It strikes me that a lot of people spend a great deal of time trying to persuade others into doing things. Buy my product. Join my religion. Pick up my cause. Vote my way. Change your life. Change your mind. Change change change.
The majority of these people, at least the American ones, are loud, often annoying, repetitive, usually boring, and rarely effective. How do I know they're not effective? If they were, we wouldn't have a deeply divided culture.
Actually, the reason most of those trying to tell others what to do/but/believe/change aren't effective is because they lack a foundation in persuasive communication. You can't convince someone to do something if you piss them off. We've talked about that before. You also can't convince someone to do something if they have to motivation to do it.
For instance, let's say you're trying to convince someone that abortion is wrong. What do you do when they explain to you that they don't like people and despise every sound uttered by children and can think of absolutely no reason why there should be more? What if they simply will not accept that cells are people? What if they just don't care? How do you reach them?
As difficult as it is to persuade someone else, quite often we have an even more difficult time in convincing ourselves to do things. Okay, maybe some people don't. The majority of us though, have a very hard time finding ways to be motivated about doing what is best for us . . . or what we assume is best for us.
I go through this a lot with weight loss. I'm considering doing lap band, which is a drastic and life altering measure. I'm scared. Not just scared of the surgery, but scared in general of losing weight. Or, worse, having the surgery and then failing to lose the weight. That would suck so badly.
So, in the meantime, I'm trying to prepare myself for this major life alteration. It's going to be hellish and most of the time, I'm not even sure I want to do it.
I'm sure that shocks, possibly even disgusts a lot of people, the idea that I am not even sure if I want to be not fat. How could anyone NOT wish to be thinner? To many, that doesn't even seem possible.
Let me propose this to you though. And it is the question that has always haunted me about the situation. Why? Why do you want to be all healthy and fit and trim? Why? Are the sacrifices, the deprivations, the work outs, all worth it? What do you get in exchange? What makes the guilt and the anguish and the feelings of self loathing there when you choose to gain the pound and not lose it?
Should I be thin so I can live a long and healthy life? Ohhh, the fiction of this! First of all, being thin doesn't mean you will be healthy any more than being fat means you will die of something related to the fat. It' not even more likely. All the studies done with any type of realism find that cancer and heart disease rates are higher, but not significantly so. And even if they are? Who cares? Who wants to live a long time if it means you don't get to live the way you enjoy?
Should I lose weight so I can have a more active life? My guess is if I wanted a more active life, I wouldn't be this heavy to begin with, because I would be off doing that active life thing.
Should I lose weight so I can be more socially acceptable to others, easier on their eyes, more comforting to them to be around? Oh please! Fuck you all.
Should I lose weight so I can find a boyfriend . . . and then a husband . . . and then CHILDREN? Yes, of course. Because men have always been such a wonderful and positive thing in my life. Of course I want to alter my behavior just to invite more of them in! Hah!
Should I lose weight so I can fit into all the nifty clothes? I actually considered this one for a bit. But you know what? This one actually just pisses me off because as much as the media bitches and moans about people being all fat and stuff, wouldn't you think by now someone besides Lane Bryant would be smart enough to cash in on that and actually start making cool clothes for fat people? Come one! Someone see the market here!
Should I lose weight so everyone will shut up about my weight? Again, I considered this one . . . but then I realized that those who feel the need to harp on my weight will just start nagging me about something else. Worse, they'll nag me more because they'll think they finally won with the weight thing.
Should I lose weight because as medicine becomes more socialized, people with health issues will become the pariah to anyone who wants to bitch about their taxes? I considered this one too. Then I realized that if it gets too annoying, there's always that free death panel option.
But enough of that. I think you get my point. So, so many reasons and all of them fail to motivate me. All reasons, along with other less flattering/sane ones, that I've heard before. None of them work for me. And yes, a lot of why none of them work for me is because I am filled with bitterness and venom, but you see? That is where the failure to persuade things comes in.
I do, however, have two reasons I cannot deny or discard for wanting to lose the weight. Two reasons that can't be justified away or dismissed. At least, not yet.
I would like to not have to hassle with the issues of my weight every day. I would like to not have to take all the special measures necessary, wondering if I can get into places, wondering if people are going to bother me, wondering if the damned blood pressure cuff will fit. I would also enjoy not being in so much pain.
So as I consider this drastic life altering procedure, these are the things I cling to, the facts that give me courage about the whole process. Less hassle. Less pain. These are real, tangible elements. Things I know, for a fact, will change. Things I want to change, want to live without. These are my motivations and my reasons. I'm glad I finally found them.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tuesday Night Blues
I'm not really sure how good my Tuesday night posts will be from now on. Wednesday is therapy day and I just started a program to help people who are adult survivors of childhood sexual trauma learn to cope. I read the chapter. I did the work. Okay, let me rephrase. I read the chapter and I did the work as quickly after the appointment as possible so that I wouldn't procrastinate and put it off. It was finished that day. It's still been on my mind ever since.
On Thursday, it wasn't so bad. Actually, on Thursday, I had some very intense physical issues happening, so my mind was elsewhere anyway. Still, I don't think the chapter would have been such a deal to me anyway because it wasn't on Friday or Saturday either. I relaxed and thought about other things, kept my mind free from the chapter and what I would be doing in therapy.
Sunday though . . . by this time, the chapter gnawed at me. Every question played over in my head, again and again. Every answer written down in myserial killer handwriting ballooned up in my brain as I considered the truth and consequences of response. I was frustrated by some of the questions and frustrated by some of the assumptions made by the book. By Monday, these frustrations found themselves on trail, as I weighed if this book was even the direction I wanted to go.
Today, I'm in somewhat of a half-nervous/half-Zen state about the whole thing. I understand the book is best if it doesn't completely suit me tastes. That means I'm surrendering a bit of control about the situation, which I think is somewhat important in this case. Yeah, I keep taking very deep breaths and telling myself that. We'll see how it goes.
On Thursday, it wasn't so bad. Actually, on Thursday, I had some very intense physical issues happening, so my mind was elsewhere anyway. Still, I don't think the chapter would have been such a deal to me anyway because it wasn't on Friday or Saturday either. I relaxed and thought about other things, kept my mind free from the chapter and what I would be doing in therapy.
Sunday though . . . by this time, the chapter gnawed at me. Every question played over in my head, again and again. Every answer written down in my
Today, I'm in somewhat of a half-nervous/half-Zen state about the whole thing. I understand the book is best if it doesn't completely suit me tastes. That means I'm surrendering a bit of control about the situation, which I think is somewhat important in this case. Yeah, I keep taking very deep breaths and telling myself that. We'll see how it goes.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Wash Woman I Love
I'm not really clear on all the details of where my great-grandmother was born, but I think her mother was already in the US before her birth. I do know that said great-great grandmother (who was named Josie Genta), lost her husband on the ship while traveling to the US from Italy.
I also don't know how it was that she came to live in Arkansas. It seems like a strange place for a young widow with a small child to go. Maybe she had friends here or maybe her new husband did. I really don't know how she found her second husband, who's last name was Vardo, but I do know he only lived long enough to get her pregnant and then, like her first husband, died.
It must have been so scary for her. Here she was in a country she didn't understand, with two babies, and no husband. I think about how much hope she must have had when she and my great-great grandfather boarded that ship. I imagine them holding hands and her so excited about raising her family in America. All of that excitement was replaced by grief and fear when she lost him.
And then again, she found a new husband and thought things would get better. She and her daughter would have someone to help them get through life. When this second husband died, she must have been so devastated. She probably felt like she was doomed. All the while, she had herself and her two children to feed.
What I do know, what is legend on my father's side of the family, is that after her second husband died and her second child (a boy she named Johnny) was born, Great-great-grandmother Josie did not marry again. She moved to a small community called Frogtown, where the Italian immigrants in the area clustered, and she worked by herself to support her children.
Josie didn't speak English, though over time she came to understand it. My grandfather told me that when he was a boy, he spoke Italian with her, though when he spoke in English, she would answer him in Italian and understand him. She wasn't comfortable with the speaking of it though. There were no English as a Second Language classes in this area back then and her access to English speakers was limited.
In fact, the only time she saw English speaking people was when they came to bring her their laundry. This is what Josie did to support herself and her children. Laundry was hard in those days. No washing machines, everything hung on a line to dry, irons solid masses that sat on the stove (that had an actual fire inside, fed, in this area, by wood and coal) and left to get so hot you had to hold it with a towel to keep from scorching yourself.
People would bring their laundry to her and she would beat out the stains, scrub til things were clean, spend hours hanging this stuff out, and then brave the heat of the iron to make it all perfect before folding it into neat piles to be sent back to them. My grandfather said her hands were so rough to the touch. My great-grandmother explained that she would sometimes work until her hands were raw. Actually, I'm not even sure about them bringing it to her part. She may have had to fetch the clothes and stuff herself.
I do know, from what my great-grandmother and my grandfather told me, that the people she worked for were never kind to her. On more than one occasion, they both heard her called "that dirty Italian wash woman." Because she was a widow and young, there were always rumors about her. From what I have been told, she didn't let that phase her. She used what money she got from her work to make clothes for her kids, have enough food on the table, and see that they stayed warm and secure.
I don't know how old she was when she died. I don't know the circumstances of her death or where she even was. I know it was after my grandfather was at least ten, but no one has even discussed more of the details with me. I don't know if she was happy much in her life. I don't know how often she smiled or how her laughter sounded. I don't know what her favorite color was or how much she believed in her faith.
What I do know, is that, while I never met Josie, I love her. I am proud to have come from this woman. I am in awe of how strong she was, how noble she was, in the face of lose and disappointment and so many obstacles. Josie Genta was a problem solver, a survivor, a provider, a champion. She took care of her family when no one else was there to do it. She took care of herself when she lost everything, and did so in a country that was strange to her and where she did not even speak the language. I admire this woman so much.
And I hope that time is more fluid than linear. Because then Josie (in those moments when she was too tired to walk, when her hands were too sore to continue, yet she knew she had no other choice but to keep going) somehow, some way, felt this love from me. I hope that while I'm sitting here in 2011, writing about her and adoring her, back when she needed to feel embraced by someone, she felt it from my love in the future.
I also don't know how it was that she came to live in Arkansas. It seems like a strange place for a young widow with a small child to go. Maybe she had friends here or maybe her new husband did. I really don't know how she found her second husband, who's last name was Vardo, but I do know he only lived long enough to get her pregnant and then, like her first husband, died.
It must have been so scary for her. Here she was in a country she didn't understand, with two babies, and no husband. I think about how much hope she must have had when she and my great-great grandfather boarded that ship. I imagine them holding hands and her so excited about raising her family in America. All of that excitement was replaced by grief and fear when she lost him.
And then again, she found a new husband and thought things would get better. She and her daughter would have someone to help them get through life. When this second husband died, she must have been so devastated. She probably felt like she was doomed. All the while, she had herself and her two children to feed.
What I do know, what is legend on my father's side of the family, is that after her second husband died and her second child (a boy she named Johnny) was born, Great-great-grandmother Josie did not marry again. She moved to a small community called Frogtown, where the Italian immigrants in the area clustered, and she worked by herself to support her children.
Josie didn't speak English, though over time she came to understand it. My grandfather told me that when he was a boy, he spoke Italian with her, though when he spoke in English, she would answer him in Italian and understand him. She wasn't comfortable with the speaking of it though. There were no English as a Second Language classes in this area back then and her access to English speakers was limited.
In fact, the only time she saw English speaking people was when they came to bring her their laundry. This is what Josie did to support herself and her children. Laundry was hard in those days. No washing machines, everything hung on a line to dry, irons solid masses that sat on the stove (that had an actual fire inside, fed, in this area, by wood and coal) and left to get so hot you had to hold it with a towel to keep from scorching yourself.
People would bring their laundry to her and she would beat out the stains, scrub til things were clean, spend hours hanging this stuff out, and then brave the heat of the iron to make it all perfect before folding it into neat piles to be sent back to them. My grandfather said her hands were so rough to the touch. My great-grandmother explained that she would sometimes work until her hands were raw. Actually, I'm not even sure about them bringing it to her part. She may have had to fetch the clothes and stuff herself.
I do know, from what my great-grandmother and my grandfather told me, that the people she worked for were never kind to her. On more than one occasion, they both heard her called "that dirty Italian wash woman." Because she was a widow and young, there were always rumors about her. From what I have been told, she didn't let that phase her. She used what money she got from her work to make clothes for her kids, have enough food on the table, and see that they stayed warm and secure.
I don't know how old she was when she died. I don't know the circumstances of her death or where she even was. I know it was after my grandfather was at least ten, but no one has even discussed more of the details with me. I don't know if she was happy much in her life. I don't know how often she smiled or how her laughter sounded. I don't know what her favorite color was or how much she believed in her faith.
What I do know, is that, while I never met Josie, I love her. I am proud to have come from this woman. I am in awe of how strong she was, how noble she was, in the face of lose and disappointment and so many obstacles. Josie Genta was a problem solver, a survivor, a provider, a champion. She took care of her family when no one else was there to do it. She took care of herself when she lost everything, and did so in a country that was strange to her and where she did not even speak the language. I admire this woman so much.
And I hope that time is more fluid than linear. Because then Josie (in those moments when she was too tired to walk, when her hands were too sore to continue, yet she knew she had no other choice but to keep going) somehow, some way, felt this love from me. I hope that while I'm sitting here in 2011, writing about her and adoring her, back when she needed to feel embraced by someone, she felt it from my love in the future.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
When Ghosts Attack, Will Your Marriage Survive?
My roommate and I were watching some cable level show about ghost hauntings today. We tend to watch shows like this because they have a nice ease of comfortable predictability to them. You know, people move into house, weird shit happens, people call ghost hunters with clever acronym who over explain their equipment, details are uncovered, mystery solved.
There is one predicable aspect of these shows, however, that always annoys us. Inadvertently, the paranormal stuff will start happening to only one person. This person will ignore it until it gets too strange, and then they tell their spouse. Almost always, the spouse blows them off or thinks they're making it up. And even given the mounting fear and panic from their partner, they still continue to disbelieve them until something happens to them.
Whether you believe in ghosts or not, put yourself in this position. There is something deeply frightening to you, something you feel is putting your family and yourself at profound risk . . . and this person who is your partner in life refuses to believe you.
Imagine how frustrating that would feel, how heartbreaking. Think about how, in that moment, you would feel so completely betrayed. So alone.
The sad thing is, I bet for a lot of people, it's not all that difficult to imagine. In many marriages, this is a constant reality. This other person doesn't trust your judgement or take you seriously. Or, maybe you're the person who doesn't take your spouse seriously.
If this is the case, something needs to be done about it. Serious therapy, discussion, and analysis are needed to see if this can be repaired. Sadly, this isn't one of those things I'd keep banging my head against though. Not trusting the judgement of the person you're with is a very serious crack in the foundation of your marriage. If quick steps are made to find a way to fix this, of if this other person is refusing to fix it, it's best to walk away.
If you're not married, but are considering it, here are some important questions you need to ask.
There is one predicable aspect of these shows, however, that always annoys us. Inadvertently, the paranormal stuff will start happening to only one person. This person will ignore it until it gets too strange, and then they tell their spouse. Almost always, the spouse blows them off or thinks they're making it up. And even given the mounting fear and panic from their partner, they still continue to disbelieve them until something happens to them.
Whether you believe in ghosts or not, put yourself in this position. There is something deeply frightening to you, something you feel is putting your family and yourself at profound risk . . . and this person who is your partner in life refuses to believe you.
Imagine how frustrating that would feel, how heartbreaking. Think about how, in that moment, you would feel so completely betrayed. So alone.
The sad thing is, I bet for a lot of people, it's not all that difficult to imagine. In many marriages, this is a constant reality. This other person doesn't trust your judgement or take you seriously. Or, maybe you're the person who doesn't take your spouse seriously.
If this is the case, something needs to be done about it. Serious therapy, discussion, and analysis are needed to see if this can be repaired. Sadly, this isn't one of those things I'd keep banging my head against though. Not trusting the judgement of the person you're with is a very serious crack in the foundation of your marriage. If quick steps are made to find a way to fix this, of if this other person is refusing to fix it, it's best to walk away.
If you're not married, but are considering it, here are some important questions you need to ask.
- Does this person take me seriously?
- Do I take this person seriously?
- Do I trust this person's judgement about life decisions?
- Does this person trust my judgement about life decisions?
- Do I believe this person when they say something?
- Does this person believe me when I say something?
- Does this person respect me?
- Do I respect this person?
- Does this person demand to be decision maker no matter what?
- Do I demand to be the decision maker no matter what?
If the answer to any of these questions is "no," then this is not the person with which you should commit your life. It doesn't matter how much you love them, it doesn't matter what some religion or culture says, it doesn't matter if they have money or you have kids together or anything.
If you cannot trust and respect each other, if you cannot be mindful of each other's opinions, then the marriage will always be lopsided and flawed.
You know, a lot of people have unrealistic expectations of marriage partners. They want someone to be perfect. They want someone who is beautiful and funny and rich and sane and sexy, but classy and interesting and well, you know the list can go on and on. We also know that in a very real sense, most of this isn't likely to happen.
However, you can find someone you trust and someone who trusts you. It means being discerning about your choice and it also means being very honest about yourself, but in the long run, this will help you find someone who, when you keep seeing blood flowing down the walls and zombies knocking on the doors, actually believes you when you tell them that it's probably a good idea to move.
If you cannot trust and respect each other, if you cannot be mindful of each other's opinions, then the marriage will always be lopsided and flawed.
You know, a lot of people have unrealistic expectations of marriage partners. They want someone to be perfect. They want someone who is beautiful and funny and rich and sane and sexy, but classy and interesting and well, you know the list can go on and on. We also know that in a very real sense, most of this isn't likely to happen.
However, you can find someone you trust and someone who trusts you. It means being discerning about your choice and it also means being very honest about yourself, but in the long run, this will help you find someone who, when you keep seeing blood flowing down the walls and zombies knocking on the doors, actually believes you when you tell them that it's probably a good idea to move.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Be Young and Beautiful if You Want to be Loved
Oh look, a study came out saying the same old tired things that these studies always say. Women feel old by 29 because blah blah blah magazines society blah blah. Men don't feel old until 58 blah blah. People are all up in arms about it, talking about how unfair it is and how much society sucks for this reason or that and how whatever group you have to belong to is being oppressed by the other groups. Le sigh.
Do I feel older now as compared to how I felt at 18 or whatever? Yes. I'm 37. There are people my age who have grandchildren. Do I have things that sag more and bag more and crow's feet and gray hairs? Yes. Do I know that I often feel out of the loop, unaware of the slang, lost in the newer culture, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the years I've lived? Yes.
But would I trade any of this for the feeling of security I have in myself now? No. Would I trade it for my even darker sense of humor? No. Would I trade it for the wisdom (even what little I have) gained from years of trial and error? No.
Would I go back to the emotional hell of 18? No. Would I go back to the naivety of believing in love and marriage and college will get you great jobs? No.
Because this is the thing, we feel older because we are older. Does that make us OLD? No. It doesn't make us young either. And while many people, so many people grasp and try to hold onto the idea of being young, we tend to do so forgetting how much being young really does suck.
We lament at how society caters to the young and the beautiful, but, honestly, is that the life you want? Would you want to be your age and still get treated like a piece of meat? Would you want to be a 39 year old guy and sound like or look like Justin Bieber?
And yes, older men like younger women. Does that mean there are less men for you to date because they want the younger girls? Yes. But . . . do you really want to be with a man who is obsessed with youth and nubile beauty? I realize I'm being very judgmental, but I've always been of the opinion that if you have to live out Steely Dan's "Hey 19" with someone who doesn't even know what the hell Steely Dan is, then you're probably not someone I would be happy with anyway.
So this is what I say to the study. Yes, I feel older. Yes, I'm not young and pretty and blah blah. Luckily? I'm old enough to not care enough about that to let it phase me. I'm mature enough to know that getting older is better than being young and impressionable and easier to take advantage of.
Though, I say all of this knowing my situation is somewhat different than the typical woman. I was never complimented on my looks as a child, so my self-esteem isn't chained to that concept. Mine is more tied up with my ability to be a smart ass. I don't want kids, so my biological clock is ignored or, more often, mocked. It doesn't matter if I "finds a manz," because marriage is so not for me. And I'm still Gen X slacker enough to measure my worth not in financial success but in how much I can find meaning in each day.
Even as I write that, I realize that while I'm not the typical woman, there are probably more and more women who feel the way I do. The nice thing about having pervasive jadedness as a cultural norm is that more and more people view the social myths and trappings as nothing more than a set of lies at which to roll one's eyes.
In the end, I think it's less about women really feeling old at 29 and more about how much society needs them to feel old at 29. We have whole industries hinged on this. We have control measures and self-worth destroying tactics built from this. Industries and institutions thrive off the idea that women need to be young and beautiful, and to do so, should be on a diet or in a chair sticking poison into their skin to numb expressions or under a knife or under a man or any number of other things where they throw away their money and common sense and self-love so that the rest of the world can profit from their labors.
In the meantime, the rest of us fat old ugly broads will be over in the corner drinking our martinis and not giving a damn if you think we're pretty or valued or whatever. If you suspect we're amused that this annoys you, we are. We don't need your approval. We don't need your love. We don't need you. Thanks all the same though.
Do I feel older now as compared to how I felt at 18 or whatever? Yes. I'm 37. There are people my age who have grandchildren. Do I have things that sag more and bag more and crow's feet and gray hairs? Yes. Do I know that I often feel out of the loop, unaware of the slang, lost in the newer culture, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the years I've lived? Yes.
But would I trade any of this for the feeling of security I have in myself now? No. Would I trade it for my even darker sense of humor? No. Would I trade it for the wisdom (even what little I have) gained from years of trial and error? No.
Would I go back to the emotional hell of 18? No. Would I go back to the naivety of believing in love and marriage and college will get you great jobs? No.
Because this is the thing, we feel older because we are older. Does that make us OLD? No. It doesn't make us young either. And while many people, so many people grasp and try to hold onto the idea of being young, we tend to do so forgetting how much being young really does suck.
We lament at how society caters to the young and the beautiful, but, honestly, is that the life you want? Would you want to be your age and still get treated like a piece of meat? Would you want to be a 39 year old guy and sound like or look like Justin Bieber?
And yes, older men like younger women. Does that mean there are less men for you to date because they want the younger girls? Yes. But . . . do you really want to be with a man who is obsessed with youth and nubile beauty? I realize I'm being very judgmental, but I've always been of the opinion that if you have to live out Steely Dan's "Hey 19" with someone who doesn't even know what the hell Steely Dan is, then you're probably not someone I would be happy with anyway.
So this is what I say to the study. Yes, I feel older. Yes, I'm not young and pretty and blah blah. Luckily? I'm old enough to not care enough about that to let it phase me. I'm mature enough to know that getting older is better than being young and impressionable and easier to take advantage of.
Though, I say all of this knowing my situation is somewhat different than the typical woman. I was never complimented on my looks as a child, so my self-esteem isn't chained to that concept. Mine is more tied up with my ability to be a smart ass. I don't want kids, so my biological clock is ignored or, more often, mocked. It doesn't matter if I "finds a manz," because marriage is so not for me. And I'm still Gen X slacker enough to measure my worth not in financial success but in how much I can find meaning in each day.
Even as I write that, I realize that while I'm not the typical woman, there are probably more and more women who feel the way I do. The nice thing about having pervasive jadedness as a cultural norm is that more and more people view the social myths and trappings as nothing more than a set of lies at which to roll one's eyes.
In the end, I think it's less about women really feeling old at 29 and more about how much society needs them to feel old at 29. We have whole industries hinged on this. We have control measures and self-worth destroying tactics built from this. Industries and institutions thrive off the idea that women need to be young and beautiful, and to do so, should be on a diet or in a chair sticking poison into their skin to numb expressions or under a knife or under a man or any number of other things where they throw away their money and common sense and self-love so that the rest of the world can profit from their labors.
In the meantime, the rest of us fat old ugly broads will be over in the corner drinking our martinis and not giving a damn if you think we're pretty or valued or whatever. If you suspect we're amused that this annoys you, we are. We don't need your approval. We don't need your love. We don't need you. Thanks all the same though.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Friday List: The Week is Over and I am so Deeply Glad
This week sucked. There is actually no way around that at all. It just sucked and sucked some more and then decided to take death blows of sucking today. It's over though. Yes, I know the week is not technically over, but like any person who has spent most of their life in the pattern of "the responsible annoying stuff happens Monday through Friday and then YAY!WEEKEND!" Friday is the end of the week.
In the spirit of finding some hope in the universe, I'm not going to make this Friday list about the shitsack aspects of the week. The anxiety attacks and the moments of almost pulling out my hair and late paperwork and yelling and screaming and all of that are now just floating away in the past of Week from Hell. Instead, I shall focus on what went RIGHT this week.
In the spirit of finding some hope in the universe, I'm not going to make this Friday list about the shitsack aspects of the week. The anxiety attacks and the moments of almost pulling out my hair and late paperwork and yelling and screaming and all of that are now just floating away in the past of Week from Hell. Instead, I shall focus on what went RIGHT this week.
- I learned how to do some crap on my computer. Instead of just throwing my hands up in frustration, I asked questions, read blog posts, consulted with some living people, and learned some stuff. Kind of. And while the computer may not be 100%, it's better than it was. Or, at the very least, I know how to avoid its problems.
- Instead of remaining uncomfortable in a situation, I spoke up and got myself out of it.
- I have some of the most understanding friends in the world.
- I took the first steps to dealing with something that has been in my life since I was a small child.
- I found a new band to love.
- By today, all of our paperwork came in.
- Despite this week being hellish, I can sit here at the end of it and find positive enough to actually write a list about the good stuff. For me, this is a MAJOR change.
So, in a week of bad and sucky, I did find some good stuff. I'm so happy about that. I really am. Here's hoping next week is better.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Survivor as Example in how NOT to Ask for Help
There are many things that prevent communication. A major preventative is angering the people with which you intend to communicate. Granted, if you really don't give a damn about any actual communication or exchange of ideas, I guess this is fine. However, if you do care about actual communication, pissing people off is a mistake.
Consider how many times you have wanted to explain an idea to someone and started out with a statement or action that put them on the defensive. Sometimes this works the way you intend. More often though, you will find people go into either offensive, defensive, or avoidance mode with you. Whatever you goal with is suddenly unattainable.
Do you quite often find yourself frustrated because people won't listen to you? If so, accept the fact that the only person you can change in this situation is you. If they don't listen to what you are saying the way you are saying it, try another way. Consider presenting your argument in a way that appeals to them but still accomplishes your goals.
There was a good example of how not to do this on Survivor season 22, episode 6 entitled "Their Redheaded Stepchild." Crazyman Phillip was tired of two of the girls on his team never working and decided to call them out on it.* They don't take him seriously, so all of his anger and bossiness only served to annoy them. As long as he was going about his communication in this manner, he was never going to get anywhere with them.
Boston Rob actually supplied, in private interview, the approach Phillip should have taken. He could have gone to the girls and said, "Look, you don't really have a lot going for you here. You do about the same in challenges, you're not great with plotting, and you both lack in a lot of personality. So if you help around camp, it is a point in your favor if you make it to the end and people are voting on you."
I don't think in a million years Phillip would have come up with this, but if he had, he might have gotten more help with the fire. Even if he didn't believe it for a minute, he was still getting no where with his current approach. A new angle certainly couldn't have hurt him. Phillip doesn't know how to play a good social game though. He's too literal, linear, and crazy. Which is an odd cocktail of personality, really.
Anyway, if you find yourself in a situation where you want someone to do something and want it badly, don't be lazy about this. If you've approached this idea from one angle and just end up angering the person/people , think about them and what they want. Consider their goals and needs. Instead of coming at them with "I need" or "I want," start with a statement about something related to one of their own goals/desires. Show how what you want can work into that. Smile, stay calm, and show how much benefit both of you can find in this arrangement.
Who knows? You might just get what you want after all.
Consider how many times you have wanted to explain an idea to someone and started out with a statement or action that put them on the defensive. Sometimes this works the way you intend. More often though, you will find people go into either offensive, defensive, or avoidance mode with you. Whatever you goal with is suddenly unattainable.
Do you quite often find yourself frustrated because people won't listen to you? If so, accept the fact that the only person you can change in this situation is you. If they don't listen to what you are saying the way you are saying it, try another way. Consider presenting your argument in a way that appeals to them but still accomplishes your goals.
There was a good example of how not to do this on Survivor season 22, episode 6 entitled "Their Redheaded Stepchild." Crazyman Phillip was tired of two of the girls on his team never working and decided to call them out on it.* They don't take him seriously, so all of his anger and bossiness only served to annoy them. As long as he was going about his communication in this manner, he was never going to get anywhere with them.
Boston Rob actually supplied, in private interview, the approach Phillip should have taken. He could have gone to the girls and said, "Look, you don't really have a lot going for you here. You do about the same in challenges, you're not great with plotting, and you both lack in a lot of personality. So if you help around camp, it is a point in your favor if you make it to the end and people are voting on you."
I don't think in a million years Phillip would have come up with this, but if he had, he might have gotten more help with the fire. Even if he didn't believe it for a minute, he was still getting no where with his current approach. A new angle certainly couldn't have hurt him. Phillip doesn't know how to play a good social game though. He's too literal, linear, and crazy. Which is an odd cocktail of personality, really.
Anyway, if you find yourself in a situation where you want someone to do something and want it badly, don't be lazy about this. If you've approached this idea from one angle and just end up angering the person/people , think about them and what they want. Consider their goals and needs. Instead of coming at them with "I need" or "I want," start with a statement about something related to one of their own goals/desires. Show how what you want can work into that. Smile, stay calm, and show how much benefit both of you can find in this arrangement.
Who knows? You might just get what you want after all.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
And After the Panic Dance, Miss Blackhaired Barbie Reflected Some More
The day got progressively better. The roommate and I tackled some of our paperwork issues. I talked to a friend about walking me through a possible fix on my computer. Clothes got washed, games got played, meds kicked in. After a while, things were calmer.
My blog wanders all over the place. I guess because there are a lot of aspects of myself that I want to write about. No, no, I'm not talking about other personalities. Believe me, it's all my personality. I just mean that sometimes I want to explore communication theories, sometimes I want to snark, sometimes I want to happyhappy, and sometimes, I need to break the hell down.
I'm good with this. The blog is what it needs to be. A tangible documentation of where my brain is on any given day. It's therapeutic for me, possibly for others. Beyond that, it is insight into me, just in case anyone is ever interested in that sort of thing down the line.
Think about it. If I died tonight or the aliens came to get me or whatever, there would be 60 some odd entries for my family to have. They could read them, puzzle over them. You know, that kind of thing that people do when someone dies. If nothing else, I have accomplished to leave a lasting record of the weird dance that is me.
Not that I'm planning to die to night or anything. You get the idea though.
Also, look at the change in my mood and motives. Earlier today, I talked about not wanting to communicate, not wanting to reach out, not wanting to be social. Now, all of these things are important again. Vital. I also don't see them as an impossible goal so much as something I take for granted. Anxiety attacks are such nasty things. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff and thinking with frantic hopelessness that it would be so much better to just go ahead and jump.
Here we are, hours later, and the threat of complete mental collapse seems like a distant thing. I would so love to say I'll never be that bad off again. I know it's not true though. I can always hope though.
Well, at least I can hope when I'm not in the panic attack. Hah! I'm even joking about it now.
My blog wanders all over the place. I guess because there are a lot of aspects of myself that I want to write about. No, no, I'm not talking about other personalities. Believe me, it's all my personality. I just mean that sometimes I want to explore communication theories, sometimes I want to snark, sometimes I want to happyhappy, and sometimes, I need to break the hell down.
I'm good with this. The blog is what it needs to be. A tangible documentation of where my brain is on any given day. It's therapeutic for me, possibly for others. Beyond that, it is insight into me, just in case anyone is ever interested in that sort of thing down the line.
Think about it. If I died tonight or the aliens came to get me or whatever, there would be 60 some odd entries for my family to have. They could read them, puzzle over them. You know, that kind of thing that people do when someone dies. If nothing else, I have accomplished to leave a lasting record of the weird dance that is me.
Not that I'm planning to die to night or anything. You get the idea though.
Also, look at the change in my mood and motives. Earlier today, I talked about not wanting to communicate, not wanting to reach out, not wanting to be social. Now, all of these things are important again. Vital. I also don't see them as an impossible goal so much as something I take for granted. Anxiety attacks are such nasty things. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff and thinking with frantic hopelessness that it would be so much better to just go ahead and jump.
Here we are, hours later, and the threat of complete mental collapse seems like a distant thing. I would so love to say I'll never be that bad off again. I know it's not true though. I can always hope though.
Well, at least I can hope when I'm not in the panic attack. Hah! I'm even joking about it now.
Wednesday Emoblah Impressions and Random
I'm in a horrible mood. I've not been sleeping well and on the verge of panic attacks. In fact, I've even been having them again. I had one the other night over something stupid and then I cried the first half of therapy and made absolutely no sense. I don't feel well, things are stressful, and I somewhat want to crawl into a hole and just wish it all away.
It won't go away though, so as I calm down, I begin to prioritize what I can and cannot fix. I'm working on my computer, which keeps doing annoying things. The thing is, I'm not very GOOD at working on my computer and know very little about it. I hate being ignorant, but I refuse to be willfully ignorant of this, so I'll keep reading and rereading until I understand.
I miss gas being cheap. Back in the day, when gas was blissfully a dollar a gallon, I would get in my car and just drive. I would drive and drive, sometimes just in the same loop, for however long it took to clear my head. It was the best stress relief ever. Gas is too expensive to do that now, which is frightening because I know a lot of people de-stressed that way. I wonder what they do now? I wonder how many glasses get broken and marriages are breaking up because someone couldn't afford to just drive around for an hour.
I started a workbook for adult victims of sexual abuse. On one hand, I'm happy about it. On the other hand, I'm skeptical. One of the first assumptions the book makes is that the purpose of finding a way past sexual abuse is "the goal of learning to love, not pain management." Not sure how I feel about that. I'd much rather have my pain managed and handled. Love isn't really all that much of a priority right now. Maybe that shows how far gone I am.
I know a lot of that has to do with my anxiety levels. When they're high, I want less social, less feeling, less life, not more. I know I'll get past it, but in the moment it's hard. Numb sounds so good right now. Numb numb numb. It would be such bliss.
If you've never suffered from anxiety, it's a tricky thing. It makes some people loud, violent, and angry. It makes other people weepy and hopeless. Some people become frozen in place. Some become suicidal. Sometimes you are all of this, all at once, all of it spiraling inside of your head, making it hard to breath or function or even live.
When the panic subsides, I'm always left reflective, jaded, and cynical. I'm always angry that the panic attack happened, that I was betrayed by my own chemistry. I understand, in those moments, oh so well why people become addicts. Renton made so much sense to me in Trainspotting when he said, "Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?"
Not that I'll do smack. I don't have the money for smack. Beyond that, I know better. I know the anxiety will pass and I'll be back to positive perky happy me. Until then, we just hold on for dear life and hope to fuck nothing happens to trip me over the edge into another panic attack.
It won't go away though, so as I calm down, I begin to prioritize what I can and cannot fix. I'm working on my computer, which keeps doing annoying things. The thing is, I'm not very GOOD at working on my computer and know very little about it. I hate being ignorant, but I refuse to be willfully ignorant of this, so I'll keep reading and rereading until I understand.
I miss gas being cheap. Back in the day, when gas was blissfully a dollar a gallon, I would get in my car and just drive. I would drive and drive, sometimes just in the same loop, for however long it took to clear my head. It was the best stress relief ever. Gas is too expensive to do that now, which is frightening because I know a lot of people de-stressed that way. I wonder what they do now? I wonder how many glasses get broken and marriages are breaking up because someone couldn't afford to just drive around for an hour.
I started a workbook for adult victims of sexual abuse. On one hand, I'm happy about it. On the other hand, I'm skeptical. One of the first assumptions the book makes is that the purpose of finding a way past sexual abuse is "the goal of learning to love, not pain management." Not sure how I feel about that. I'd much rather have my pain managed and handled. Love isn't really all that much of a priority right now. Maybe that shows how far gone I am.
I know a lot of that has to do with my anxiety levels. When they're high, I want less social, less feeling, less life, not more. I know I'll get past it, but in the moment it's hard. Numb sounds so good right now. Numb numb numb. It would be such bliss.
If you've never suffered from anxiety, it's a tricky thing. It makes some people loud, violent, and angry. It makes other people weepy and hopeless. Some people become frozen in place. Some become suicidal. Sometimes you are all of this, all at once, all of it spiraling inside of your head, making it hard to breath or function or even live.
When the panic subsides, I'm always left reflective, jaded, and cynical. I'm always angry that the panic attack happened, that I was betrayed by my own chemistry. I understand, in those moments, oh so well why people become addicts. Renton made so much sense to me in Trainspotting when he said, "Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?"
Not that I'll do smack. I don't have the money for smack. Beyond that, I know better. I know the anxiety will pass and I'll be back to positive perky happy me. Until then, we just hold on for dear life and hope to fuck nothing happens to trip me over the edge into another panic attack.
Monday, March 21, 2011
On the Day I Needed a Little Serendipity, There It Was
Two years ago this week, my grandmother died. I think I've written this line to start blog posts over and over again all week, only to erase them and write about something else. I couldn't do it. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I just didn't know how to write about it.
Losing my grandmother was hard. She was more like a mother to me than a grandmother and we had all the complexities of a mother/daughter relationship. The love, the fury, the frustration, the complete and total comfort. My grandmother and I had a total understanding of each other and a complete misunderstanding of each other. I respected her and she drove me crazy. She respected me and I drove her crazy. In this way, our relationship was very special and also comfortingly typical.
As I've mentioned in the blog before, my grandmother had breast cancer when she was 42. She survived this and lived for many, many years with only scars and memories of it. When she was in her 80s it returned and wasn't caught until it was in the later stages. She was given the option of chemo, but chose not to take it. From that point on, we knew the clock was ticking. Her death would come within six to nine months later.
When you're young and death seems so far from you, in the attempt to be deep and insightful, you'll often ask each other, "If you had a limited amount of time to live, what would you do?" The answers are always things like "travel the world" and "sky dive." Stuff like that.
The truth is, when you know your death date is near, you're usually too sick to do all of that stuff. You're tired, you ache. Often your mind is muddled and confused. Most of all, you're frightened at the unreality of this very real and horrible thing. You are going to die. What does that even mean? And what did life mean? What just happened here?
My grandmother struggled with this questions a lot during the first few months after her diagnosis. She would ask me what she had accomplished. She would ask me why we couldn't just pray the cancer away. She would ask me what it all means. I didn't have answers, but the questions stayed with me. As much as a moment from when my grandfather died has always haunted me.
I wasn't there when this happened, but my grandmother told me that when my grandfather was dying in the hospital, she and their preacher were standing beside him. He was sleeping but woke up and looked at the preacher. "It's all a lie," he said to him. "Why didn't you tell me it was all a lie?"
I think this moment haunted my grandmother as well. I know she thought about it a lot during those months, the ambiguous but very provocative accusation to the preacher. The preacher is one of the few rather honest people I know, so I'm rather curious about that statement myself.
Gramma also thought a lot about the deaths before her. Her parents, most of her brothers and sisters. She was one of eight children. During the last year of her life, four were still alive. By the time she died, only two remained and one of them died very soon after. The last one passed away during December of this year. That's one of the oddest facts about a long life. You begin it seeing "family" as one set of people and end it with "family" being an other group.
When Gramma died, the situation is what many people describe as ideal for dying. She was with people who loved her. She had music. She was in her own bed. As she passed, we were telling her we loved her. I was holding her hand.
Since that moment, I've struggled with it. Not just losing her. The grief isn't as raw as it used to be, but grief never leaves you completely. No, it is the fact that I was there and I saw her die. I was touching her, grasping onto her, as she died. I felt her go cold.
For two years now, this has disturbed me. Intellectually, I knew it shouldn't have. It was what she wanted. It was perfectly natural. I did nothing wrong.
I've felt wrong about it though. I'd never seen someone die before. I'd never felt that. There is so much about our society that is clinical now. Death usually happens in a very sanitary and separated way from us. For most of our existence as humans this wasn't the case, but it most often is now.
While the taboo part of it bothered me, there was more to it than that. I didn't know how to explain it or even how to conceptualize it where I could make peace with it. I had done......something. But what? I was changed......but why?
Then today, by complete random chance, I saw this.
Losing my grandmother was hard. She was more like a mother to me than a grandmother and we had all the complexities of a mother/daughter relationship. The love, the fury, the frustration, the complete and total comfort. My grandmother and I had a total understanding of each other and a complete misunderstanding of each other. I respected her and she drove me crazy. She respected me and I drove her crazy. In this way, our relationship was very special and also comfortingly typical.
As I've mentioned in the blog before, my grandmother had breast cancer when she was 42. She survived this and lived for many, many years with only scars and memories of it. When she was in her 80s it returned and wasn't caught until it was in the later stages. She was given the option of chemo, but chose not to take it. From that point on, we knew the clock was ticking. Her death would come within six to nine months later.
When you're young and death seems so far from you, in the attempt to be deep and insightful, you'll often ask each other, "If you had a limited amount of time to live, what would you do?" The answers are always things like "travel the world" and "sky dive." Stuff like that.
The truth is, when you know your death date is near, you're usually too sick to do all of that stuff. You're tired, you ache. Often your mind is muddled and confused. Most of all, you're frightened at the unreality of this very real and horrible thing. You are going to die. What does that even mean? And what did life mean? What just happened here?
My grandmother struggled with this questions a lot during the first few months after her diagnosis. She would ask me what she had accomplished. She would ask me why we couldn't just pray the cancer away. She would ask me what it all means. I didn't have answers, but the questions stayed with me. As much as a moment from when my grandfather died has always haunted me.
I wasn't there when this happened, but my grandmother told me that when my grandfather was dying in the hospital, she and their preacher were standing beside him. He was sleeping but woke up and looked at the preacher. "It's all a lie," he said to him. "Why didn't you tell me it was all a lie?"
I think this moment haunted my grandmother as well. I know she thought about it a lot during those months, the ambiguous but very provocative accusation to the preacher. The preacher is one of the few rather honest people I know, so I'm rather curious about that statement myself.
Gramma also thought a lot about the deaths before her. Her parents, most of her brothers and sisters. She was one of eight children. During the last year of her life, four were still alive. By the time she died, only two remained and one of them died very soon after. The last one passed away during December of this year. That's one of the oddest facts about a long life. You begin it seeing "family" as one set of people and end it with "family" being an other group.
When Gramma died, the situation is what many people describe as ideal for dying. She was with people who loved her. She had music. She was in her own bed. As she passed, we were telling her we loved her. I was holding her hand.
Since that moment, I've struggled with it. Not just losing her. The grief isn't as raw as it used to be, but grief never leaves you completely. No, it is the fact that I was there and I saw her die. I was touching her, grasping onto her, as she died. I felt her go cold.
For two years now, this has disturbed me. Intellectually, I knew it shouldn't have. It was what she wanted. It was perfectly natural. I did nothing wrong.
I've felt wrong about it though. I'd never seen someone die before. I'd never felt that. There is so much about our society that is clinical now. Death usually happens in a very sanitary and separated way from us. For most of our existence as humans this wasn't the case, but it most often is now.
While the taboo part of it bothered me, there was more to it than that. I didn't know how to explain it or even how to conceptualize it where I could make peace with it. I had done......something. But what? I was changed......but why?
Then today, by complete random chance, I saw this.
This wasn't a show I followed, so I'd never seen the ending. Watching this though, I understood why I was so broken about holding Gramma's hand and watching her die.
Death is a holy thing. It is one of the few moments in the life of any human when we witness a complete mystery. I not only watched this happen, but I was touching the mystery. I was part of it, the last link between this space and what comes next.
I've finally accepted that it's okay to be disturbed by this. Something this fundamental should alter who and what I am. Touching death changed me. And as much as it might seem that it would make me fear my own death more, I actually accepted it.
I don't know what my grandfather meant about it all being a lie. I don't know what my grandmother was thinking as she grew cold against my hand. I just know that the reality of death is now something I understand far more. I also know it's time to make peace with the events surrounding the deaths of these two people.
Death is a holy thing. It is one of the few moments in the life of any human when we witness a complete mystery. I not only watched this happen, but I was touching the mystery. I was part of it, the last link between this space and what comes next.
I've finally accepted that it's okay to be disturbed by this. Something this fundamental should alter who and what I am. Touching death changed me. And as much as it might seem that it would make me fear my own death more, I actually accepted it.
I don't know what my grandfather meant about it all being a lie. I don't know what my grandmother was thinking as she grew cold against my hand. I just know that the reality of death is now something I understand far more. I also know it's time to make peace with the events surrounding the deaths of these two people.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
I'll Take Your Hand While you Stumble if You'll Laugh with Me When I Fall
My roommate writes a blog about being HIV+. He realized a couple of days ago that he got the date of his diagnosis wrong on his blog title. He's been blogging since January. He corrected the mistake and started things anew with the proper date. Easily fixed, yes. But I could tell it was somewhat frustrating.
I didn't notice the mistake either. It's funny how two people with high educations and sharp minds can miss things like this. It doesn't surprise me though. That sort of thing happens as one ages, when one deals with illness and being draggy and tired. The whole discussion, when we were younger, probably would have skyrocketed into embarrassment and deep, if good natured, mocking. Instead, it ended up with us chuckling a little and both somewhat in awe of the fact that we didn't catch the mistake.
One of the things I have come to appreciate about being human, and experiencing life with other humans, is accepting, with a kind of grace, the fragility of our existence.
We're not perfect. It's clichéd to even say so. And all too often, when we do say this, there is behind it this implication that we should be perfect. That our imperfection as humans is an lousy excuse because we should be perfect. The irony is, if we were perfect, imperfection wouldn't bother us so much. We would accept it as part of the grand design of things. As perfect beings, how could we not? Alas, as Joseph Addison said, "It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect."
Moreover, we seem to expect perfection in others. People make lists of all the qualities someone has to have before they will love them. People wind themselves up into a state of constant misery because others aren't living up to their expectations. Some people even put clauses in their marriage contracts that the other party can't fart around them. Or look old. Or gain weight. Or have bad breath.
Or really, be human.
I've known my roommate since I was 21. We've lived together for almost ten years. In this time, we've seen each other get degrees, find jobs, lose jobs, get ill, get better, lose family members, lose friends, find hobbies, win at life, fail hard at life, and make new discoveries about ourselves. Through all of this, we have been there to help each other. We've made a home.
And most importantly, we have learned to accept each other as humans. We know that we can screw up and say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing. We know we both have personality flaws and idiosyncrasies and moments of odd behavior. Sometimes our bodies do grow things. Sometimes our bodies cause us a lot of pain and we have to be in pain while someone else watches us.
But through all of this, we are human. We not only accept each other as humans, but value that humanity. To me, to have someone who accepts me so much is a great gift. More importantly, to have someone who I care so much about that I can move past my petty whims and accept and adore them for their human fragility is an even greater gift.
Joseph Addison went on, in his discussion of imperfection, to say that, "The more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we become of the defects of others." I believe this to be true. I also believe the reason for it has to do with how we become more perfect as we find that gentleness. And we find that gentleness when we are accepted and loved, despite our own imperfections.
I didn't notice the mistake either. It's funny how two people with high educations and sharp minds can miss things like this. It doesn't surprise me though. That sort of thing happens as one ages, when one deals with illness and being draggy and tired. The whole discussion, when we were younger, probably would have skyrocketed into embarrassment and deep, if good natured, mocking. Instead, it ended up with us chuckling a little and both somewhat in awe of the fact that we didn't catch the mistake.
One of the things I have come to appreciate about being human, and experiencing life with other humans, is accepting, with a kind of grace, the fragility of our existence.
We're not perfect. It's clichéd to even say so. And all too often, when we do say this, there is behind it this implication that we should be perfect. That our imperfection as humans is an lousy excuse because we should be perfect. The irony is, if we were perfect, imperfection wouldn't bother us so much. We would accept it as part of the grand design of things. As perfect beings, how could we not? Alas, as Joseph Addison said, "It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect."
Moreover, we seem to expect perfection in others. People make lists of all the qualities someone has to have before they will love them. People wind themselves up into a state of constant misery because others aren't living up to their expectations. Some people even put clauses in their marriage contracts that the other party can't fart around them. Or look old. Or gain weight. Or have bad breath.
Or really, be human.
I've known my roommate since I was 21. We've lived together for almost ten years. In this time, we've seen each other get degrees, find jobs, lose jobs, get ill, get better, lose family members, lose friends, find hobbies, win at life, fail hard at life, and make new discoveries about ourselves. Through all of this, we have been there to help each other. We've made a home.
And most importantly, we have learned to accept each other as humans. We know that we can screw up and say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing. We know we both have personality flaws and idiosyncrasies and moments of odd behavior. Sometimes our bodies do grow things. Sometimes our bodies cause us a lot of pain and we have to be in pain while someone else watches us.
But through all of this, we are human. We not only accept each other as humans, but value that humanity. To me, to have someone who accepts me so much is a great gift. More importantly, to have someone who I care so much about that I can move past my petty whims and accept and adore them for their human fragility is an even greater gift.
Joseph Addison went on, in his discussion of imperfection, to say that, "The more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we become of the defects of others." I believe this to be true. I also believe the reason for it has to do with how we become more perfect as we find that gentleness. And we find that gentleness when we are accepted and loved, despite our own imperfections.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Punishments
People have been really annoying me lately. People in general, people in the media, people who think they should talk without using their brains or logic. I try to tune them out, but most of the time, it's difficult to avoid them. My therapist always says I shouldn't dwell on my negative feelings, so instead, I'll fantasize about what punishments I would give them if I were god.
TO THOSE WHO PRESUME TO CRITICIZE THE LOOKS OF OTHERS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH HORRIBLE PHOTOGRAPHS.
Yes, from now on, those who seek to talk smack about how other people look will see only the most ogrish and revolting images of themselves. No amount of photoshopping will alter their vacant expressions of inbredery and revoltingness.
If there are fingers seen in the picture, they will be filthy, or in your nose, or look like they are going into someone's butt. Your hair will always look wonked and your eyes will show your inner ugliness and wickedness. Your skin color will look sallow or reddish or just zombyish.
No matter how much you protest that you are attractive, there will be no photographic evidence of this whatsoever.
TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO SPEAK IN FRONT OF GROUPS OF OTHERS AND SAY HATEFUL AND IGNORANT THINGS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH CONSTANT AND LOUD FLATULENCE.
That's right. Any time someone thinks it's a good idea to blame little girls for getting raped while speaking in a public forum or, I dunno, maybe suggesting that Asians shouldn't go into the library, whenever you are in public and making such stupid remarks, no one will hear you because you will just be farting very, very, very loudly.
The farts will not only be loud, they will smell horrible. The odor will linger around you as a constant reminder of your bullshitery. As you most often use your words to harm others, now shall what spouts from your own ass harm you.
TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO USE RELIGION AS A TOOL OF HATE, I PUNISH YOU WITH THE FRUSTRATION OF PATRONIZING KINDNESS.
No, no one will be violent to you. No, you will never be yelled at or have things thrown at you again. Instead, people will just look at you for the crazy you are. "Oh, don't pay him any attention. That's just nutty old Fred. He gets his family together every weekend and they glitter up signs and go try and get people to pay attention to them. It's sad, really."
People won't bomb you. They won't shake their fists at you. They won't stop you from doing what you feel you should do. But at the same time, they will never take you seriously. They will never listen to you. When they look at you they will only see someone who is a poor, crazy, pathetic mess who deserves only pity.
The great thing about this is that there would be a lot of people who got hit with all three. They would look bad in photos, constantly fart, and never be taken seriously. All the time.
Ohhh, it would be so glorious. If, a bit smelly . . . .
TO THOSE WHO PRESUME TO CRITICIZE THE LOOKS OF OTHERS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH HORRIBLE PHOTOGRAPHS.
Yes, from now on, those who seek to talk smack about how other people look will see only the most ogrish and revolting images of themselves. No amount of photoshopping will alter their vacant expressions of inbredery and revoltingness.
If there are fingers seen in the picture, they will be filthy, or in your nose, or look like they are going into someone's butt. Your hair will always look wonked and your eyes will show your inner ugliness and wickedness. Your skin color will look sallow or reddish or just zombyish.
No matter how much you protest that you are attractive, there will be no photographic evidence of this whatsoever.
TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO SPEAK IN FRONT OF GROUPS OF OTHERS AND SAY HATEFUL AND IGNORANT THINGS, I HEREBY PUNISH WITH CONSTANT AND LOUD FLATULENCE.
That's right. Any time someone thinks it's a good idea to blame little girls for getting raped while speaking in a public forum or, I dunno, maybe suggesting that Asians shouldn't go into the library, whenever you are in public and making such stupid remarks, no one will hear you because you will just be farting very, very, very loudly.
The farts will not only be loud, they will smell horrible. The odor will linger around you as a constant reminder of your bullshitery. As you most often use your words to harm others, now shall what spouts from your own ass harm you.
TO THOSE WHO SEEK TO USE RELIGION AS A TOOL OF HATE, I PUNISH YOU WITH THE FRUSTRATION OF PATRONIZING KINDNESS.
No, no one will be violent to you. No, you will never be yelled at or have things thrown at you again. Instead, people will just look at you for the crazy you are. "Oh, don't pay him any attention. That's just nutty old Fred. He gets his family together every weekend and they glitter up signs and go try and get people to pay attention to them. It's sad, really."
People won't bomb you. They won't shake their fists at you. They won't stop you from doing what you feel you should do. But at the same time, they will never take you seriously. They will never listen to you. When they look at you they will only see someone who is a poor, crazy, pathetic mess who deserves only pity.
The great thing about this is that there would be a lot of people who got hit with all three. They would look bad in photos, constantly fart, and never be taken seriously. All the time.
Ohhh, it would be so glorious. If, a bit smelly . . . .
Friday, March 18, 2011
Come Out Come Out Where Ever You Are
After my roommate's doctor's appointment, we were both starving. I drove us to McDonald's and went through the drive thru. We thought about going on to the parking lot by his pharmacy, but the bag ripped (cheap MickyDee bags!) so we opted to stay in the McD's parking lot and eat in the van.
From our vantage point, my old high school was there to watch, in all of it's ugly glory. Yes, my high school is right next to a McD's, and several other fast food places. We had an open campus too. Some people faced guns and gang violence at school, we faced the danger of crossing four lanes of traffic to get to Pizza Hut. So any time I want to eat (most) fast food in my town, there is the school. That day, I tried to ignore it, but my roomie was curious about the box-shaped brick building that stood out from the rest.
"Oh, that is the library," I told him. "Or it was when I went there. It was a good place for awkward girls to go and hide when they didn't want to face people."
As a fat girl, an abused child, and a former rape victim, I've spent quite a lot of my life hiding. In fact, my therapist tells me (as to many other experts in the subject) that the fact that I'm fat IS a form of hiding. People don't see ME, they see "a fat girl." Well, okay, that's a nice way to put it. We all know what people normally say.
I'm somewhat of two minds about hiding. On one hand, I know I shouldn't do it. No one should. On the other hand, do we really OWE anyone our visibility? I suppose the logical compromise there is while we don't owe our visibility to anyone else, we owe it to ourselves. That gets complicated though. It means we're always having to ask if we're allowing ourselves to be seen because we want to be seen, or because it's just expected.
And because I'm somewhat schizophrenic about most things, I vacillate between "fuck you, I don't have to let you see me" hiding and "fuck you, I'm right here you fucking deal with me" not hiding.
I'm sure some people think this is even a strange topic. How often can people hide, after all? Many people think they're not hiding. But you have to ask yourself, are you? There are so many things to hide from. We can hide from thinking for ourselves by allowing others to shape our thoughts for us. We can hide from moral decisions by adopting the moral codes of others. We can hide away from the truth about ourselves and who we are by merely following the rules and codes of the society around us.
And yes, I know, some people aren't hiding when they do these things. They really believe them. Others? I'm not so sure.
Let me state again, however, I'm not sure that's such a bad thing. Wearing a mask, mental or physical, may be a way for us to stay safe, or stay sane, or just stay as guarded as we need to for the moment.
As this is a Friday post, I will now list some of my habits of hiding over the years.
From our vantage point, my old high school was there to watch, in all of it's ugly glory. Yes, my high school is right next to a McD's, and several other fast food places. We had an open campus too. Some people faced guns and gang violence at school, we faced the danger of crossing four lanes of traffic to get to Pizza Hut. So any time I want to eat (most) fast food in my town, there is the school. That day, I tried to ignore it, but my roomie was curious about the box-shaped brick building that stood out from the rest.
"Oh, that is the library," I told him. "Or it was when I went there. It was a good place for awkward girls to go and hide when they didn't want to face people."
As a fat girl, an abused child, and a former rape victim, I've spent quite a lot of my life hiding. In fact, my therapist tells me (as to many other experts in the subject) that the fact that I'm fat IS a form of hiding. People don't see ME, they see "a fat girl." Well, okay, that's a nice way to put it. We all know what people normally say.
I'm somewhat of two minds about hiding. On one hand, I know I shouldn't do it. No one should. On the other hand, do we really OWE anyone our visibility? I suppose the logical compromise there is while we don't owe our visibility to anyone else, we owe it to ourselves. That gets complicated though. It means we're always having to ask if we're allowing ourselves to be seen because we want to be seen, or because it's just expected.
And because I'm somewhat schizophrenic about most things, I vacillate between "fuck you, I don't have to let you see me" hiding and "fuck you, I'm right here you fucking deal with me" not hiding.
I'm sure some people think this is even a strange topic. How often can people hide, after all? Many people think they're not hiding. But you have to ask yourself, are you? There are so many things to hide from. We can hide from thinking for ourselves by allowing others to shape our thoughts for us. We can hide from moral decisions by adopting the moral codes of others. We can hide away from the truth about ourselves and who we are by merely following the rules and codes of the society around us.
And yes, I know, some people aren't hiding when they do these things. They really believe them. Others? I'm not so sure.
Let me state again, however, I'm not sure that's such a bad thing. Wearing a mask, mental or physical, may be a way for us to stay safe, or stay sane, or just stay as guarded as we need to for the moment.
As this is a Friday post, I will now list some of my habits of hiding over the years.
- My first semester of college was brutal. I had this cheerleader roommate who delighted in being the stereotypical mean girl about it. She made no attempt to conceal her scorn of me. My best friend was in the dorms as well, but we weren't rooming together, nor was she around during my lunch break.
So I would go to the student union and buy my lunch from the food court. Then I would go to the girls's restroom in the union and hide in one of the stalls and eat. Yes, that sounds about as sanitary to me now as I'm sure it does to you. Back then, though, it was, I felt, the safest way to handle this. The roommate and her friends were always in the food court at that time.
- When I was a freshmen in high school, the other band geeks wrote a song about me and my audacity to be fat. We were going to a band contest and I found out that they were going to make me sing this song. I went to my mother and asked her if I could change schools. I didn't explain why, I just asked and, because she had a new husband and was fighting with my grandparents at the time, she agreed. Yes, folks, I changed schools to hide.
Now, in this instance, I actually wish I would have been in the "fuck you, by god you deal with me" phase of things, because it would have saved time. I think if I would have just gone to the band contest, sang the song at the top of my lungs, with an accent, and then perhaps spit on someone, everything would have been fine. But I was 14 and in a very emotionally damaged situation at home, and just didn't have the strength to do that.
- It would have kept me from the annoyance of the other school though, because that high school was shit. They made up another song about me. I guess "make up songs about the fat girl" was just the IN thing at the time. Now all the kids are fat, so they probably don't do that anymore. It would take up too much time. Anyway, at said school, I had a DREADED PE class. It was the hour after my study period, so most of the time, I'd just skip the class and go there.
It wouldn't have been so bad, but it was a co-ed PE class with kids from all four years in it. I could have faced another group of 14 yr old girls. But I couldn't handle boys from all ages seeing me suck at sports. So I hid. And the only probably gay boy in the school hid out with me.
The crazy thing is, the coach knew where we were. Out of some random and wonderful kindness, he never called us out on it. It was a P or F class, and when I left my mom and moved in with my grandparents, the class was marked P on my transcript. That was very nice of him.
- Over the years, I've gotten somewhat better about the hiding thing. As I get older, I've been far more into the "fuck you, I'm here" phase of things. But there are exceptions and often they happen without me even planning them.
Last Fall, I spent Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle. My aunt has a medical condition that requires a nurse to come and monitor her every couple of days. I was completely cool with this until they told me the nurse was male. In fact, I thought I was fine even then, but as the hours passed by, anxiety was pooling in my guts. By the time he was supposed to be there, I was almost shaking. I couldn't take my eyes off the windows at the front of the house. And the moment I heard the doorbell, I bolted to my bedroom. I sat on the bed, quiet as I could be, hardly breathing, and listened for him.
Looking back on it, I was very much in some strange panic attack. I'm pretty sure I was rocking back and forth as I waited. It's one of those moments where I can put myself back into the memory so vividly. I even remember the pulse of my heartbeat.
Once he was gone, once I was completely sure he was gone . . . I calmed down and walked back out like nothing had happened. My uncle said it was like I just disappeared.
So okay yes, even now, I still have problems with hiding. I still have moments where I have to really fight the impulse to get as far away from others as possible. And sometimes, I don't even fight that impulse. Sometimes, hiding is completely worth it.
Unless you choose to be seen, you owe no one your visibility. Just keep in mind, that you do owe it to yourself.
Unless you choose to be seen, you owe no one your visibility. Just keep in mind, that you do owe it to yourself.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Wailing and Keening that Lures in the Roaming Ones
I have a friend on Facebook who loves summer. He gleefully posted about how the next weeks should bring temps in the 80s to where we are. I kind of wanted to kick him.
As much as I was tired of winter, I'm so NOT overjoyed about the prospect of hotter weather. My house is old and has an AC unit that eats electricity and does very little for us. During the summers, we can see week of 100+ days and that is before you factor in the humidity.
Besides the nasty heat, there is also the increase in bugs, slugs, and roaming children. Yes, I say roaming children because I don't think they're from the neighborhood, or even the town. I think they bud from slime and plant matter and just walk around, screaming and popping fire works, for no better reason that to just make summer suck more.
Of the three though, I dislike the bugs the most. And by bugs, I mean fleas. I have cats and somehow, no matter what precautions we take to keep the fleas from showing up, they always do. Then there is the seemingly endless struggle of baths, vacuuming, and plates-with-water-and-dishwashing-liquid-death traps. Well, and the lavender, but that part is fine.
The heat (and humidity) also puts everyone in a bad mood. My roommate and I end up snapping at each other. Arguing about when the AC should be turned in, unwilling to even consider cooking. The cats look at us like it's somehow our fault that it is so damned hot. Then they hiss and growl at each other. It's just one fabulous suckfest.
Oh yes, one more think about those roaming children. The gaggle of them also summons something else that is shitty about summer. The dreaded Ice Cream Truck of Doom. I have this theory about ice cream truck music. I think the music is made by the ice cream truck abducting a clown and then removing its soul. The soul is then poked by a hundred gom jabbars and forced to sing.
Yes, that is correct. Ice cream truck music is made from the tortured souls of clowns.
I think that exemplifies everything I feel about summer.
As much as I was tired of winter, I'm so NOT overjoyed about the prospect of hotter weather. My house is old and has an AC unit that eats electricity and does very little for us. During the summers, we can see week of 100+ days and that is before you factor in the humidity.
Besides the nasty heat, there is also the increase in bugs, slugs, and roaming children. Yes, I say roaming children because I don't think they're from the neighborhood, or even the town. I think they bud from slime and plant matter and just walk around, screaming and popping fire works, for no better reason that to just make summer suck more.
Of the three though, I dislike the bugs the most. And by bugs, I mean fleas. I have cats and somehow, no matter what precautions we take to keep the fleas from showing up, they always do. Then there is the seemingly endless struggle of baths, vacuuming, and plates-with-water-and-dishwashing-liquid-death traps. Well, and the lavender, but that part is fine.
The heat (and humidity) also puts everyone in a bad mood. My roommate and I end up snapping at each other. Arguing about when the AC should be turned in, unwilling to even consider cooking. The cats look at us like it's somehow our fault that it is so damned hot. Then they hiss and growl at each other. It's just one fabulous suckfest.
Oh yes, one more think about those roaming children. The gaggle of them also summons something else that is shitty about summer. The dreaded Ice Cream Truck of Doom. I have this theory about ice cream truck music. I think the music is made by the ice cream truck abducting a clown and then removing its soul. The soul is then poked by a hundred gom jabbars and forced to sing.
Yes, that is correct. Ice cream truck music is made from the tortured souls of clowns.
I think that exemplifies everything I feel about summer.
Strings
I didn't post last night because I was too emotionally strung. I had to take my roommate to the doctor because he has some evil upper respiratory infection. That doesn't seem like such a big deal, but this is a hard time of year for me. Two years ago this week, my grandmother died so my nerves are somewhat frazzled when people around me fall ill.
I lost my grandmother 18 months after I lost my mom. Gramma's death was a slow decline and we knew it was happening, but still, in the moment, shocking. My mom's death was sudden and unexpected. In some ways, I'm not sure I've come to terms with either event yet. I know it will take time.
Still, yesterday I found myself sitting in the parking lot, waiting for my roommate to get the help he needed. I started thinking about how in life we are born with one family, but as the years pass, we add to that family, tying new bonds with people as strong as (or in some cases, stronger than) the ones we had from birth. I have my blood relations, and I love them. But when I say "family," I mean those people, and select others who I've chose as family.
When someone close to you dies, part of you feels orphaned and lost. I think that's because part of you is. The relationship you had with this person is very much a part of who you are.....an extension, to be sure, but still tied to you. When that person's life ends, that tie is severed. You not only mourn the loved one, but you also mourn the death of the relationship.
My roommate has meds and is somewhat on the mend. The cats and I are keeping a watchful eye on him. He is, after all, our person. A large part of who we are as a very strange little family.
I lost my grandmother 18 months after I lost my mom. Gramma's death was a slow decline and we knew it was happening, but still, in the moment, shocking. My mom's death was sudden and unexpected. In some ways, I'm not sure I've come to terms with either event yet. I know it will take time.
Still, yesterday I found myself sitting in the parking lot, waiting for my roommate to get the help he needed. I started thinking about how in life we are born with one family, but as the years pass, we add to that family, tying new bonds with people as strong as (or in some cases, stronger than) the ones we had from birth. I have my blood relations, and I love them. But when I say "family," I mean those people, and select others who I've chose as family.
When someone close to you dies, part of you feels orphaned and lost. I think that's because part of you is. The relationship you had with this person is very much a part of who you are.....an extension, to be sure, but still tied to you. When that person's life ends, that tie is severed. You not only mourn the loved one, but you also mourn the death of the relationship.
My roommate has meds and is somewhat on the mend. The cats and I are keeping a watchful eye on him. He is, after all, our person. A large part of who we are as a very strange little family.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Moments of Happy
I'm still very much on this Ordinary Day kick. It's been on my mind a lot, for a number of reasons. I think a lot of it has to do with how for years and years, I could never find happiness in anything. The people who were in charge of making decisions for my welfare and living environment didn't understand the concept of fostering the good in things. I'm so happy I get to live in a home where drama isn't a constant.
There are moments in my day, in each day, when I feel complete happiness and/or relief. The Moments of Happy are part of what keeps me sane and moving forward in life. Today I want to acknowledge some of them.
I am filled with happiness, every day, when:
There are moments in my day, in each day, when I feel complete happiness and/or relief. The Moments of Happy are part of what keeps me sane and moving forward in life. Today I want to acknowledge some of them.
I am filled with happiness, every day, when:
- I hear my roommate wake up.
- I realize I'm awake and will get to live another day.
- I think about how comfortable my pillows are.
- I get to hear cat purring.
- I see each of my cats.
- I say good morning to my roommate.
- I first drink water.
- I feel my teeth all clean.
- I realize nothing is horribly broken in the house.
- I get awake enough to realize I can still see.
- I am laughing so hard with my roommate that we both can't even finish sentences.
- I get to play my little distracting games.
- I get to say really crazy things and someone actually enjoys it.
- I don't get scary stuff in the mail.
- I get to read my roommate's blog.
And I know I have even more moments than those. Those are just the ones I could think of at almost one in the morning.
Look, we all know that life is filled with the suck. Most of the time, it seems like the whole world is conspiring to make our lives miserable. The best and possibly only way to combat this is with the things that make us happy. All too often, we wait for something big to prove that to us (In my head, I just saw cake. What is it always cake with me?), but it doesn't have to be big. We have great things happen to us every day. Even if only in brief moments.
Look, we all know that life is filled with the suck. Most of the time, it seems like the whole world is conspiring to make our lives miserable. The best and possibly only way to combat this is with the things that make us happy. All too often, we wait for something big to prove that to us (In my head, I just saw cake. What is it always cake with me?), but it doesn't have to be big. We have great things happen to us every day. Even if only in brief moments.
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Bridge
Above is the opening theme to Ginger Snaps. It's one of my favorite movie themes, for various reasons.
The intro does so many things. Of course, you get your practical elements. You know the title, who stars, all the other credit bits. They happen as we slide through the various vignettes the girls create.
But that is just the practical bit. There is a whole level of art happening as well. For instance, to use the writer cliche, it shows you a story without having to come out and tell you the story. Through just this intro, you gain so much background on the girls. You know that Ginger and Bridget are creative, morbid, the best of friends, and rather frightening.
More importantly, the theme lures you into the story, altering your mindset to accept what is to follow. Theme songs are transitions for the mind. Bridges. They're like little ferry men that transport you from one idea of reality to the next.
Another theme that feels very druglike to me is the theme to House. What I love about this theme is that it isn't right at the beginning. The show always starts out with the patient in question, moving from that point in their lives where they think they are okay to the sudden BAM! of puzzling illness. Then the theme song starts.
The House theme is sampled from the song "Teardrop" by Massive Attack. Elizabeth Fraser, of aforementioned Cocteau Twins fame, does vocals on it. Not that you hear those on the House theme, but it's just a nice tidbit to know for trivia at some point. I think what gets to me the most about this song is the stark piano that shines through in the midst of everything else. It's a beautiful contrast because so much of the rest of the music is fairly heavily electric in sound. The piano grounds the piece, as in some odd way, despite his general insanity, House's brilliance grounds the show.
I watch a lot of anime and have discovered over the years that intro songs can either break the story or truly enhance it. There is even more of a bridge happening with anime. You're going from your world into whatever weird culture the creator has made for you. One that has always stood out to me was the theme for my favorite anime Record of Lodoss War. This is the opening for the second series. I love it muchly.
There are days when I'll just play this clip over and over again, falling back into the whole feel of the anime. I love the part when she turns her head and the petals blow. Perfection.
As I said, anime themes can either be wonderful or just completely awful and of no relevance whatsoever. Naruto runs the gambit when it comes to themes. Sometimes they are purely awful. However, one of them stands out in my mind as completely setting the tone for what the show is about.
Naruto switches theme songs with every story arc, often with success, sometimes, without. The one I love the most is the one below. This was the first theme to the second series. The storyline had been put on hold while the writer was producing more of the manga. For a long, long time, the cartoon had been filler episodes. Everyone was sick of them. We needed the series to restart in a big way. It did.
Oh yes. Very, very successful.
So tell me, what are some of your favorite opening themes for shows? And why?
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The Ordinary Days
I have a friend who is Mormon. I'm completely not interested in joining the religion, but I do think it's great that she's found something that makes her so happy and gives her peace in her life. That tends to be how I see most religions. As long as it's working for you and you're not being an asshole to anyone, I'm happy for you.
Sometimes she posts videos with a rather non-offensive but still LDS feel to them. I don't always watch them, but sometimes I do because it gives me a better understanding of her perspective. Last night, as I was trying to wind myself down for sleep, I watched one such vid. This one was by a woman who was talking about motherhood (of course) and how it passes by far quicker than you think it will. Eighteen years isn't really all that long.
The point seemed to be that, while life is marked by certain timestamps, birth, birthdays, learning to walk, vacations, holidays, school, graduations, seasons, those are only instances along the way. What life really consists of are a series of ordinary days where nothing of importance seems to happen.
This is just an illusion though, because these ordinary days, being the majority of our lives, are truly the important parts. The days when there is no drama, no plans, no activities, nothing goes wrong . . . we tend to not pay attention to them, but we really really should.
I had an ordinary day today. I hung out with my roommate, cleaned a fan, did my everyday household stuff, petted the cats, and told stories to people. The biggest thing that happened was I got ice cream.
But, I find that at the end of this day, I loved it. I didn't have to hurt or ache on a personal level. I didn't have to handle any annoying tasks. I got to laugh and enjoy what was around me. I liked my day.
So this is my hope for you. After reading this, and rolling your eyes a little at my schmaltziness, promise yourself that next time you have a day where you're just going through the motions, that you WON'T just go through the motions. I hope you find meaning in your ordinary moments. They are, after all, yours.
Sometimes she posts videos with a rather non-offensive but still LDS feel to them. I don't always watch them, but sometimes I do because it gives me a better understanding of her perspective. Last night, as I was trying to wind myself down for sleep, I watched one such vid. This one was by a woman who was talking about motherhood (of course) and how it passes by far quicker than you think it will. Eighteen years isn't really all that long.
The point seemed to be that, while life is marked by certain timestamps, birth, birthdays, learning to walk, vacations, holidays, school, graduations, seasons, those are only instances along the way. What life really consists of are a series of ordinary days where nothing of importance seems to happen.
This is just an illusion though, because these ordinary days, being the majority of our lives, are truly the important parts. The days when there is no drama, no plans, no activities, nothing goes wrong . . . we tend to not pay attention to them, but we really really should.
I had an ordinary day today. I hung out with my roommate, cleaned a fan, did my everyday household stuff, petted the cats, and told stories to people. The biggest thing that happened was I got ice cream.
But, I find that at the end of this day, I loved it. I didn't have to hurt or ache on a personal level. I didn't have to handle any annoying tasks. I got to laugh and enjoy what was around me. I liked my day.
So this is my hope for you. After reading this, and rolling your eyes a little at my schmaltziness, promise yourself that next time you have a day where you're just going through the motions, that you WON'T just go through the motions. I hope you find meaning in your ordinary moments. They are, after all, yours.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Friday List: Blessing Addition
Two years ago, I got on Facebook. It was a big step for me because I'd not been very social, even on a cyberspace basis, for a long time. When you first get on a social media thingymabob, you often find yourself at a loss with what to write. I, fortunately, was in good headspace at that point, and decided I would not fill the Wall of others with angst and other stuff I should have been past by like 12.
I decided I would do a Thankful Thursday post every week. Just type out one or two things I was grateful to have in my life. I have to say, it's been good for me. Talking about the places where you are blessed in your life gives you a nice re-centering. I think I've talked about that before.
I forgot to do my Thankful Thursday this week. My mind was elsewhere because I wasn't at home and because of the stuff I blogged about on Wednesday. So for this list, I decided to blog about my blessings, the big ones I am so, so thankful to have.
I forgot to do my Thankful Thursday this week. My mind was elsewhere because I wasn't at home and because of the stuff I blogged about on Wednesday. So for this list, I decided to blog about my blessings, the big ones I am so, so thankful to have.
- As an adult, I have never been in a relationship that was physically violent.
When I was a child, this was a different matter. But as an adult, I've been very lucky to have avoided the people who feel it is their duty to abuse others. Some people might say that being a fat girl who is rather mentally unstable might have something to do with that, but if I had been in an abusive relationship, they'd say being a fat girl who is mentally unstable was the reason for that as well. There's never any winning with that crap.
- I share my life with someone I trust.
My roommate and I were talking tonight about how so many people have to deal with others who will rifle through their belongings, read their emails, creep through their texts and files. I don't have to worry about that with him. He can use my computer all day and I know he'd never dig through my personal files. He won't go through my purse and I never have to worry about finding him in my room looking for stuff to use against me. I jokingly tell him it's because he knows he'd be freaked out by what he would find, but that isn't really the case. He respects my privacy. Trust me, if the people around you don't respect your privacy, you need to get away from them. They don't respect you.
- I have a good therapist.
A lot of people have to go through HELL to find a good therapist. Bad therapists tend to either be lazy, useless, crazy, working some agenda, or dogmatic. Mine is none of these things. She is diligent in her work, she's sane, neutral, and works with me on ways to address my issues. Finding mental stability is like trying to carve up a glacier. There is the jagged part sticking out of the water that you have to bang out waaaay before you hit all the massive stuff under the surface. She has been instrumental in helping me find my way into the murkier depths.
- I know I am loved.
For many years, I wasn't sure of this. I felt like most people were just going through the motions of loving me . . . or in some cases, not even bothering to do that. My life is so different now. I know I am loved. I have a nephew who, after being told I was coming over, spent the whole day drawing pictures for me and taping them to his living room wall so I could see them when I came over. I have extended family who drove from Colorado to come get me just so I could spend Thanksgiving with them. I have best friends I get to talk to every day. I am not just loved, I am very loved.
- I have rediscovered my Voice.
Of course, I don't mean my speaking voice. I never lost that. I did lose my writing voice though. When I was younger, I wrote all the time. During the worst of my mental and emotional decline, I stopped writing. I lost my Voice and began to think it was gone for good. I've been blogging over two months now. My Voice has returned and I'm so, so thankful for that. I had not realized how much I missed it.
It was a rough winter, a rough start to this year, but in all the craptasticness that has happened, I can't help but be happy right now. I'm writing again and I really needed to be writing.
Even if it is a blog only two people read. Hi, guys! *waves*
Even if it is a blog only two people read. Hi, guys! *waves*
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Losing Time to Gain Peace of Mind
My roommate very nicely did shopping today so we didn't have to deal with it tomorrow. I am very grateful for this because I've been out of the house every day this week. I'm not really good at handling that.
When I thanked him, he jokingly told me it was because he knew "my favorite time of year" was happening Saturday. I sighed. Then, I started cursing the hell that is Daylight Saving's Time.
I hate losing my hour. I hate it so much. I want to keep my hour and keep my sleep. Yes, every Fall, they give my hour back to me, but we all know that never lasts long enough.
And yet, somehow, it's different this year. Even though I grumbled about the whole idea of waking up earlier, I sensed an acceptance of it. Perhaps even . . . a graceful acceptance. No, more than that, anticipation, expectation, want. Actually, I am looking forward to DST.
Maybe it's because I got my glasses tinted with just a hint of grey. Maybe it's because winter was hard and bitter. Maybe it's because, emotionally, I've been torn in 20 different ways.
Whatever the case, I find myself craving the longer hours of sunshine. I want the light. In fact, I will go so far as to say I need the light.
I may never say this again in all of my life, but for this one year, yes, please, give me my Daylight Saving's Time. I will trade you my hour of sleep if it means I can let go of the bitter cold, the dark, dreary clouds, the emotional MEH that has settled over everyone and everything. Bring the sunshine to me. Let me have daylight at 9pm and flowers and birds and the smell of freshly cut lawn.
I need the renewal. I need the rebirth. And above all of this, I need the light.
. . . of course, I'm writing this now. Let's see how grateful I am Sunday morning when it should be 8am and the world is trying to convince me it's seven.
When I thanked him, he jokingly told me it was because he knew "my favorite time of year" was happening Saturday. I sighed. Then, I started cursing the hell that is Daylight Saving's Time.
I hate losing my hour. I hate it so much. I want to keep my hour and keep my sleep. Yes, every Fall, they give my hour back to me, but we all know that never lasts long enough.
And yet, somehow, it's different this year. Even though I grumbled about the whole idea of waking up earlier, I sensed an acceptance of it. Perhaps even . . . a graceful acceptance. No, more than that, anticipation, expectation, want. Actually, I am looking forward to DST.
Maybe it's because I got my glasses tinted with just a hint of grey. Maybe it's because winter was hard and bitter. Maybe it's because, emotionally, I've been torn in 20 different ways.
Whatever the case, I find myself craving the longer hours of sunshine. I want the light. In fact, I will go so far as to say I need the light.
I may never say this again in all of my life, but for this one year, yes, please, give me my Daylight Saving's Time. I will trade you my hour of sleep if it means I can let go of the bitter cold, the dark, dreary clouds, the emotional MEH that has settled over everyone and everything. Bring the sunshine to me. Let me have daylight at 9pm and flowers and birds and the smell of freshly cut lawn.
I need the renewal. I need the rebirth. And above all of this, I need the light.
. . . of course, I'm writing this now. Let's see how grateful I am Sunday morning when it should be 8am and the world is trying to convince me it's seven.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
All the Wrong Questions
I went to therapy today and we talked about how I tend to have this knee jerk reactions about not trusting people . . . well, people with penises. I come home and the first thing I see is this article.
In this quaint little Texas town, a little girl of 11 was gang raped by at least 18 boys and men. Not just in one house. They started raping her in one house and then once an adult arrived, they MOVED HER to an abandoned trailer and continued to rape her. They told her that if she didn't submit, she would be beaten.
In the article, of course, we have to blame the victim for this. "Why was she in that part of town?" "Where was her mother?" "She wore so much makeup and dressed trashy." "She looked at least 20."
All of these things tell us certain factors about those who made the statements.
In this quaint little Texas town, a little girl of 11 was gang raped by at least 18 boys and men. Not just in one house. They started raping her in one house and then once an adult arrived, they MOVED HER to an abandoned trailer and continued to rape her. They told her that if she didn't submit, she would be beaten.
In the article, of course, we have to blame the victim for this. "Why was she in that part of town?" "Where was her mother?" "She wore so much makeup and dressed trashy." "She looked at least 20."
All of these things tell us certain factors about those who made the statements.
- If someone dresses over the age, it's okay to rape them.
- If someone is hanging out with the boys, it's okay to rape them.
- If someone isn't being supervises on a constant basis by parents, it's okay to rape them.
- If someone is in the wrong place, it's okay to rape them.
This is all bullshit. And we know it's all bullshit. At least, I hope we do.
Is it wise to keep yourself away from the bad places and the bad people? Yeah, it is. But you know what? Even if you do, those people will rape someone. It may not be you, but it will happen.
Because in countries where women are kept completely away from men, they still get raped. In places where women are forced to dress modestly, they still get raped. In places where people are under constant supervision of their parents, they still get raped. In places where girls are never allowed out of the house unless with man companions, they still get raped.
In fact, I would venture to say they probably get raped more often in places like that.
If we have to ask ourselves questions, let's look at these instead.
Is it wise to keep yourself away from the bad places and the bad people? Yeah, it is. But you know what? Even if you do, those people will rape someone. It may not be you, but it will happen.
Because in countries where women are kept completely away from men, they still get raped. In places where women are forced to dress modestly, they still get raped. In places where people are under constant supervision of their parents, they still get raped. In places where girls are never allowed out of the house unless with man companions, they still get raped.
In fact, I would venture to say they probably get raped more often in places like that.
If we have to ask ourselves questions, let's look at these instead.
- Why would you think it's okay to rape someone?
- Why would you think it's okay to rape a child?
- Why would you think it's okay to inflict misery and destruction on someone's life just so you can have an orgasm?
- When you see other people harming someone, why would you not stop them? Or call the police?
- After you did this to someone, how could you live with yourself? Why would you not just end your own life?
The boys who raped this girl should be put to death. They destroyed the person she was and the life she had. If they believe they can get away with this, they will do it again. Maybe not in a group, but again. And again. And again. They are monsters and should be put down.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Yearly Sacrifices
My best friend is Catholic, so every year, I have to deal with Lent. I don't participate myself, of course, but because she does, it usually ends up affecting me anyway. Two years ago, she gave up alcohol. This resulted in me spending St. Patrick's Day with her telling her how little foresight she had in the matter. Last year, she gave up Diet Coke, which was hell on everyone. She was in a foul mood. She was always tired. And I never got Diet Coke when I was over at her house.
I thought for CERTAIN that mistake would not be repeated. But here it is, Fat Tuesday and she tells me Diet Coke is being sacrificed again. This was my response:
"You gave up Diet Coke AGAIN? WTF? That almost killed you last year. It almost killed me! Why couldn't you just give up something else for 40 days, like bathing or taking care of your child?"
I thought for CERTAIN that mistake would not be repeated. But here it is, Fat Tuesday and she tells me Diet Coke is being sacrificed again. This was my response:
"You gave up Diet Coke AGAIN? WTF? That almost killed you last year. It almost killed me! Why couldn't you just give up something else for 40 days, like bathing or taking care of your child?"
Of course I wasn't serious. I want her to bathe.
This got me thinking though about the whole concept of sacrificing things for....well, for whatever reason. I know a lot of religions do it, probably most of them, actually. I know that a lot of people do it from time to time. I get that it requires discipline and makes you think about things.
Normally, this just annoys me. I'm not sure why. I guess one of the basic reasons I'm not very good at religions is because I have a fundamental opposition to things that require me sacrificing . . . or restricting my actions . . . or changing before I'm ready . . . or standing . . .
Oh well, you get the idea.
I know a lot of people do take this seriously. Some people put a great deal of thought into what they will give up for Lent. For many of them, it's probably a very cleansing and reflective time.
If you haven't given it a lot of thought and are at a lost for what to give up for Lent, allow me to make the following suggestions.
For the next forty days:
This got me thinking though about the whole concept of sacrificing things for....well, for whatever reason. I know a lot of religions do it, probably most of them, actually. I know that a lot of people do it from time to time. I get that it requires discipline and makes you think about things.
Normally, this just annoys me. I'm not sure why. I guess one of the basic reasons I'm not very good at religions is because I have a fundamental opposition to things that require me sacrificing . . . or restricting my actions . . . or changing before I'm ready . . . or standing . . .
Oh well, you get the idea.
I know a lot of people do take this seriously. Some people put a great deal of thought into what they will give up for Lent. For many of them, it's probably a very cleansing and reflective time.
If you haven't given it a lot of thought and are at a lost for what to give up for Lent, allow me to make the following suggestions.
For the next forty days:
- Stop your addiction to self-criticism. Give yourself 40 days to just make mistakes and be human. Stop striving for perfection and thinking you have to always do everything right.
- Stop your addiction to criticizing others. Realize everyone makes mistakes and quite often when they do, it's nothing against you personally.
- Let the little things slide. Instead of being annoyed with absolutely every aspect of what is going wrong in your day, concentrate on the parts that are going right.
- Don't fall into the quagmire of negative news. If stories about libs make you angry, don't read them. If stories about Fox News makes you want to pull out your hair, then avoid them.
- If you know the comments to something are going to piss you off, don't read them. For the next 40 days, avoid the frustration of proving to yourself over and over again how much other people can suck.
- Don't make shitty comments. Take head of the old saying that if you have nothing nice to say, keep silent.
- Get enough sleep. This is something we neglect so often. Sacrifice those extra couple of hours spent awake doing basically nothing and actually allow yourself more sleep time.
- Take time, every day, to truly commit to memory what you are doing. We go through so many routines and rituals that most of us are unaware they are even happening. Focus on one part of your day and try to concentrate on what makes THIS TIME different.
- Go out of your way to avoid the people who drain you.
- Go out of your way to spend doing the things that make you truly happy.
I know these aren't traditional Lent things, probably not by a long shot. I think they fit the spirit of it though. Sacrifice and fasting should always be about cleansing. This doesn't just mean the body. Following just one of these things might help you reset the balance of negative vs. positive in your life. Doing all of them? Why, I bet you'd have one hell of a Lent season.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Downward Spiral
One of the reasons I'm glad I'm blogging is because I know my memory is slowly but surely packing up and moving far, far away. I won't say I notice this every day, not yet, at least. It is happening though.
I kind of want to blame this on technology. Back in Ye Olden Days when we still had phones hooked to the walls, I had tons of numbers memorized. My friends, my family, places around town, all with in easy access of my brain. Now? Now, I'm lucky if I can remember my OWN phone number. While I'm sure a lot of this has to do with being older, I try to just pretend it's because my phone makes me lazy. My phone, of course, now has all the numbers to friends, family, and places I need to call, leaving me free to just push buttons and forget things.
I'm not going to rail against the tech though. It certainly has its advantages. For instance, it's helpful to put the numbers of people you don't want to talk to in your phone. That way, when they call, you can easily avoid them. And there is nothing wrong with that. I have this policy that I do not have to answer the phone or the door just because someone wants me to. Okay, unless it was the police, but you get the idea. No one else.
I also like the phone because I put the number to call when the power goes out on it. Heh! I still feel great about this one. No more fumbling around in the almost pitch blackness and cussing as I try to hold a flashlight while keeping the page of the phone book open and trying to dial at the same time.
Most of the time though, there is no technology to blame for my failing memory. Changed my FB profile picture to my Siouxsie concert poster a few days ago and my best friend asked me what year she got it for me. I had absolutely no clue so I started trying to logic back over the years to figure it out. I knew she was living with her parents and hadn't started her second college degree, but everything else about the instance was hazy. I offered a guess, but not based on real memory of the event.
So as I said, I'm glad I'm blogging now, so even if I forget what was actually going on in 2011 and beyond, at least I can go back and read about it. It's also one of the reasons I occasionally write posts about things from my past. It's a good way to hold on to whatever tangible bits I still possess.
I'm sneaky though, so there is always the possibility that Now Me may decide to troll Future Me and start writing a bunch of crap that never happened, just for the lulz of knowing I won't remember the difference. I can just see it, me 40 years from now, going back through my blogs to see what was happening during this decade and finding stuff like this:
"Yeah, in 2014, that's when the aliens came down and brought you onto their ship. You spent the next two years with them and even fell in love with one. You didn't know if you could breed or not, but he was a scientist and he found a way. Once your baby was born on the planet Xzzallgabritzz, you were both hailed as the Adam and Eve of a new dawning for peace in the universe. But then his rivals decided to punish you both and sent you back to Earth, leaving him to raise your six half alien babies."
Then I'll be the crazy old woman, wheeling around the rest home and telling everyone about how the aliens took my six babies. Of course, that might mean I get better psych meds. If not that, at least maybe I'll be spared the Solient Green tanks.
I kind of want to blame this on technology. Back in Ye Olden Days when we still had phones hooked to the walls, I had tons of numbers memorized. My friends, my family, places around town, all with in easy access of my brain. Now? Now, I'm lucky if I can remember my OWN phone number. While I'm sure a lot of this has to do with being older, I try to just pretend it's because my phone makes me lazy. My phone, of course, now has all the numbers to friends, family, and places I need to call, leaving me free to just push buttons and forget things.
I'm not going to rail against the tech though. It certainly has its advantages. For instance, it's helpful to put the numbers of people you don't want to talk to in your phone. That way, when they call, you can easily avoid them. And there is nothing wrong with that. I have this policy that I do not have to answer the phone or the door just because someone wants me to. Okay, unless it was the police, but you get the idea. No one else.
I also like the phone because I put the number to call when the power goes out on it. Heh! I still feel great about this one. No more fumbling around in the almost pitch blackness and cussing as I try to hold a flashlight while keeping the page of the phone book open and trying to dial at the same time.
Most of the time though, there is no technology to blame for my failing memory. Changed my FB profile picture to my Siouxsie concert poster a few days ago and my best friend asked me what year she got it for me. I had absolutely no clue so I started trying to logic back over the years to figure it out. I knew she was living with her parents and hadn't started her second college degree, but everything else about the instance was hazy. I offered a guess, but not based on real memory of the event.
So as I said, I'm glad I'm blogging now, so even if I forget what was actually going on in 2011 and beyond, at least I can go back and read about it. It's also one of the reasons I occasionally write posts about things from my past. It's a good way to hold on to whatever tangible bits I still possess.
I'm sneaky though, so there is always the possibility that Now Me may decide to troll Future Me and start writing a bunch of crap that never happened, just for the lulz of knowing I won't remember the difference. I can just see it, me 40 years from now, going back through my blogs to see what was happening during this decade and finding stuff like this:
"Yeah, in 2014, that's when the aliens came down and brought you onto their ship. You spent the next two years with them and even fell in love with one. You didn't know if you could breed or not, but he was a scientist and he found a way. Once your baby was born on the planet Xzzallgabritzz, you were both hailed as the Adam and Eve of a new dawning for peace in the universe. But then his rivals decided to punish you both and sent you back to Earth, leaving him to raise your six half alien babies."
Then I'll be the crazy old woman, wheeling around the rest home and telling everyone about how the aliens took my six babies. Of course, that might mean I get better psych meds. If not that, at least maybe I'll be spared the Solient Green tanks.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Island of Lost Posts
Tonight I had a friend tell me he'd written me a long, very important post that got "disappeared" somehow by the internet. He was heartbroken, of course. It seems silly, but when that happens, we are always heartbroken. One of the things I love about Blogger is that it saves me every minute or so. That is so damned helpful because otherwise, I would have probably lost a post or two by now.
In that strange emotionally-imaginative sympathetic way people can feel the pain of others, I feel the tinges of what he's going through. When you lose a post or a great reply or whatever, there is this moment of total loss and disappointment that flows into rage and the sense that life is completely fucked.
Some people are going to roll their eyes at that, thinking I'm being overly dramatic, but you just wait til you lose YOUR next post. Maybe you won't be Judgy McJudgytroll then.
So . . . where do all those lost posts go?
Do they waft off into space? Do they just disappear like they were never there? Do they end up in Dream's Library to be sorted by Lucian? To they get taken by Cyberspace Little People?
What bothers me is that any long, completed post represents real thoughts and ideas pulled together. There is an essence to it. And in the way that we intellectually "breath" life into anything we read, we do the same when we compose.
Maybe all the lost posts just drift away from us to their own little imaginary island. They sit there in their unfulfilled brilliance, marvelous and shimmering examples of the best of our ideas. They talk to each other and reflect on what they could have accomplished. They compliment each other on the depth of their prose.
They form cliques based on similar content. They begin to do the things cliques always do . . . wear their hair the same, collect the same themed silly bands, and talk about the other cliques. This leads to a lot of drama. Some lost posts even start stealing the boyfriends of other lost posts. Blood is shed. Eventually these groups form volleyball teams, because that kind of thing always seems to happen on islands.
Sometimes though, one of the posts will stand apart from its clique. These posts will get very still and silent. They will look up at the sky as if they can see something no one else can. The other posts leave them alone, because they're always mistrustful of this process.
The lone posts stand there for a few days, eyes shut, waiting. Then they begin to unravel. Their structure and sentences and ideas all swirl and pull apart, spiraling away from them and heading into the sky where after a while they fade.
Why does this happen? Ahh, that is because for every post we lose, we still have the genesis of those ideas inside us. We may rewrite the post, always lamenting how we lost the power of the original, but we never truly lose that power. The thrust behind the ideas of it stays with us, and eventually we find ourselves using them to create new writing, threading together those old ides with new ones to form new thought and new writing . . .
THAT hopefully will not also get its ass lost.
In that strange emotionally-imaginative sympathetic way people can feel the pain of others, I feel the tinges of what he's going through. When you lose a post or a great reply or whatever, there is this moment of total loss and disappointment that flows into rage and the sense that life is completely fucked.
Some people are going to roll their eyes at that, thinking I'm being overly dramatic, but you just wait til you lose YOUR next post. Maybe you won't be Judgy McJudgytroll then.
So . . . where do all those lost posts go?
Do they waft off into space? Do they just disappear like they were never there? Do they end up in Dream's Library to be sorted by Lucian? To they get taken by Cyberspace Little People?
What bothers me is that any long, completed post represents real thoughts and ideas pulled together. There is an essence to it. And in the way that we intellectually "breath" life into anything we read, we do the same when we compose.
Maybe all the lost posts just drift away from us to their own little imaginary island. They sit there in their unfulfilled brilliance, marvelous and shimmering examples of the best of our ideas. They talk to each other and reflect on what they could have accomplished. They compliment each other on the depth of their prose.
They form cliques based on similar content. They begin to do the things cliques always do . . . wear their hair the same, collect the same themed silly bands, and talk about the other cliques. This leads to a lot of drama. Some lost posts even start stealing the boyfriends of other lost posts. Blood is shed. Eventually these groups form volleyball teams, because that kind of thing always seems to happen on islands.
Sometimes though, one of the posts will stand apart from its clique. These posts will get very still and silent. They will look up at the sky as if they can see something no one else can. The other posts leave them alone, because they're always mistrustful of this process.
The lone posts stand there for a few days, eyes shut, waiting. Then they begin to unravel. Their structure and sentences and ideas all swirl and pull apart, spiraling away from them and heading into the sky where after a while they fade.
Why does this happen? Ahh, that is because for every post we lose, we still have the genesis of those ideas inside us. We may rewrite the post, always lamenting how we lost the power of the original, but we never truly lose that power. The thrust behind the ideas of it stays with us, and eventually we find ourselves using them to create new writing, threading together those old ides with new ones to form new thought and new writing . . .
THAT hopefully will not also get its ass lost.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Friday List: Words To Tickle
I am a great lover (and perverter) of the English language. I think it is a beautiful thing and can create and capture some of the most poignant moments of the human experience.
IT CAN ALSO BE DAMNED FUNNY!
For this Friday List, I will offer up some of the words that make me laugh, no matter how grave the situation.
1. ELVIS
I don't know what it is about the name of The King, but I always snirk a little when I hear it. Maybe it's because of the scene in Kalafornia when Brat Pitt yells "Elvis, get off him!" to the one dog screwing the other dog. Or maybe it's the whole kitsch of people impersonating him. I'm not sure, but that name is so funny to me. If I ever own a rooster, I'm naming it Elvis.
2. MONKEY
Okay, has there ever been a better named animal than monkeys? Monkeys LOOK like they should be called monkeys. Monkey gets even funnier when you put it with other words. "monkey dance" "monkey business." See? Funny! When I hear the word "monkey" in my head, I always see millions of monkeys in the sky, floating along with bananas. Yes, even when I hear "the monkey then attacked the man's face."
3. PILGRIM
This has to be proof that I'm crazy. There is nothing remotely funny about this word. It is made from the sound of two words (pill and grim) that both evoke BAD. Yet, I laugh whenever I hear the word. I'm not sure why "pilgrim" makes me chuckle so. I know they suffered a lot and then did bad things to others, but to me, they will always be a bunch of dudes in fugly hats and women with panties on their heads who are trying to sneak up on a turkey.
4. RHOMBUS
This one got me into trouble a lot back during Freshmen Geometry. A rhombus, as you will recall, is a quadrilateral where all four sides equal the same length. Boring, right?
Well, not to me. For some reason, any word that has one syllable followed by another syllable that ends in -"us" and I am going to find it funny. And while I intellectually know what a rhombus really is, in my mind, it will always be a bulldog smoking a cigar and wearing a clown hat. And I have no idea WHERE that image came from, but if you say "rhombus" that is what pops into my brain.
Needless to say, if I ever own a bulldog, its name shall be Rhombus.
Do I have a point with this list?
Oh yes, I do. When you were a little kid, you watched the people around you, you listened to them, and sometimes, yes, they even worked with you and through all of that, you acquired language skills. Our ability to speak and put words to images, symbols to ideas, is one of our fundamental building blocks, and for most of us, usually one of our first accomplishments.
Often unless something happens to take away our ability to speak, we don't think much about it. We should though. We are in possession of all of these words and sounds and related images. Given that, maybe we should take some time to allow our brains to play with these concepts and see what we find. After all, I think everyone out there has words they find funny. Maybe if you discover your "funny words," it can help you in times of stress.
Just think! Next time your pipes burst, you could console yourself by handling it like an adult on the outside and thinking "Monkey monkey monkey" on the inside.
IT CAN ALSO BE DAMNED FUNNY!
For this Friday List, I will offer up some of the words that make me laugh, no matter how grave the situation.
1. ELVIS
I don't know what it is about the name of The King, but I always snirk a little when I hear it. Maybe it's because of the scene in Kalafornia when Brat Pitt yells "Elvis, get off him!" to the one dog screwing the other dog. Or maybe it's the whole kitsch of people impersonating him. I'm not sure, but that name is so funny to me. If I ever own a rooster, I'm naming it Elvis.
2. MONKEY
Okay, has there ever been a better named animal than monkeys? Monkeys LOOK like they should be called monkeys. Monkey gets even funnier when you put it with other words. "monkey dance" "monkey business." See? Funny! When I hear the word "monkey" in my head, I always see millions of monkeys in the sky, floating along with bananas. Yes, even when I hear "the monkey then attacked the man's face."
3. PILGRIM
This has to be proof that I'm crazy. There is nothing remotely funny about this word. It is made from the sound of two words (pill and grim) that both evoke BAD. Yet, I laugh whenever I hear the word. I'm not sure why "pilgrim" makes me chuckle so. I know they suffered a lot and then did bad things to others, but to me, they will always be a bunch of dudes in fugly hats and women with panties on their heads who are trying to sneak up on a turkey.
4. RHOMBUS
This one got me into trouble a lot back during Freshmen Geometry. A rhombus, as you will recall, is a quadrilateral where all four sides equal the same length. Boring, right?
Well, not to me. For some reason, any word that has one syllable followed by another syllable that ends in -"us" and I am going to find it funny. And while I intellectually know what a rhombus really is, in my mind, it will always be a bulldog smoking a cigar and wearing a clown hat. And I have no idea WHERE that image came from, but if you say "rhombus" that is what pops into my brain.
Needless to say, if I ever own a bulldog, its name shall be Rhombus.
Do I have a point with this list?
Oh yes, I do. When you were a little kid, you watched the people around you, you listened to them, and sometimes, yes, they even worked with you and through all of that, you acquired language skills. Our ability to speak and put words to images, symbols to ideas, is one of our fundamental building blocks, and for most of us, usually one of our first accomplishments.
Often unless something happens to take away our ability to speak, we don't think much about it. We should though. We are in possession of all of these words and sounds and related images. Given that, maybe we should take some time to allow our brains to play with these concepts and see what we find. After all, I think everyone out there has words they find funny. Maybe if you discover your "funny words," it can help you in times of stress.
Just think! Next time your pipes burst, you could console yourself by handling it like an adult on the outside and thinking "Monkey monkey monkey" on the inside.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Night All Dogs Wished for Liquor
So March is upon us, which means one of my favorite holidays is coming up. I didn't always love St Patrick's Day. As a child, SPD is either good or bad depending on how neglectful your parents are. You know why. That whole "if you don't wear green then you get pinched" thing. Yeah. That sucked.
As I got older, my mother developed this obsession with Ireland (focused around Leon Uris and U2 music) and due to this and her alcoholism, SPD became a BIG DEAL at our house. Mom would always start talking about the party mid-April, figure out which of her friends was speaking to her at the time, argue with whatever her current husband had to say in the matter, and then go buy lots of alcohol.
When Mom was being slightly more responsible, the party would happen on whatever weekend was closest to the holiday. During the years when responsibility wasn't such a priority, the party happened on SPD, no matter what day of the week that happened to be. Mom would get up early and start cooking things, corned beef and potatoes and whatever else she decided to do. As soon as she was cooking, she was drinking. So I guess you could say the party started then.
Everyone else would arrive around two (or whenever they got off work on those less responsible years). More drinking would happen and eating would go on. Most of my mom's friends were into Irish stuff too, or would pretend to be. Okay, there was usually some idiot jackass new boyfriend or something who would make idiot jackass comments and Mom would scream at him ALL of Irish history. That was fun. But not as fun as the next stage in the party.
Somewhere, only perhaps St. Bono and St. Patrick know where, my mom obtained this collection of Irish folk songs on vinyl. I can say for a fact there had to have been at least 35 million songs on those albums. Quite drunk by this point, Mom would gather everyone around her old beat up record player and announce that we were now going to sing with the songs.
You need to keep certain things in mind here.
As I got older, my mother developed this obsession with Ireland (focused around Leon Uris and U2 music) and due to this and her alcoholism, SPD became a BIG DEAL at our house. Mom would always start talking about the party mid-April, figure out which of her friends was speaking to her at the time, argue with whatever her current husband had to say in the matter, and then go buy lots of alcohol.
When Mom was being slightly more responsible, the party would happen on whatever weekend was closest to the holiday. During the years when responsibility wasn't such a priority, the party happened on SPD, no matter what day of the week that happened to be. Mom would get up early and start cooking things, corned beef and potatoes and whatever else she decided to do. As soon as she was cooking, she was drinking. So I guess you could say the party started then.
Everyone else would arrive around two (or whenever they got off work on those less responsible years). More drinking would happen and eating would go on. Most of my mom's friends were into Irish stuff too, or would pretend to be. Okay, there was usually some idiot jackass new boyfriend or something who would make idiot jackass comments and Mom would scream at him ALL of Irish history. That was fun. But not as fun as the next stage in the party.
Somewhere, only perhaps St. Bono and St. Patrick know where, my mom obtained this collection of Irish folk songs on vinyl. I can say for a fact there had to have been at least 35 million songs on those albums. Quite drunk by this point, Mom would gather everyone around her old beat up record player and announce that we were now going to sing with the songs.
You need to keep certain things in mind here.
- Most everyone here was drunk.
- Basically no one knew these songs, but that hardly mattered because:
- Damned near everyone of them was in Gaelic.
None of these facts mattered to Mom though. We were to sing. And she was drunk, very drunk, and had a temper. And it was her party.
So the first album would be put on, happy pipes and other Irish sounds would begin. Someone would start singing and in the room around me, all the drunken adults, myself, and my little brother, would begin to sing as well. As much as we could.
When I was a teenager, I started listening to the Cocteau Twins (of course) and in Elizabeth Fraser's vocals, I found what my mom's parties were like. Jumbled, nonsensical sounds that had the potential to be words, but really weren't. Something like, "Hounga bounga wounga taygee. Shuba wanka walla kaybee."
As we would sing, Mom would talk about significant points of Irish history. Then she would sing with us. Because there were so many drunk people in the room, half the time, people would start dancing as they sing nonsensical things.
In the midst of this one year, I noticed the dogs were watching us from the hallway. Mom always had dogs and during parties, they tended to just fend for themselves. As people sang and danced and Mom educated us, I noticed that one of the dogs cocked her head to one side and looked at us as if to say, "Okay, whatever the humans are doing, it has to be the bested and funnest thing ever. Because they look like fools and seem perfectly happy about it."
The dogs joined in after a while, bouncing from person to person and howling as we sang our nonsense. However, I like to believe the dogs felt they were missing some key element to truly understand the abandon around them. They thought it was a joyful thing. Sometimes, it's great to be so innocent.
So the first album would be put on, happy pipes and other Irish sounds would begin. Someone would start singing and in the room around me, all the drunken adults, myself, and my little brother, would begin to sing as well. As much as we could.
When I was a teenager, I started listening to the Cocteau Twins (of course) and in Elizabeth Fraser's vocals, I found what my mom's parties were like. Jumbled, nonsensical sounds that had the potential to be words, but really weren't. Something like, "Hounga bounga wounga taygee. Shuba wanka walla kaybee."
As we would sing, Mom would talk about significant points of Irish history. Then she would sing with us. Because there were so many drunk people in the room, half the time, people would start dancing as they sing nonsensical things.
In the midst of this one year, I noticed the dogs were watching us from the hallway. Mom always had dogs and during parties, they tended to just fend for themselves. As people sang and danced and Mom educated us, I noticed that one of the dogs cocked her head to one side and looked at us as if to say, "Okay, whatever the humans are doing, it has to be the bested and funnest thing ever. Because they look like fools and seem perfectly happy about it."
The dogs joined in after a while, bouncing from person to person and howling as we sang our nonsense. However, I like to believe the dogs felt they were missing some key element to truly understand the abandon around them. They thought it was a joyful thing. Sometimes, it's great to be so innocent.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Weird Collective Imagination
I was talking with an older relative the other day about a television show and make the comment that the set was so cheap it looked like it doubled as a porn set. We both chuckled about this, but it got me thinking. . . . how did she know that reference?
Now, on one hand, I can assume she watched porn. That would be most people's idea. Or that she's seen various references to porn sets on other TV shows/movies. This is more likely. She could have also read about.
However, there is the possibility that her only frame of reference for this is just from word of mouth. People communicated a certain idea and with enough references, we fill in the pieces with our own imagination. Suddenly that image becomes fact to us. Even if, strictly speaking, it's not actual fact.
Our imaginations are insanely vivid. Consider HOW vivid for a moment. Think about the ocean. Okay, now....did you just see vast water?
Or did you see waves crashing against a beach. Did you imagine the sound of waves in your head, hear seagulls, maybe even the sound of your feet in the sand? Did you feel that sand? Did you imagine the feel the wetness in the air from the water, like a slight tickle against your skin? Did you imagine the smell of fish, of suntan lotion, of a slight decay around the water's edge?
More than likely, you did. You might not register that you had ALL of that detail to you image of the ocean, but you do.
Oh, and here's the fun thing. You have all that, but maybe you've never even SEEN the ocean. And for anyone who doubts that is possible, I was able to describe all of that from seeing it in my head and I've never seen the ocean.
So how do I have this image? As I listed before, other outside sources. Books, movies, tv, people telling me about it. I take all of this together and create my own ideas of the ocean. Will it be like that when I finally see it? Perhaps not exactly, but I can bet that it will be fairly close.
Creating impressions from the communications of others is something we more or less can't help but do. It's part of our basic nature, I think. It can be really fun too, because it gives us a collective playground. How else can a whole generation understand how one becomes a Jedi, why even hobbits can save Middle Earth, and how delicious Wolverine must smell, even after he's been fighting people for hours.
However, we have to be very careful about this, because it can lead to a lot of destructive things. Very often, we have ideas about countries, groups of people, and even individuals that are colored by the bias of those around us, and even of the education we received about the subject.
There are all kinds of people out there who want to alter our perceptions of things to their world view. Now, sometimes, they do this for evil and selfish reasons. Most of the time though, I think it's because they truly believe whatever they're saying and want to make the world a better place. Well, their idea of a better place anyway.
I think it's a good idea to routinely examine your perception about life. Consider the other ideas out there, maybe not to adopt them, but to understand why they may have merit. Most of the time, instead of weakening how you feel, it will serve to make your own ideas stronger.
How is this possible? That's quite simple. The more you explore on your own, the more your ideas are less impressions from others and more based on your own solid evidence.
Now, on one hand, I can assume she watched porn. That would be most people's idea. Or that she's seen various references to porn sets on other TV shows/movies. This is more likely. She could have also read about.
However, there is the possibility that her only frame of reference for this is just from word of mouth. People communicated a certain idea and with enough references, we fill in the pieces with our own imagination. Suddenly that image becomes fact to us. Even if, strictly speaking, it's not actual fact.
Our imaginations are insanely vivid. Consider HOW vivid for a moment. Think about the ocean. Okay, now....did you just see vast water?
Or did you see waves crashing against a beach. Did you imagine the sound of waves in your head, hear seagulls, maybe even the sound of your feet in the sand? Did you feel that sand? Did you imagine the feel the wetness in the air from the water, like a slight tickle against your skin? Did you imagine the smell of fish, of suntan lotion, of a slight decay around the water's edge?
More than likely, you did. You might not register that you had ALL of that detail to you image of the ocean, but you do.
Oh, and here's the fun thing. You have all that, but maybe you've never even SEEN the ocean. And for anyone who doubts that is possible, I was able to describe all of that from seeing it in my head and I've never seen the ocean.
So how do I have this image? As I listed before, other outside sources. Books, movies, tv, people telling me about it. I take all of this together and create my own ideas of the ocean. Will it be like that when I finally see it? Perhaps not exactly, but I can bet that it will be fairly close.
Creating impressions from the communications of others is something we more or less can't help but do. It's part of our basic nature, I think. It can be really fun too, because it gives us a collective playground. How else can a whole generation understand how one becomes a Jedi, why even hobbits can save Middle Earth, and how delicious Wolverine must smell, even after he's been fighting people for hours.
However, we have to be very careful about this, because it can lead to a lot of destructive things. Very often, we have ideas about countries, groups of people, and even individuals that are colored by the bias of those around us, and even of the education we received about the subject.
There are all kinds of people out there who want to alter our perceptions of things to their world view. Now, sometimes, they do this for evil and selfish reasons. Most of the time though, I think it's because they truly believe whatever they're saying and want to make the world a better place. Well, their idea of a better place anyway.
I think it's a good idea to routinely examine your perception about life. Consider the other ideas out there, maybe not to adopt them, but to understand why they may have merit. Most of the time, instead of weakening how you feel, it will serve to make your own ideas stronger.
How is this possible? That's quite simple. The more you explore on your own, the more your ideas are less impressions from others and more based on your own solid evidence.
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