and various roads that tend to wind this way and that. Somehow, they got here, to the relative safety and comfort of my grandmother's old rock house. Gran's house, while minus power, did have gas stoves, so it was at least warm.
Yes, the gas was still working and so were the telephones, so moments after the Great Ice War, I was getting to hear about it. I remember sitting in my friend's living room and being handed his phone, informed it was my grandmother.
Me: Hello?
Gran: Your mother was here to stay with me and I kicked her out because SHE told ME to shut up!
Me: .................oh.
About this time, the beep that I have another call is happening, so I tell Gran to hold on while I answer it.
Me: Hello?
Mom: We went to stay with Mother and she would NOT stop running her mouth it was just going on and on and when I suggested to her that maybe she could stop talking for a few minutes SHE KICKED US OUT OF THE HOUSE.
Me: ..............oh.
I don't even remember how I got them both off of the phone. I know it was somewhat involved. Once they start ranting about each other, it's difficult to pull away from the discussion. As always, I was in SHUT DOWN mode, saying as little as possible and making noncommittal statements as to not be drawn into the war.
Of course, inside I was livid. I mean, there was a sheet of ice covering everything. How could they not manage to be civil (or at least manage to blow each other off) long enough to stay warm and safe until the sheet of ice was gone?
The reality was, they needed each other. Mom needed Gran because she had heat and shelter. Gran needed Mom because it was scary and depressing to be stranded by ice and alone. Somehow, this escaped them. I don't remember where Mom and her husband ended up staying, but I do know that my grandmother's hot water heater had some sort of melt down and she had to deal with ALONE because they couldn't manage to get along for two or three days.
There were so many places where this could have been resolved. No one likes being told to shut up, especially in their own home. At the same time, no one likes listening to someone talk constantly either. Still, Mom could have realized that Gran had been stranded for hours and just needed some human contact. Gran could have realized that Mom just went through the harrowing experience of traveling to her house. There could have been some kindness and sympathy on both of their parts. Some real communication.
I can't say that my way was any better. While at times I would try to make peace of their wars, most often I just hid away, either physically or emotionally, from where ever the bombs were being dropped. I didn't want to be involved.
I guess if there is anything to take away from The Great Ice War, it's that when dealing with people who get the hell on our nerves, we should always try to be objective and realize that maybe their crazy isn't about us and that also, maybe a little crazy is worth it in order to get through the current situation.
That isn't to say you should let the annoying people win. Just that sometimes, we all need shelter and someone beside us. Sometimes the crazies are all we have.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Edge of the Deep Green Sea
I am now to the ninth time I have restarted this post. It's really not been a good weekend for me. My mind has been drifting badly and staying focused on anything was almost impossible. At moments, even painful. My brain would blip from this to that, babbling about pretty colors or scattered noises, only to meander off into another direction and sing songs to me from my childhood.
Equally, my emotions have been jumbled. On one hand, I've been in the throws of deep romantic love.....with the idea of tragic romantic love. I watched a movie with high gothic romance (right down to hiding behind a tree in the misty moors while the monster-your-lover is tracking you by scent alone) and kept The Cure's "The Edge of the Deep Green Sea" on constant play, my heart cringing in hurt a little every time Smith would sing, all lost and hopeless
never never never never never let me go she says
hold me like this for a hundred thousand million days
but suddenly she slows
and looks down at my breaking face
why do you cry? what did i say?
but it's just rain i smile
brushing my tears away...
I've also been missing my mom. One of the rules about having dead parents is that you can't talk about them all the time because people think you're faking it to get attention. I try to stay quiet about it, but her being gone is really hitting me hard lately. It all started a few days back when I thought of something I needed to tell her and remembered I couldn't. Most of the time, the loss is quiet, but in that moment it screamed out at me and gripped me with both hands.
Maybe all of this together is why the song has been on such constant play of late. Even though it's about loving someone and wanting with all your heart to stay sane (or sober or whatever) for them and knowing you probably won't, there is also the idea that quite often, we are both sides of the song. We are the one wanting to keep our sanity and also the one, the lover, begging us to keep it.
For me, it's always such a tightrope. My meds keep my brain jumbled, though most often this is on a bouncy happy note. When I'm off of them, I slip back into the quagmire of depression and anxiety. Not as bad as they once were, therapy has worked wonders, but still there.
Honestly, sometimes I feel like I have these two monsters lurking just outside the gates and the only thing keeping them away is a protector who....well, who sings and babbles about random stuff, and brings me back into topics of non-sequesters.
I know it gets frustrating for people. I'll hear what they said and think about my reply, but then my mind will leap to something else related to that reply and then leap to something else. This happens in nanoseconds so by the time I speak back, I say something that sounds completely unrelated. Or worse, my mind will grad onto something in the midst of the stream and I'll watch it spin and take shape in my brain and completely forget what the person said in the first place.
Well, will you look at that? I actually made it through a post without losing my grip on it or randomly wandering off the page without hitting the Publish button. Good for me.
Equally, my emotions have been jumbled. On one hand, I've been in the throws of deep romantic love.....with the idea of tragic romantic love. I watched a movie with high gothic romance (right down to hiding behind a tree in the misty moors while the monster-your-lover is tracking you by scent alone) and kept The Cure's "The Edge of the Deep Green Sea" on constant play, my heart cringing in hurt a little every time Smith would sing, all lost and hopeless
never never never never never let me go she says
hold me like this for a hundred thousand million days
but suddenly she slows
and looks down at my breaking face
why do you cry? what did i say?
but it's just rain i smile
brushing my tears away...
I've also been missing my mom. One of the rules about having dead parents is that you can't talk about them all the time because people think you're faking it to get attention. I try to stay quiet about it, but her being gone is really hitting me hard lately. It all started a few days back when I thought of something I needed to tell her and remembered I couldn't. Most of the time, the loss is quiet, but in that moment it screamed out at me and gripped me with both hands.
Maybe all of this together is why the song has been on such constant play of late. Even though it's about loving someone and wanting with all your heart to stay sane (or sober or whatever) for them and knowing you probably won't, there is also the idea that quite often, we are both sides of the song. We are the one wanting to keep our sanity and also the one, the lover, begging us to keep it.
For me, it's always such a tightrope. My meds keep my brain jumbled, though most often this is on a bouncy happy note. When I'm off of them, I slip back into the quagmire of depression and anxiety. Not as bad as they once were, therapy has worked wonders, but still there.
Honestly, sometimes I feel like I have these two monsters lurking just outside the gates and the only thing keeping them away is a protector who....well, who sings and babbles about random stuff, and brings me back into topics of non-sequesters.
I know it gets frustrating for people. I'll hear what they said and think about my reply, but then my mind will leap to something else related to that reply and then leap to something else. This happens in nanoseconds so by the time I speak back, I say something that sounds completely unrelated. Or worse, my mind will grad onto something in the midst of the stream and I'll watch it spin and take shape in my brain and completely forget what the person said in the first place.
Well, will you look at that? I actually made it through a post without losing my grip on it or randomly wandering off the page without hitting the Publish button. Good for me.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Laughing Gas and Ennui
When I was a little kid, the school system was really into this thing of promoting the space program. And not just the school. Society had a love thing with space and NASA and all of its various parts. During the afternoons, we would watch reruns of I Dream of Jeannie, which seemed to be about a magical creature trying to take the virtue of some astronaut. We would be given information about the space program. They did space camp. They even made a movie about space camp.
The most common thing though was that whenever a shuttle would take off, we would watch it on TV. And if that was during school time, classes would stop so we could all watch. It was important. They would usher us all into the library or wheel those televisions on carts into the room.
So on this date, when I was in sixth grade, everyone was pulled out of class so they could watch the space shuttle Challenger. Even for a shuttle launch, this was a BIG DEAL, because this one had a grade school teacher on it. Her name was Christa McAuliffe and she was part of the Teacher in Space Program. Out of all the teachers nominated for the program, she'd won. She was on the news all the time. We were sent posters of her and stories. Every child in America knew this woman.
We watched as the ship took off . . . and we watched as it exploded.
If anyone ever asks me, as they sometimes do, what the HELL is wrong with Gen X, I will always tell them this story. I might add some details later about screwed up parents and the summer we all watched Tiananmen Square, but the kick off was here. This. This explosion.
Well, in a way, it was this explosion. That is the outward cause of what made us....well, US. Watching people die in live action was rough. Especially when we'd had that vast set up for the whole thing.
But what really destroyed us was how the adults reacted.
See, when it comes down to it. It's not OUR generation that had this magical love affair with the space program. It was the people who were teaching us, bringing the nightly news, our parents. After all they had lost during the years before, watching Kennedies get assassinated and Vietnam and all of their innocence washed away in violent demonstrations, the space program was something they still BELIEVED in. It was their hope and their promise.
This was why they took us out of classes to watch the launches. This is why a teacher going into space was such a big thing. It continued their dream that anyone could do this. The space program, for many of the Boomer Generation, was their last stand for hope . . . and it exploded in the faces of their children.
They didn't know how to talk to us. They didn't know what to tell us. As we sat there, as children, trying to make sense of this horrible thing that happened, the adults around us were just as broken as we were about it. They were too broken and too shocked to hide it from us. We saw this and we understood their vulnerability. We knew that deep down, they were only marginally more equipped to handle these things than we were.
We suddenly felt alone, naked. Orphaned. We were orphaned because they were.
That is what I remember about the Challenger explosion. Not just watching as everything exploded, but watching as all the adults around me suddenly looked at once older and so much younger. I remember watching them walk around in a daze, all having lost the one last bit of their own childhood.
I wasn't shocked when people stopped talking about space. I wasn't surprised when we didn't watch launches anymore or how no one even acted like it was something they wanted to do. Past that point, the vast majority of people pretended like the space program didn't even exist any more, like all of it had just been some expensive pipe dream that more or less proved nothing.
They still send people into space now. Mostly though, we hear about them in passing. If they talk about space at all, it's mostly robots or other less breakable things. That's safer, less meaty, easier to accept if something goes wrong. Not that, really, if something went wrong it would be like it was on that day.
As much as Ernest Hemmingway and his fellows felt themselves the Lost Generation, I think he would have been rather shocked at how deeply the ennui set in for us. And as things fall apart and build back up, when buildings are broken or cities flooded or any number of other tragedies are seen, we feel them, but never with the deep shock felt by other generations. On some level, we're always prepared for that slap in the dark, for the moment when the dog bites us, for when the pretty flying ship suddenly lights on fire and all the adults around us go poof.
The most common thing though was that whenever a shuttle would take off, we would watch it on TV. And if that was during school time, classes would stop so we could all watch. It was important. They would usher us all into the library or wheel those televisions on carts into the room.
So on this date, when I was in sixth grade, everyone was pulled out of class so they could watch the space shuttle Challenger. Even for a shuttle launch, this was a BIG DEAL, because this one had a grade school teacher on it. Her name was Christa McAuliffe and she was part of the Teacher in Space Program. Out of all the teachers nominated for the program, she'd won. She was on the news all the time. We were sent posters of her and stories. Every child in America knew this woman.
We watched as the ship took off . . . and we watched as it exploded.
If anyone ever asks me, as they sometimes do, what the HELL is wrong with Gen X, I will always tell them this story. I might add some details later about screwed up parents and the summer we all watched Tiananmen Square, but the kick off was here. This. This explosion.
Well, in a way, it was this explosion. That is the outward cause of what made us....well, US. Watching people die in live action was rough. Especially when we'd had that vast set up for the whole thing.
But what really destroyed us was how the adults reacted.
See, when it comes down to it. It's not OUR generation that had this magical love affair with the space program. It was the people who were teaching us, bringing the nightly news, our parents. After all they had lost during the years before, watching Kennedies get assassinated and Vietnam and all of their innocence washed away in violent demonstrations, the space program was something they still BELIEVED in. It was their hope and their promise.
This was why they took us out of classes to watch the launches. This is why a teacher going into space was such a big thing. It continued their dream that anyone could do this. The space program, for many of the Boomer Generation, was their last stand for hope . . . and it exploded in the faces of their children.
They didn't know how to talk to us. They didn't know what to tell us. As we sat there, as children, trying to make sense of this horrible thing that happened, the adults around us were just as broken as we were about it. They were too broken and too shocked to hide it from us. We saw this and we understood their vulnerability. We knew that deep down, they were only marginally more equipped to handle these things than we were.
We suddenly felt alone, naked. Orphaned. We were orphaned because they were.
That is what I remember about the Challenger explosion. Not just watching as everything exploded, but watching as all the adults around me suddenly looked at once older and so much younger. I remember watching them walk around in a daze, all having lost the one last bit of their own childhood.
I wasn't shocked when people stopped talking about space. I wasn't surprised when we didn't watch launches anymore or how no one even acted like it was something they wanted to do. Past that point, the vast majority of people pretended like the space program didn't even exist any more, like all of it had just been some expensive pipe dream that more or less proved nothing.
They still send people into space now. Mostly though, we hear about them in passing. If they talk about space at all, it's mostly robots or other less breakable things. That's safer, less meaty, easier to accept if something goes wrong. Not that, really, if something went wrong it would be like it was on that day.
As much as Ernest Hemmingway and his fellows felt themselves the Lost Generation, I think he would have been rather shocked at how deeply the ennui set in for us. And as things fall apart and build back up, when buildings are broken or cities flooded or any number of other tragedies are seen, we feel them, but never with the deep shock felt by other generations. On some level, we're always prepared for that slap in the dark, for the moment when the dog bites us, for when the pretty flying ship suddenly lights on fire and all the adults around us go poof.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Moving Mountains
Today, an amazing thing happened. I didn't get to be a part of it, even though I'd planned to. However, by the time I got back into town, the whole thing was over, even though they'd not anticipated it would be.
My sister-in-law and several of her friends have another friend who needs a bone marrow transplant. I'm not sure on all the details of who did what, but I know one of her friends (and mine) who is a nurse, helped to organize a marrow registry and blood drive in our home town. For weeks now, they've been pushing this on Facebook, getting the word out about where their drive was going to be and how people could help. They put a lot of effort into this.
This is a direct quote from my SIL:
"What a great turn out at the bone marrow drive! They ran out of packets becuase so many people came for the cheek swab. They also ran out of supplies to donate blood. This is a good thing! I think they said they never get this many donations. They will be doing another drive next month for all those that wanted to come but didn't get to."
It wasn't just successful. It was phenomenal. So many people came out. So many people helped. And they will even get to do it again.
When I read this, I cried a little. Sometimes when you just read people's funny posts on Facebook and joke around with them, you forget how deeply passionate and driven they can be.
I've also been thinking about their friend who needs this, how he must feel seeing all this love and dedication given to him. That's beautiful. That is community. It's love.
This was a good day.
By the way, for more information on bone marrow donation, look here.
My sister-in-law and several of her friends have another friend who needs a bone marrow transplant. I'm not sure on all the details of who did what, but I know one of her friends (and mine) who is a nurse, helped to organize a marrow registry and blood drive in our home town. For weeks now, they've been pushing this on Facebook, getting the word out about where their drive was going to be and how people could help. They put a lot of effort into this.
This is a direct quote from my SIL:
"What a great turn out at the bone marrow drive! They ran out of packets becuase so many people came for the cheek swab. They also ran out of supplies to donate blood. This is a good thing! I think they said they never get this many donations. They will be doing another drive next month for all those that wanted to come but didn't get to."
It wasn't just successful. It was phenomenal. So many people came out. So many people helped. And they will even get to do it again.
When I read this, I cried a little. Sometimes when you just read people's funny posts on Facebook and joke around with them, you forget how deeply passionate and driven they can be.
I've also been thinking about their friend who needs this, how he must feel seeing all this love and dedication given to him. That's beautiful. That is community. It's love.
This was a good day.
By the way, for more information on bone marrow donation, look here.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Once a Month, I am a Robot
The title isn't a reference to my period. Believe me, during my period, I'm anything but a robot.
No, see, once a month, I get a call from the people who supply me with my CPAP parts. I never talk to a human from the company, it's always a programmed call and always the same series of questions.
*phone rings*
Me: *after fishing phone from my purse or what other place it happens to be hiding from me and looking at the caller ID to make sure I know the number and it's not some bill collector* Hello?
Robot: Hi there. This is_____ ______ .
At this point, I become a robot.
When you talk to a robot, you more or less have to be one. Normal phone voice just won't cut it. The reason is simple. Robots do not understand inflection or tone or accents. So any time you're speaking to a computer program on a phone, you more or less have to sound as much like that program as possible.
So the conversation continues:
Medical Supply Robot: Am I speaking with the person who uses a CPAP/BiPAP at this address? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.
Medical Supply Robot: Are you using your CPAP/BiPAP equipment? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.
My robot voice is as flat, clear, and non inflected as possible. My roommate can always tell when I'm doing this call, because all he years is "Yes" about ten times. Well, and one no. One question is asked to where you have to respond with a no. I guess this is to insure you're not a real robot. Just a human being one at the moment.
The only time during the whole phone call when I'm not a robot is during one brief moment of snarky eye rolling. There is a point when the phone robot says, "Your insurance provider cares about you and promotes your health by..." and some other stuff. I'm usually eye rolling at this point because the whole statement sounds like dystopian propaganda. So I ignore that part and wait for my next "Please say yes or no" so I can become a robot again.
Don't get me wrong though. I don't mind being a robot once a month. Quite frankly, I'd rather talk to the robot about my medical supplies than some human. The robot is routine and easy to understand, if boring. We get down to basics and I don't have to try and be polite and I have no tendency to over explain things. I find the medical supply robot to be comforting and we have a pretty good robot-relationship.
And as crazy as this sounds, if they ever changed the policy and made me talk to humans, I'd miss the robot voice. With a human, the whole needful routine of the call would be forced and awkward. The last thing I want every month is a whole phone convo of that.
No, see, once a month, I get a call from the people who supply me with my CPAP parts. I never talk to a human from the company, it's always a programmed call and always the same series of questions.
*phone rings*
Me: *after fishing phone from my purse or what other place it happens to be hiding from me and looking at the caller ID to make sure I know the number and it's not some bill collector* Hello?
Robot: Hi there. This is_____ ______ .
At this point, I become a robot.
When you talk to a robot, you more or less have to be one. Normal phone voice just won't cut it. The reason is simple. Robots do not understand inflection or tone or accents. So any time you're speaking to a computer program on a phone, you more or less have to sound as much like that program as possible.
So the conversation continues:
Medical Supply Robot: Am I speaking with the person who uses a CPAP/BiPAP at this address? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.
Medical Supply Robot: Are you using your CPAP/BiPAP equipment? Please say yes or no.
Robot Me: Yes.
My robot voice is as flat, clear, and non inflected as possible. My roommate can always tell when I'm doing this call, because all he years is "Yes" about ten times. Well, and one no. One question is asked to where you have to respond with a no. I guess this is to insure you're not a real robot. Just a human being one at the moment.
The only time during the whole phone call when I'm not a robot is during one brief moment of snarky eye rolling. There is a point when the phone robot says, "Your insurance provider cares about you and promotes your health by..." and some other stuff. I'm usually eye rolling at this point because the whole statement sounds like dystopian propaganda. So I ignore that part and wait for my next "Please say yes or no" so I can become a robot again.
Don't get me wrong though. I don't mind being a robot once a month. Quite frankly, I'd rather talk to the robot about my medical supplies than some human. The robot is routine and easy to understand, if boring. We get down to basics and I don't have to try and be polite and I have no tendency to over explain things. I find the medical supply robot to be comforting and we have a pretty good robot-relationship.
And as crazy as this sounds, if they ever changed the policy and made me talk to humans, I'd miss the robot voice. With a human, the whole needful routine of the call would be forced and awkward. The last thing I want every month is a whole phone convo of that.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Great Curse of the Christmas Socks
Several years ago, my grandmother (a famously bad gift giver) got my brother, sister-in-law, and me big packages of the world's ugliest and most ill-fitting white socks for Christmas. All three of us sat there in perplexed horror as we pretended to be very happy with the gift. When she left the room, my brother looked at me and asked, in a voice filled with anguish and annoyance, "What are we going to do with these godawful socks?"
Normally, this question would have garnished basic sarcasm from me. But on this fateful day, I was inspired by the ages and said, "We wrap them up in a big, happy box and give them to Dad."
Christmas is always one of the trade offs on the divorced parent thing. Aside from just the fact that, in theory, you get more gifts, there is also the fact that if one event sucks, the other one might not be so bad. There is also the fact that you can regift on a very fast basis. This was one of those cases.
We wrapped up the offending fugly socks and drove over to my grandfather's house. All the way there, we would find ourselves snickering in anticipation of the moment when Dad opened the socks. At one point, I think my brother was laughing so hard, he had to pull the car over for a few minutes.
The moment didn't disappoint either. When Dad opened the socks, the look of dismay and confusion was everything we thought it would be. Through giggles, we explained to him how he'd come to gain possession of his new socks. He laughed with us and we laughed all the way home, even calling our mother to tell her what we did.
The gift of the socks didn't end there. The next year, my dad managed to sneak them back to my brother. A while later, my brother got them back to him. In the years that followed, the socks have been returned over and over again, sometimes for Christmas, sometimes for birthdays. Last year, my sister-in-law got my step-mom a purse for her Christmas, fully packed with the socks inside of it.
You know, I hear a lot of people talk about how the destruction of the traditional family has ruined the rituals and histories that tie people together. I know in some cases that is possibly true, but not always. My brother and I aren't as close to my dad as many other people are to theirs, but we do have this Sock Gift thing going with him. And it wasn't one of those fake, "let's make something to let us all be a family" things. This was spontaneous and meant as a joke. Somehow though, it became something more. And while we probably would never sit around and talk about it, it's important to us.
I think maybe the really beautiful thing about this, if there is a beautiful part to it, is how no one wanted these stupid socks. We pass them around to each other like a hot potato, acting like they really are the worst things in the world. Yet somehow, we love these socks now, because they are a part of how we interact as a family.
This year for Christmas, I got a mattress topper. You know, one of those thick, cushy, wonderful things that makes even the most evilly uncomfortable bed a reasonable place to sleep. Like any good procrastinator, I didn't actually put it on my bed until just today. As I was unzipping the package it came in, I realized I had no idea where the socks had ended up. I paused and looked at the bag, realizing it would be the perfect place to hide them. I smiles a little to myself, thinking about all the ways I could return them to the rest of the family.
When I flipped the topper out, however, there were no socks to be seen. I had been spared the sock curse. I was happy about that . . . but maybe just a little disappointed.
Normally, this question would have garnished basic sarcasm from me. But on this fateful day, I was inspired by the ages and said, "We wrap them up in a big, happy box and give them to Dad."
Christmas is always one of the trade offs on the divorced parent thing. Aside from just the fact that, in theory, you get more gifts, there is also the fact that if one event sucks, the other one might not be so bad. There is also the fact that you can regift on a very fast basis. This was one of those cases.
We wrapped up the offending fugly socks and drove over to my grandfather's house. All the way there, we would find ourselves snickering in anticipation of the moment when Dad opened the socks. At one point, I think my brother was laughing so hard, he had to pull the car over for a few minutes.
The moment didn't disappoint either. When Dad opened the socks, the look of dismay and confusion was everything we thought it would be. Through giggles, we explained to him how he'd come to gain possession of his new socks. He laughed with us and we laughed all the way home, even calling our mother to tell her what we did.
The gift of the socks didn't end there. The next year, my dad managed to sneak them back to my brother. A while later, my brother got them back to him. In the years that followed, the socks have been returned over and over again, sometimes for Christmas, sometimes for birthdays. Last year, my sister-in-law got my step-mom a purse for her Christmas, fully packed with the socks inside of it.
You know, I hear a lot of people talk about how the destruction of the traditional family has ruined the rituals and histories that tie people together. I know in some cases that is possibly true, but not always. My brother and I aren't as close to my dad as many other people are to theirs, but we do have this Sock Gift thing going with him. And it wasn't one of those fake, "let's make something to let us all be a family" things. This was spontaneous and meant as a joke. Somehow though, it became something more. And while we probably would never sit around and talk about it, it's important to us.
I think maybe the really beautiful thing about this, if there is a beautiful part to it, is how no one wanted these stupid socks. We pass them around to each other like a hot potato, acting like they really are the worst things in the world. Yet somehow, we love these socks now, because they are a part of how we interact as a family.
This year for Christmas, I got a mattress topper. You know, one of those thick, cushy, wonderful things that makes even the most evilly uncomfortable bed a reasonable place to sleep. Like any good procrastinator, I didn't actually put it on my bed until just today. As I was unzipping the package it came in, I realized I had no idea where the socks had ended up. I paused and looked at the bag, realizing it would be the perfect place to hide them. I smiles a little to myself, thinking about all the ways I could return them to the rest of the family.
When I flipped the topper out, however, there were no socks to be seen. I had been spared the sock curse. I was happy about that . . . but maybe just a little disappointed.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Not Married
My youngest cousin got engaged last weekend. Aside from one cousin who is in prison, this will make me the only person of my generation in my family on both sides who isn't married. And I'm okay with that.
No, really, I am. I read all the time about how devastated women are because they're not married or not with someone. I watch TV shows that I think are going to be about people being professionals, and it just ends up being about this quest of desperation to FIND SOMEONE TO LOVE ME OMG!
Is that real life? I mean, is that your life? It's certainly not mine.
It was maybe my life when I was in my early 20s. You know, back when I didn't know any better. Though, to be honest, even then I should have known better because my mom had been on the marriages of fail train wreck for so long by then. But at some point, I guess like, I dunno, 24 or so, I realized the whole thing sounded pretty shitty and cast my fortunes elsewhere. And as much as some people might say that's sour grapes, it's really not. I have honestly never seen any marriage that looked like something I would want to be a part of on a daily basis.
Which, okay, that doesn't mean it's that way for everyone. Just because something doesn't seem appealing to me doesn't mean it isn't for someone else. I'm fairly self-aware enough of my weirdness to get that what works for me doesn't work for everyone.
Do I worry about being alone? No, because I'm not alone. I live with one of my best friends in the world. There is nothing remotely like romance between us (ew, it would be like kissing my brother), but there is lots of discussion, laughter, inside jokes, and long term plans. We're good partners.
And one of the nice things about being a fat girl (because there are good things about it) is that everyone assumes you're too pathetic to "lanz an manz" so they don't pressure you about marriage. Just the usual "you should lose weight so you'll be more healthy.....and normal." Which, yeah, that "normal" part probably translates to "lanz a manz," but I'm going to save myself the eye rolls and pretend it's about me wearing something other than black.
No, really, I am. I read all the time about how devastated women are because they're not married or not with someone. I watch TV shows that I think are going to be about people being professionals, and it just ends up being about this quest of desperation to FIND SOMEONE TO LOVE ME OMG!
Is that real life? I mean, is that your life? It's certainly not mine.
It was maybe my life when I was in my early 20s. You know, back when I didn't know any better. Though, to be honest, even then I should have known better because my mom had been on the marriages of fail train wreck for so long by then. But at some point, I guess like, I dunno, 24 or so, I realized the whole thing sounded pretty shitty and cast my fortunes elsewhere. And as much as some people might say that's sour grapes, it's really not. I have honestly never seen any marriage that looked like something I would want to be a part of on a daily basis.
Which, okay, that doesn't mean it's that way for everyone. Just because something doesn't seem appealing to me doesn't mean it isn't for someone else. I'm fairly self-aware enough of my weirdness to get that what works for me doesn't work for everyone.
Do I worry about being alone? No, because I'm not alone. I live with one of my best friends in the world. There is nothing remotely like romance between us (ew, it would be like kissing my brother), but there is lots of discussion, laughter, inside jokes, and long term plans. We're good partners.
And one of the nice things about being a fat girl (because there are good things about it) is that everyone assumes you're too pathetic to "lanz an manz" so they don't pressure you about marriage. Just the usual "you should lose weight so you'll be more healthy.....and normal." Which, yeah, that "normal" part probably translates to "lanz a manz," but I'm going to save myself the eye rolls and pretend it's about me wearing something other than black.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Warm and Content
I haven't started the legging things yet. I just can't get my mind there to do it. I think maybe because my thoughts have been on family and close friends. A lot of people are playing waiting games with their futures right now, which is, let's face it, the worst of all games to play.
I'm playing the waiting game too, but it's more long term. At least for now. Once a couple of things change, I'll have to start getting into a higher gear about life. But I have some time and quite frankly, I'm very grateful for that.
I try to be in that space most of the time, that feeling of gratitude for my situation. I wasn't there for many, many years. I kind of lived in a deep state of depression and hopelessness. It's so good to not be in that anymore. Does that mean everything is perfect? Hardly. However, things are quite beautiful.
I'm playing the waiting game too, but it's more long term. At least for now. Once a couple of things change, I'll have to start getting into a higher gear about life. But I have some time and quite frankly, I'm very grateful for that.
I try to be in that space most of the time, that feeling of gratitude for my situation. I wasn't there for many, many years. I kind of lived in a deep state of depression and hopelessness. It's so good to not be in that anymore. Does that mean everything is perfect? Hardly. However, things are quite beautiful.
- No matter how cold it gets outside, I'm warm inside. The old house and it's two gas stoves keep us very warm.
- I always have people with which to carry on conversations. No matter what, I'm never really alone.
- I have plenty of air to breath, even if, in my case, that is aided by machines.
- I know I am loved.
- I usually see the cat puke before I step in it. That last bit isn't some analogy. I'm serious about it.
Oh, and of course I have Grandmother Youtube to teach me things. I should make her proud and start on the leggings tomorrow. We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Grandmother weaver.....for ten minute pops
I'm going to start looming leg warmers tomorrow. This is a process I've been thinking about for a while, but the actual work will begin when I get back from shopping in the morning.
It's going to be a several loom process, as the length I want to work has a lot of variance in it. That probably wouldn't be an issue for most people's legs, but it is for mine. Not a problem though.
I've been considering doing something on my big loom. I keep looking at it. It's sitting across the room from me on an antique ball and claw table. I think sometimes it gives me guilty stares because I won't work with it. I stare back, but only for a few seconds. I don't want it getting ideas.
I need some though. I think as I work on my leg warmers, I'm going to see what Youtube stuff I can watch over the big ass loom. Youtube has taught me so much about yarn work. My grandmother taught me to crochet, but she didn't know the knit voodoo. I learned some of it from books and from friends, but most of what I learn about yarn craft is from Youtube.
In this way, I've started to think of Youtube as another grandmother. Mind you, this one has several voices, various levels of filming quality, and teaches me things in about ten minute lessons. It's not the same as having a real grandmother, but seeing as all of mine have passed away, I'll take what I can get.
It's going to be a several loom process, as the length I want to work has a lot of variance in it. That probably wouldn't be an issue for most people's legs, but it is for mine. Not a problem though.
I've been considering doing something on my big loom. I keep looking at it. It's sitting across the room from me on an antique ball and claw table. I think sometimes it gives me guilty stares because I won't work with it. I stare back, but only for a few seconds. I don't want it getting ideas.
I need some though. I think as I work on my leg warmers, I'm going to see what Youtube stuff I can watch over the big ass loom. Youtube has taught me so much about yarn work. My grandmother taught me to crochet, but she didn't know the knit voodoo. I learned some of it from books and from friends, but most of what I learn about yarn craft is from Youtube.
In this way, I've started to think of Youtube as another grandmother. Mind you, this one has several voices, various levels of filming quality, and teaches me things in about ten minute lessons. It's not the same as having a real grandmother, but seeing as all of mine have passed away, I'll take what I can get.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Oh, but before I forget it . . .
I has some not so great pictures of the hat. I did these on a loom. My knitting skill is really really basic. More or less just enough to on occasion muster up the skill to make something for someone else, but mostly just to make stuff to keep the roommate and me warm. But as far as I'm concerned, that's just fine. I'm better than I was and it sooths my troubled brain.
Great Art of Destroying
On an emotional level, I've been every where the last couple of days. It's varying from moment to moment. I started out therapy today in a fairly positive move and by half-way through the session, I was in tears, weeping my brains out because everything lately is scaring the hell out of me.
Like I told my therapist, I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm not even really looking for comfort. I guess, more than anything, I just need security and some direction. The crazy thing is, I have both security and direction. Maybe I just don't believe in it.
Belief has always been difficult for me. Half the time, I'm not even sure if I know what it means. I hear people say they believe in things, like God or aliens or whatever....and some of the time, I can even see that something inside them really DOES believe. I'm not sure I have that. I'm not sure if I'm even capable of that.
Do I believe in things? Yes. Do I really believe in them? Maybe. And I'm not just talking about the abstracts here. Sometimes I even question the physical. The older I get, the more liminal everything seems. Oh, and you know that old saying "If you don't believe in something, you'll fall for anything?"
Bull. Shit.
If you don't believe in something, maybe you'll fall for things, but not for very long. Eventually, you start picking part the fabric of everything you come in contact with. I think the more apt saying would be "If you don't believe in something, you're never really that shocked when things start to fall apart."
Hmm. I guess maybe if I am totally sure of anything, it's destruction. And I'm not saying that in a "let's go write a boring poem about it and OMG why didn't Neil Gaiman marry ME" kind of way. I don't see destruction as bad. I don't see the ending of things, the breaking of things, as a horrible moment. Even as much as I hate unraveling, as much as I dislike rearranging my puzzles, deep down I know it's for the best. After all, destruction leads to more creation, often stronger creation with a firmer foundation and a clean slate.
I think this is one of the reasons I have such a fascination with volcanoes. Volcanoes can, and usually DO, destroy everything in their wake. The land is covered in pure molten blackness with all traces of what was there utterly gone. But then, after a while you begin to see new life, plants grow, animals come back. In some cases, you get whole new ecosystems. All from what began as total destruction.
I feel better now. Weird, huh?
Like I told my therapist, I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm not even really looking for comfort. I guess, more than anything, I just need security and some direction. The crazy thing is, I have both security and direction. Maybe I just don't believe in it.
Belief has always been difficult for me. Half the time, I'm not even sure if I know what it means. I hear people say they believe in things, like God or aliens or whatever....and some of the time, I can even see that something inside them really DOES believe. I'm not sure I have that. I'm not sure if I'm even capable of that.
Do I believe in things? Yes. Do I really believe in them? Maybe. And I'm not just talking about the abstracts here. Sometimes I even question the physical. The older I get, the more liminal everything seems. Oh, and you know that old saying "If you don't believe in something, you'll fall for anything?"
Bull. Shit.
If you don't believe in something, maybe you'll fall for things, but not for very long. Eventually, you start picking part the fabric of everything you come in contact with. I think the more apt saying would be "If you don't believe in something, you're never really that shocked when things start to fall apart."
Hmm. I guess maybe if I am totally sure of anything, it's destruction. And I'm not saying that in a "let's go write a boring poem about it and OMG why didn't Neil Gaiman marry ME" kind of way. I don't see destruction as bad. I don't see the ending of things, the breaking of things, as a horrible moment. Even as much as I hate unraveling, as much as I dislike rearranging my puzzles, deep down I know it's for the best. After all, destruction leads to more creation, often stronger creation with a firmer foundation and a clean slate.
I think this is one of the reasons I have such a fascination with volcanoes. Volcanoes can, and usually DO, destroy everything in their wake. The land is covered in pure molten blackness with all traces of what was there utterly gone. But then, after a while you begin to see new life, plants grow, animals come back. In some cases, you get whole new ecosystems. All from what began as total destruction.
I feel better now. Weird, huh?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Philosophy with badly done graphics
A while back I was at a friend's house and decided to play with her kid's toys. It's not that I purposefully go over to people's houses to do this, but then again, she was busy, I was bored, and the toys were plentiful.
As to not seem too pathetic, I selected one of her son's small logic puzzles. In this case, it was one of those number jobbies where you have 1-15 jumbled up on a grid with a blank space. You slide the pieces up and down or sideways to get them in order.
I'm a fairly smart cookie, so within a minute, I had most of it completed. In fact, it basically looked like this.
As to not seem too pathetic, I selected one of her son's small logic puzzles. In this case, it was one of those number jobbies where you have 1-15 jumbled up on a grid with a blank space. You slide the pieces up and down or sideways to get them in order.
I'm a fairly smart cookie, so within a minute, I had most of it completed. In fact, it basically looked like this.
At this point, I paused and stared at the puzzle for a long time. I'd come so far and all I had were those last three to get it perfect. But . . .
See, it was at this moment that I understood this wasn't so much a logic puzzle as a philosophical one. In order to make the last three pieces fit, I had to disrupt the order I'd created in the first 12. I had to risk all of my progress.
And while I managed to do this with the puzzle and actually did it with the hat I've been working on, I'm starting to realize how this applies in a greater sense to my life. There are a lot of times when I find myself in situations where things are somehow working, but not completely. However, the only way I can possibly make them work in a complete way is to unravel everything I've done so far.
This is the basic principle of settling though. "Oh, well it's not exactly right, but it's more or less okay, in a meh sort of way." I hear people all the time saying things like, "well, why didn't he leave that dead end job?" or "why did she stay with the useless husband?"
My answer to them is that puzzle. No one realizes a job is going no where or that a spouse is a soul-sucking assclown at first. These things take time. By the time you do start to realize how bad the situation is, you've already worked hard enough to solve 1-12. At that point, you have to ask yourself if this is enough.
Sometimes, we think 1-12 is enough. Sometimes, getting to that point has been so exhausting and so draining that we're okay with just leaving it at that.
The problem is, it isn't truly ever enough. No matter how much we try to focus on that first part, there is something making us constantly shift our eyes down to those last three numbers and know they're not working. We settled.
I think about 4 years ago, I could easily say my life was one of these puzzles, one where everything was just a mess. 3, 12, blank, 7, 9, probably some numbers that weren't even ON the board, maybe a triangle, and some Lovecraftian symbol just there to drive me insane. I've worked hard at trying to make sense of this. With tears and therapy and sometimes almost near-death moments, I've found a lot of order. I probably am, in my life, close to 1-12. The steps from 12 on . . . they're difficult and scary and to be honest, right at this moment, I'm not even sure they are possible.
Here's the trick though, and the way that I finally DID solve the actual puzzle. I reminded myself that I had solved the first numbers. I knew it was possible. So letting go and allowing myself to jumble them again so I could solve the last few was easier. Every day when I doubt things, like that I can lose weight or find a good job and get the rest of my life in order, I try and remember how bad things were before and how I found my way past them.
1-12 should never be the stumbling block of progress that keeps us from being happy. 1-12 should be the reminder that we've accomplished a lot and we can do even more.
See, it was at this moment that I understood this wasn't so much a logic puzzle as a philosophical one. In order to make the last three pieces fit, I had to disrupt the order I'd created in the first 12. I had to risk all of my progress.
And while I managed to do this with the puzzle and actually did it with the hat I've been working on, I'm starting to realize how this applies in a greater sense to my life. There are a lot of times when I find myself in situations where things are somehow working, but not completely. However, the only way I can possibly make them work in a complete way is to unravel everything I've done so far.
This is the basic principle of settling though. "Oh, well it's not exactly right, but it's more or less okay, in a meh sort of way." I hear people all the time saying things like, "well, why didn't he leave that dead end job?" or "why did she stay with the useless husband?"
My answer to them is that puzzle. No one realizes a job is going no where or that a spouse is a soul-sucking assclown at first. These things take time. By the time you do start to realize how bad the situation is, you've already worked hard enough to solve 1-12. At that point, you have to ask yourself if this is enough.
Sometimes, we think 1-12 is enough. Sometimes, getting to that point has been so exhausting and so draining that we're okay with just leaving it at that.
The problem is, it isn't truly ever enough. No matter how much we try to focus on that first part, there is something making us constantly shift our eyes down to those last three numbers and know they're not working. We settled.
I think about 4 years ago, I could easily say my life was one of these puzzles, one where everything was just a mess. 3, 12, blank, 7, 9, probably some numbers that weren't even ON the board, maybe a triangle, and some Lovecraftian symbol just there to drive me insane. I've worked hard at trying to make sense of this. With tears and therapy and sometimes almost near-death moments, I've found a lot of order. I probably am, in my life, close to 1-12. The steps from 12 on . . . they're difficult and scary and to be honest, right at this moment, I'm not even sure they are possible.
Here's the trick though, and the way that I finally DID solve the actual puzzle. I reminded myself that I had solved the first numbers. I knew it was possible. So letting go and allowing myself to jumble them again so I could solve the last few was easier. Every day when I doubt things, like that I can lose weight or find a good job and get the rest of my life in order, I try and remember how bad things were before and how I found my way past them.
1-12 should never be the stumbling block of progress that keeps us from being happy. 1-12 should be the reminder that we've accomplished a lot and we can do even more.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Jumbled
I'm not even sure where this will go this time. Today was very hard on me emotionally. I'm not even sure exactly why. This happens sometimes. I have these days where I am just a raw ball of nerves and it's everything I can do to contain it and just keep talking and smiling and being somewhat sane and pleasant without just bursting into tears.
Normally I'm not that bad, especially now that I have meds to help me with it. But even now I have days where it's horrible. Everything feels so frayed and I want to just want to curl into a ball and shake. Instead, I start shutting down. I retreat emotionally, almost hitting this fugue state. I talk and I respond, but I'm more or less having to force myself to do so. It's difficult.
On days like this, I just want to drift. Not feel, not think, not experience. I just want to BE....just float along until the parade of crazytastic weirdness has passed through the streets of my brain, packed up its boxes, and skipped out of town for the next few months.
Hopefully that will be tomorrow.
Normally I'm not that bad, especially now that I have meds to help me with it. But even now I have days where it's horrible. Everything feels so frayed and I want to just want to curl into a ball and shake. Instead, I start shutting down. I retreat emotionally, almost hitting this fugue state. I talk and I respond, but I'm more or less having to force myself to do so. It's difficult.
On days like this, I just want to drift. Not feel, not think, not experience. I just want to BE....just float along until the parade of crazytastic weirdness has passed through the streets of my brain, packed up its boxes, and skipped out of town for the next few months.
Hopefully that will be tomorrow.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Hat Redo: Update
Spent the better part of two hours last night lamenting and redoing the hat. There was no construction, just deconstruction and an acceptance of the loss of progress.
That last bit is always difficult for me. I guess for so long I didn't progress with anything that any small bit of forward movement is grasped onto like it's my lifeline. This often gets me into trouble. I knew the hat was flawed. Why do I always have such a disconnect about just undoing my work to make it better?
In the end, I lost about three inches over all. However, things are cleaning back in a position where the hat can not only be redone with a less stupid top, but also lengthened to really fit me the way it needs to. So . . . yay.
By tomorrow, I should be sporting a properly fitting hat with a top I like.
That last bit is always difficult for me. I guess for so long I didn't progress with anything that any small bit of forward movement is grasped onto like it's my lifeline. This often gets me into trouble. I knew the hat was flawed. Why do I always have such a disconnect about just undoing my work to make it better?
In the end, I lost about three inches over all. However, things are cleaning back in a position where the hat can not only be redone with a less stupid top, but also lengthened to really fit me the way it needs to. So . . . yay.
By tomorrow, I should be sporting a properly fitting hat with a top I like.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hat Redo
So I'm rethinking the hat with horns. While I like the concept, it didn't quite work on my head as well I as I wanted it to. The horns are crooked. Okay, on some level that appeals to me, but they just didn't turn out the way I wanted.
I have the problem with having tons of expectations about the things I make. I get this idea of how it will look, then get disappointed when it doesn't turn out that way. This ends up sucking because if I didn't have the expectations to begin with, I would be happy with whatever the result was. Instead, I find myself, in great bitterness, whacking the horns off and just trying not to think about the end result before it comes.
I have the problem with having tons of expectations about the things I make. I get this idea of how it will look, then get disappointed when it doesn't turn out that way. This ends up sucking because if I didn't have the expectations to begin with, I would be happy with whatever the result was. Instead, I find myself, in great bitterness, whacking the horns off and just trying not to think about the end result before it comes.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Organic Expressions
Went to therapy today and we talked about how I'm now blogging. It's something that she's suggested to me before, but knew I would only start when I was ready. I explained to her, when it was first considered, that I could never blog or journal for merely therapy reasons. It had to be more organic than that. Blogging isn't something you should fake.
So far I've blogged everyday, which is something I guess I am committed to doing. I'm not good with commitments though. We'll see how it goes.
I do have goals for this. Big plans. I edited some of my pictures today because I'd thought about making a nice picture-y post. Then I decided I didn't want that to happen. Instead, I worked on my new knitted hat (with horns) and played Facebook games. The hat turned out well-ish. I'm content with it. I don't have a conventional sized head (or anything else) so anything I do is always part of the process of finding out what works best to fit me. The hat I like the fit on most before working on this one was 8 inches long. It was a bit too big so I tried for seven this time. I'm thinking that is just a wee too small, so seven and a half will be the length for next time. I think that should do it.
Even though I first started making things for myself out of need (because nothing fits me properly), I find that as I get better with it, there is a deep satisfaction in designing things for myself. I think no matter where things go with my other goals, self-created fashion will always be with me now.
So far I've blogged everyday, which is something I guess I am committed to doing. I'm not good with commitments though. We'll see how it goes.
I do have goals for this. Big plans. I edited some of my pictures today because I'd thought about making a nice picture-y post. Then I decided I didn't want that to happen. Instead, I worked on my new knitted hat (with horns) and played Facebook games. The hat turned out well-ish. I'm content with it. I don't have a conventional sized head (or anything else) so anything I do is always part of the process of finding out what works best to fit me. The hat I like the fit on most before working on this one was 8 inches long. It was a bit too big so I tried for seven this time. I'm thinking that is just a wee too small, so seven and a half will be the length for next time. I think that should do it.
Even though I first started making things for myself out of need (because nothing fits me properly), I find that as I get better with it, there is a deep satisfaction in designing things for myself. I think no matter where things go with my other goals, self-created fashion will always be with me now.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Socially Responsible Recluse
I feel anti-social today. Deeply so. I don't want to talk to people or be around people or even know other people exist.
I think we all feel this way sometimes. And, of course, this isn't how I am constantly, just sometimes. Like now.
It's been a hard week. The shootings in Arizona, tragic and horrible all on their own, led to the mass commentary afterward. Instead of focusing on and celebrating the lives of those who died and hoping for the recovery for those injured, most people are spending their time wondering how this impacts the political climate. Should we ban guns? Should we stop watching certain news shows? Should we stop letting politicians appear in public? Should we do something about crazy people?
And, of course, America's biggest attention whore, that hate-mongering zombie from Kansas and his "church" of bored crazies who seem to have an endless supply if protest signs, plan on adding fuel to the fire by demonstrating at the funerals.
This is what is making me so anti-social. The whole thing is just one mess layered on another mess. And right now, I am deeply annoyed with almost all of these people.
But you know what? When I am anti-social and dislike other humans, I do not go out and shoot them or protest at their funerals. Nope. I stay IN MY HOUSE and away from everyone else. This is a rather simple concept and far easier than buying guns or driving miles from home to hold up signs and be a jackass. Sit in your house, work on some project, maybe clean the bathroom, or throw out some old clothes. It's productive for you, soothing, and far more socially responsible than the alternatives.
I think we all feel this way sometimes. And, of course, this isn't how I am constantly, just sometimes. Like now.
It's been a hard week. The shootings in Arizona, tragic and horrible all on their own, led to the mass commentary afterward. Instead of focusing on and celebrating the lives of those who died and hoping for the recovery for those injured, most people are spending their time wondering how this impacts the political climate. Should we ban guns? Should we stop watching certain news shows? Should we stop letting politicians appear in public? Should we do something about crazy people?
And, of course, America's biggest attention whore, that hate-mongering zombie from Kansas and his "church" of bored crazies who seem to have an endless supply if protest signs, plan on adding fuel to the fire by demonstrating at the funerals.
This is what is making me so anti-social. The whole thing is just one mess layered on another mess. And right now, I am deeply annoyed with almost all of these people.
But you know what? When I am anti-social and dislike other humans, I do not go out and shoot them or protest at their funerals. Nope. I stay IN MY HOUSE and away from everyone else. This is a rather simple concept and far easier than buying guns or driving miles from home to hold up signs and be a jackass. Sit in your house, work on some project, maybe clean the bathroom, or throw out some old clothes. It's productive for you, soothing, and far more socially responsible than the alternatives.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Legacy of Boobies
My aunt is having her breasts removed today. While she is my aunt by marriage, she is still the third woman in my family who has had breast cancer. She's 13 hours away, but my thoughts are with her right now. My thoughts are with her and with the role this cancer has played in my life.
Both of my grandmothers developed breast cancer at the age of 42.
My father's mother went through the surgery and treatments, but died. My father was 18 at the time and this broke a large piece of who he was and shattered it into tiny fragments. No one talked about death or how to grieve back then and so my father's method of handling this was self-medication and emotional distance. Oh, he also got someone pregnant. I resulted from that. So while I never met this woman, her life, and her death from breast cancer, had a very strong impact on my life.
My mother's mother had a radical mastectomy and lived. As this was also before I was born, I never knew her in any other way than as the woman who only had one breast. As an adult, and with some reflection, I know she felt disfigured by this. It was a horrible, but necessary event that kept her from dying. While what had happened to her was explained to me in the terms children can understand, all I knew for years was that she was Gran.
A lot of people get annoyed with the games on Facebook to raise breast cancer awareness. I don't. Thinking about bra colors or where you put your purse is a far easier than thinking about dead grandmas or disfigured ones or someone putting poison in your body or someone else being 13 hours away and you can't even hold their hand or kiss their cheek as they get wheeled into a surgery that will save their life, but leave many scars.
Both of my grandmothers developed breast cancer at the age of 42.
My father's mother went through the surgery and treatments, but died. My father was 18 at the time and this broke a large piece of who he was and shattered it into tiny fragments. No one talked about death or how to grieve back then and so my father's method of handling this was self-medication and emotional distance. Oh, he also got someone pregnant. I resulted from that. So while I never met this woman, her life, and her death from breast cancer, had a very strong impact on my life.
My mother's mother had a radical mastectomy and lived. As this was also before I was born, I never knew her in any other way than as the woman who only had one breast. As an adult, and with some reflection, I know she felt disfigured by this. It was a horrible, but necessary event that kept her from dying. While what had happened to her was explained to me in the terms children can understand, all I knew for years was that she was Gran.
A lot of people get annoyed with the games on Facebook to raise breast cancer awareness. I don't. Thinking about bra colors or where you put your purse is a far easier than thinking about dead grandmas or disfigured ones or someone putting poison in your body or someone else being 13 hours away and you can't even hold their hand or kiss their cheek as they get wheeled into a surgery that will save their life, but leave many scars.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Like Minded Losers
Like anyone else who is crazypants, I see a therapist. We talk about lots of stuff, most of which I will discuss here at some point or another. One of our frequent topics is how I often freeze myself in a spiral of failure.
To hear me talk, most people would assume I have a home on Delusional Street because when I discuss myself, I tend to shy away from all the self-defeat going on in my head and just discuss the good points. Mind you, I'm trying to make this the inner discussion as well, somehow without having to move to Delusional Street.
One of the things I obsess about a lot is being an adult. Okay, so I'm recently 37. And I know to a lot of people, hey, even to me, that sounds like an age where you should really have your life together. Everything should be all organized and functioning and proper. Hah.
I would go into detail about how this doesn't work, but there is no way I could say it as well as it was said here. When I read this, I was just floored at how well it captured my continue spiral of adult fail. This post is very popular, because I think it captured most people's feelings. We have no idea how to do this.
But in a way, I think that is our strength. As adults at this time, we have a lot more flexibility of thought than adults ever have before. I think it's great that at 37, I can proclaim that I have no idea how to do this, this, this, and this, and people get it. Because they don't know how either.
When I think back on the adults I knew when I was a child, I think they were just as confused as anyone these days. Most of them went through the motions of "doing adult stuff" and hoping that it would make a difference. Sometimes it did, but even then, they would seem somewhat empty about it. And I hate that for them.
One thing I do know for sure. I don't feel empty. Oh, and my bills are paid. I guess that's some level of good adulting for a while.
To hear me talk, most people would assume I have a home on Delusional Street because when I discuss myself, I tend to shy away from all the self-defeat going on in my head and just discuss the good points. Mind you, I'm trying to make this the inner discussion as well, somehow without having to move to Delusional Street.
One of the things I obsess about a lot is being an adult. Okay, so I'm recently 37. And I know to a lot of people, hey, even to me, that sounds like an age where you should really have your life together. Everything should be all organized and functioning and proper. Hah.
I would go into detail about how this doesn't work, but there is no way I could say it as well as it was said here. When I read this, I was just floored at how well it captured my continue spiral of adult fail. This post is very popular, because I think it captured most people's feelings. We have no idea how to do this.
But in a way, I think that is our strength. As adults at this time, we have a lot more flexibility of thought than adults ever have before. I think it's great that at 37, I can proclaim that I have no idea how to do this, this, this, and this, and people get it. Because they don't know how either.
When I think back on the adults I knew when I was a child, I think they were just as confused as anyone these days. Most of them went through the motions of "doing adult stuff" and hoping that it would make a difference. Sometimes it did, but even then, they would seem somewhat empty about it. And I hate that for them.
One thing I do know for sure. I don't feel empty. Oh, and my bills are paid. I guess that's some level of good adulting for a while.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Fake Tears
Oh look! Third post is about some passive/aggressive thing. Or maybe third post is some long poem!
No, actually, this post is about eye drops.
Most of my life, I've suffered from dry eyes. It's one of those things that you get so used to that you don't even think about it anymore. It's one of those little pains that never goes away, just strains on you hour after hour until eventually, you shut your stinging, abused eyes for several hours of sleep.
Why it took me to 37 to realize this didn't have to be the case is beyond me.
I would occasionally use eye drops, but not that often. A lot of this had to do with the basic fear of putting things into my eyes. I hate that so much. When something even comes near them my eye starts to blink and protest, well, you know, in its own EYE kind of way. There was also the fact that I never mastered the drop thing. Instead of just squeezing out one or two drops, I would go from nothing nothing NOTHING...to a flood. It was always horrible.
The thing is, most of that was due to lack of practice and familiarity. My roommate started using them on a regular basis after an eye appointment and they helped him a lot. He suggested I try it and I wasn't sure, mostly for the reasons mentioned above. I gave it a shot though. I'm so glad I did.
Really, eye drops can be wonderful for people in my situation. Putting them in causes almost immediate relief from the stingies. As I said above, the pain is something you get used to, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. It's so much easier to focus when you don't feel like tiny needles are stabbing into your iris. I found I could stay up longer and got less headaches. I could even see with more clarity for longer periods of time.
I overcame my fear about it by reminding my eyes how much better they would feel. They began to work with me, in their own EYE kind of way, and were thankful. As for controlling the drops, that has come with practice. I can safely say there have only been a few mishaps.
I try to do them at night before going to bed, just to take out the last of the evening sting, and in the morning when I wake up. Sometimes I have to reapply midday, especially if I've been stirring up dust or the cats are shedding. My roommate put a bottle of drops on the bathroom counter. It's by my toothbrush, which honestly makes it easier for me to remember to do it.
OH! And they have drops for people with allergies. I will warn you, those burn when you first put them in. It's horrible. But it's temporary. After that, you feel so much better.
In conclusion, fake tears can SO be your friend. If you are tired of the constant nagging ache in your eye sockets, eye drops may help a lot. There really is no reason to suffer.
No, actually, this post is about eye drops.
Most of my life, I've suffered from dry eyes. It's one of those things that you get so used to that you don't even think about it anymore. It's one of those little pains that never goes away, just strains on you hour after hour until eventually, you shut your stinging, abused eyes for several hours of sleep.
Why it took me to 37 to realize this didn't have to be the case is beyond me.
I would occasionally use eye drops, but not that often. A lot of this had to do with the basic fear of putting things into my eyes. I hate that so much. When something even comes near them my eye starts to blink and protest, well, you know, in its own EYE kind of way. There was also the fact that I never mastered the drop thing. Instead of just squeezing out one or two drops, I would go from nothing nothing NOTHING...to a flood. It was always horrible.
The thing is, most of that was due to lack of practice and familiarity. My roommate started using them on a regular basis after an eye appointment and they helped him a lot. He suggested I try it and I wasn't sure, mostly for the reasons mentioned above. I gave it a shot though. I'm so glad I did.
Really, eye drops can be wonderful for people in my situation. Putting them in causes almost immediate relief from the stingies. As I said above, the pain is something you get used to, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. It's so much easier to focus when you don't feel like tiny needles are stabbing into your iris. I found I could stay up longer and got less headaches. I could even see with more clarity for longer periods of time.
I overcame my fear about it by reminding my eyes how much better they would feel. They began to work with me, in their own EYE kind of way, and were thankful. As for controlling the drops, that has come with practice. I can safely say there have only been a few mishaps.
I try to do them at night before going to bed, just to take out the last of the evening sting, and in the morning when I wake up. Sometimes I have to reapply midday, especially if I've been stirring up dust or the cats are shedding. My roommate put a bottle of drops on the bathroom counter. It's by my toothbrush, which honestly makes it easier for me to remember to do it.
OH! And they have drops for people with allergies. I will warn you, those burn when you first put them in. It's horrible. But it's temporary. After that, you feel so much better.
In conclusion, fake tears can SO be your friend. If you are tired of the constant nagging ache in your eye sockets, eye drops may help a lot. There really is no reason to suffer.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Second Post
As uncreative as that title sounds, I did it for a reason. See, I've started a lot of blogs over the years. Livejournal, Deadjournal, other stuff I can't remember. I was always really good at that first post, but by the second post, I was having . . .well, second thoughts about the whole thing. Do I really want people reading my journals?
Second posts are like second dates. Okay, you go on the first date. You have all the awkwardness, but also also the excitement of it. You have hope for what may happen. I mean, let's face it. As much as we want to pretend that a first date is totally casual, it never really is.
Second dates though . . . that is a lot harder. You have less excuse for the awkwardness but also doubts about whether or not you can pull off seeming fun, attractive, and mostly sane for another dinner. I think second dates are probably the hardest of all.
Or you know, I assume they are. I don't date.
But I do start journals. Or I did start journals. Over and over again. There is probably this cyberspace black hole of my good but never fulfilled intentions.
The main difference now is that I've come to that place where follow up doesn't seem so intimidating anymore. I may not sound fun, attractive, or mostly sane, but that's okay.
One of the problems faced by many people who start journals is that they think like writers and not like people who are writing journals. When you're taking Creative Writing 101, they keep telling you to think about your audience. It creates this pressure for performance that makes many people shy away from the blog.
And, okay, some journals are about the audience and only them. But I think for most people, blogs should be about the blogger. This is your own experience in type. Other people will glean from it because of that pesky yet interesting aspect where we all find our common humanity.
Anyway, second post is done. From what I hear, on the third post, we get to go all the way.
Second posts are like second dates. Okay, you go on the first date. You have all the awkwardness, but also also the excitement of it. You have hope for what may happen. I mean, let's face it. As much as we want to pretend that a first date is totally casual, it never really is.
Second dates though . . . that is a lot harder. You have less excuse for the awkwardness but also doubts about whether or not you can pull off seeming fun, attractive, and mostly sane for another dinner. I think second dates are probably the hardest of all.
Or you know, I assume they are. I don't date.
But I do start journals. Or I did start journals. Over and over again. There is probably this cyberspace black hole of my good but never fulfilled intentions.
The main difference now is that I've come to that place where follow up doesn't seem so intimidating anymore. I may not sound fun, attractive, or mostly sane, but that's okay.
One of the problems faced by many people who start journals is that they think like writers and not like people who are writing journals. When you're taking Creative Writing 101, they keep telling you to think about your audience. It creates this pressure for performance that makes many people shy away from the blog.
And, okay, some journals are about the audience and only them. But I think for most people, blogs should be about the blogger. This is your own experience in type. Other people will glean from it because of that pesky yet interesting aspect where we all find our common humanity.
Anyway, second post is done. From what I hear, on the third post, we get to go all the way.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The History of Blackhaired Barbie! Or at least, an explanation of the name.
Hi there. Welcome to my blog.
I'm Blackhaired Barbie. I do not LOOK like a Barbie with black hair. In fact, a friend gave me the nickname as kind of a twisted point of dark humor. However, there is a story behind it.
When I was a little girl, back during a time period known as The 7T's, I played with Barbies. The thing is, I have dark hair and the Barbies were always blond. Now, I know they had dark haired barbie dolls, but they didn't make them as frequently or maybe no one bought them for me or whatever. I had a bunch of ones with light flaxen tresses.
Or I did.
As a plucky little child, I decided I didn't WANT blondes. I wanted dolls with hair like mine. So I started altering their hair color....with pretty much anything I could find. Old mascara, bits of dyes, sometimes ink I pulled out of this or that. One time, I did this with black shoe polish.
Of course, none of this went on clean. Barbie tended to look rather jacked up, with sticky, matted locks of black streaks. Then again, as we were coming into the later 7T's and the early 8D's, that punk thing was going on, so the fact that Barbie looked slovenly and had sticky up hair seemed rather badass to me. I decided I liked this punk edge to them and started giving them piercings with pins and augmenting their clothes. I would draw ripped up fishnet stockings on their legs. They looked great!
Then Gramma found my dolls, decided I'd destroyed them for some ungrateful reason, and tossed them in the trash.
But here's the point, and kind of the point of this blog:
I've never fit in or even wanted the normal stuff out there. Most often, it doesn't appeal to me or just flat out won't work. So I've had to adapt. Often my adaptation is weird. But just as often, it is something that works very well for me, ends up having very deep meaning for me, and just might be something that could help others too.
This blog will be about my continual adaptation to the challenges around me. The strange, sometimes sad, and often humorous ways in which I cope with life. Enjoy.
I'm Blackhaired Barbie. I do not LOOK like a Barbie with black hair. In fact, a friend gave me the nickname as kind of a twisted point of dark humor. However, there is a story behind it.
When I was a little girl, back during a time period known as The 7T's, I played with Barbies. The thing is, I have dark hair and the Barbies were always blond. Now, I know they had dark haired barbie dolls, but they didn't make them as frequently or maybe no one bought them for me or whatever. I had a bunch of ones with light flaxen tresses.
Or I did.
As a plucky little child, I decided I didn't WANT blondes. I wanted dolls with hair like mine. So I started altering their hair color....with pretty much anything I could find. Old mascara, bits of dyes, sometimes ink I pulled out of this or that. One time, I did this with black shoe polish.
Of course, none of this went on clean. Barbie tended to look rather jacked up, with sticky, matted locks of black streaks. Then again, as we were coming into the later 7T's and the early 8D's, that punk thing was going on, so the fact that Barbie looked slovenly and had sticky up hair seemed rather badass to me. I decided I liked this punk edge to them and started giving them piercings with pins and augmenting their clothes. I would draw ripped up fishnet stockings on their legs. They looked great!
Then Gramma found my dolls, decided I'd destroyed them for some ungrateful reason, and tossed them in the trash.
But here's the point, and kind of the point of this blog:
I've never fit in or even wanted the normal stuff out there. Most often, it doesn't appeal to me or just flat out won't work. So I've had to adapt. Often my adaptation is weird. But just as often, it is something that works very well for me, ends up having very deep meaning for me, and just might be something that could help others too.
This blog will be about my continual adaptation to the challenges around me. The strange, sometimes sad, and often humorous ways in which I cope with life. Enjoy.
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