Monkeys and Endings

I have been having some amazing typos lately. I think the best one was tonight when I spelled out "monkey" for "money." Seriously, any time you can sub monkey for money, it's always going to be grand.

"I like him because he has a lot of monkey."

"I would stay at that job, but the monkey isn't worth my time."

"I hope they don't raise my rent. I really don't have the monkey for it."

"I would let him stay the night, but last time he did, he stole my monkey."

Okay, I'll stop now because I could keep doing these all night.

Nightmares plagued me last night.  This is kind of rare. Normally if I have shitty dreams, they're stress dreams. You know, the kind where you can't pay your bills or you've been accused of crimes or suddenly realize you've never been to Advanced Chem but you're enrolled in it and it's the final. Oh, and you're probably naked.

No, this was more your end of the world kind of dreams. Lots of lightening strikes around me and people trying to catch me to do . . . something. I'm still not sure what. No zombies though.

As I am in my more jaded mode, I would like to point out that I believe when the world is close to ending, we really won't see major global panic.  I think most people will be kind jazzed about the idea, about knowing there IS an end. I think you'll see a kind of happiness and peace of mind spread through everyone, a contentment in knowing the whole thing is just about over and there isn't fuck you can do about it.

That would really be beautiful. A whole world of people who understand there is nothing past a certain date, that everything will be over. "The End if Near?" Awesome. Cool. This idea of extreme panic and terror is pretty unrealistic.  There is no reason to panic when you know something is going to end, even if it's a scary something.

The time to panic is when you have no clue that there is an ending in sight.

They've actually done experiments about this. Scientist would take two groups of people and isolate them in rooms.  With one group, they would tell them to put their hands in ice cold water, but after three minutes, they could stop.  With the other group, they were told to put their hands in the water and given no time line for how long.

The people in the 3 minute group had no problem holding their hands in the water for that time. In fact, many of them said they could probably keep their hands in the water for a lot longer. The other group? Most of them panicked before the two minute mark.  When you have no idea how long something is going to last, your tolerance for it is far lower.

So anyway, yeah, end of the world doesn't scare me.  It means no more bills, no more pain. It means no more drama or listening to people talk endlessly about bullshit.  It means never having to worry about where your next meal is coming from or if you are going to run out of money.

And yes, I totally typed monkey again and had to backspace.

I love how twisty my brain can be.

Love!

I love the feel of kitty fur against my feet. I also love it when cats roll over and show your their bellies. One of our cats has a black and white belly. It looks like chocolate pudding and whipped cream.

I love it when my roommate and I do domestic tasks together. I love it when we load the dishwasher or fold clothes or cook while just talking and being us. I think some of my best moments are when we cook together.

I love ruins. I love anything about cultures so old no one remembers them. I love the way weather and time changes the look of things. I love coral on underwater statues.

I love it when my friends talk about the things that make them happy. There is so much bad in the world and I know a lot of the times, my friends are hurting. So when I see the happiness in them, it makes me feel good about the world. I want them happy.

I love looking at pictures of my aunt and her children.  My cousins always look at her with such love. They honor her and value her. This shows so much in pictures of them. Every time I see this, it makes me smile.

I love blogging. I love this time of night when I pool my thoughts for the day and type them out. Sometimes it's rage. Sometimes it's silliness. Sometimes it can be happiness or philosophical musings. Whatever the case, it's me. It's how I honestly feel in that moment, in these moments. I've probably needed to do this for a long time.

Thankfully I waited until I'd cultivated at least a small bit of internet tact.

Monday Musings

The cats are getting their winter coats, which means they are all fuzzy and cuddly and beautiful. They're also eating more, which isn't saying much as I'm somewhat convinced they subsisted off of spite and one piece of kibble all summer.

My reorganizing did not happen today. I kind of only move some laundry baskets from one area to another.  Things will get folded tomorrow. Today, I just didn't feel like it.  I still need to find my hoodies as it's almost Hoodie Season. Hopefully I'll find them before it gets too cold. Otherwise, I may just have to carry the cats everywhere.

The quasi-self help book is still getting on my nerves. The author does not have a charming narrative noise and I find myself rolling my eyes a lot.  This frustrates me because I know if it was written better, I could get past the annoyance and focus on the true meat of what is being said. Bah!

Speaking of rolling the eyes, the new "feature" on Facebook that lets people post ungodly long status updates is making me stabby.  I'm getting to the point where I wish FB would come out with a stupidity filter.

Beyond that, it was just another Monday.  I like Mondays where everything is chill and calm though. It makes me quite happy.

Bit Points with Happy Conclusions

I honestly had stuff to write about tonight, but I got distracted and forgot what it was. That seems to be happening a lot, but I'll blame old age and the fact that everything seems to be going out of its way to cause me agita.

Damned Facebook and its stupid update. I'm sure the new features shoot rainbows out of its ass, but I don't care. Then again, I'm someone who is still purposefully using AIM 3.5 or something. I really dislike it when things feel the need to add more and more bells and whistles.

I'm reading the Hellraiser comics and I'm finding I don't like them.  There is this kind of self-conscious affected thing that horror comics can do sometimes that should work, but doesn't. It's the earlier issues though. I don't know. Maybe I'll like it as I get deeper in.

However, on reflection, it's either amusing or disturbing that I can be so jaded and bored with comics about visceral level torture. Hmph. Actually, the problem is that it's not visceral enough. There is a level of psychological realism that is missing for me.

That is something I am enjoying about GRRM's work. As much as he can go over the top in the other way with things, when his writing is at its best, he can truly find the realistic aspects of his character's psyche. We've witnessed several characters have moments where their paradigms shattered and felt the horror of that along with them. It's always interesting to watch how they pick up the pieces of their minds and push on through the moments. After a while, they get used to the new and   trudge on with their lives.

Along with horrific fantasy novels and titillating torture comics, I'm also reading a quasi-religious quasi-self-help book. Hah!  The self help book is part of the current treatment plan in therapy.  I hate it so much.  The circle thinking in it is so bad. "You should forgive people because God tells you to forgive people and therefore you should forgive them and because he said so." "Your past was bad so don't think about it because you shouldn't think about bad things." Ugggh!  Talk about beat it with a bat!

Look, I know it's important to let go of the past badness.  It is. I also know that harboring resentment and bitterness inside you is detrimental for you and boring for everyone else. However, there are far more intelligent ways to express these thoughts. You know, ways that don't involve what boils down to "because I said so."

However . . .

I'm reading again. And not just a little bit reading again. Reading lots. Not reading as much as I used to yet, but reading more and more than I have in a long while. The deep depression and the meds used to treat it have almost destroyed my attention span. It's so good to see it returning.

Actually, that is something to fucking celebrate!  *muppet flail* YAY!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm done.

Moloch Made of Ticky Tacky and How That Can Work for YOU!

I watched Howl tonight, the movie about said poem and its author Allen Ginsberg. There were a lot of things about the movie that spoke to me, but none so much as when Ginsberg was talking about the difference between contriving writing and truely writing.

He spoke of the trap of literature. So many people, when they try to write "literature," will merely copy something, crafting to form and style, taking ideas that aren't all that original and submitting them as something of merit.  The thing is, we don't speak that way. We don't talk about things that way. How we have our conversations with each other, how we talk to ourselves in our heads, that is our truth. That is our real language and our real words. Perhaps it isn't elevated or stylistic, but it IS ours.

The problem is, I'm not even sure if he's right about that.  I love culture, but sometimes I worry about the addiction of it, the addiction of society and media. How much of ourselves do we sacrifice just by partaking in the culture around us?

I think an example of this was on this week's episode of America's Next Top Model. As I've mentioned before, I love this show, because there is a strange sort of philosophy about it. I could actually write a whole damned book about the lessons of ANTM.

Anyway, last night Tyra had a man come to talk to the models about branding. He didn't mean like with hot irons!  He means in terms of labeling and selling your image in a certain way.  He said something a long the lines of "people want to be able to pin you down to just one word. You need to project that word and stay consistent about it. Audiences don't like to be confused."

So all the girls are given their one word. Most of the time, it's something abstract like "free" or "unexpected."  Then they are told to sell their image to that word, keep the word in mind when they do their photos. You're not just the model selling the shoes, you're the "candid" model selling the shoes.  Because not only are you now selling the shoes, you're selling yourself as well. You. As the brand.

I had a lot of reactions to this and a lot of these reactions were "but that shouldn't BE" ones.  Let's face it; there is a lot of squick to the idea of girls branding themselves to be better sold. It even really sounds bad.

However, and this is where ANTM always kind of gets to me, the reality is, this shit works.  Every day you see people coming up with inorganic labels for themselves (or by some company) and becoming marginally successful because of it. This shit works. You can become famous with a catchy label in the same way that a catchy ad can make or break a product.

Which means, honestly, people aren't interested in complexity or depth from others . . . . no, not even if your brand is "complex" or "deep." They want people to fit into nice little boxes with one word flashing above them, so that everything is easy and shallow and simple. If you give them more than that, people get confused and upset.

The lesson from this? Two things.

The first is that as individuals, we should strive to not fall into this trap with others. Don't take the easy route and just accept people with one word labels. Give them some depth. Allow them some balance and texture. And not just because their words are "balanced" and "textured."

The second, and I know this is my Capricorn talking, if we can't always rage against the machine, find ways to make this work for you.  If  most people truly are this lazy and simplex, this can be a great tool to helping you succeed.  When you go into job interviews, project a "brand." Hi, I'm Blackhaired Barbie, and I am practical."

As you answer the questions, find ways to relate them back to the image you're selling. Prepare in advance. We all know the kind of questions you get asked in these things. Work your answers to your common theme. That way, when you're being considered, there is something that stands out about you that you helped to create.  Hopefully.

Does this kinda suck? Yes. Because it truly is contrived. It isn't genuine at all, or at least, not very much. It should go without saying that you should pick a word that you can actually pull off. Practical may not have been the best in my case.

Now, is this the way I want the world to be? Hell no!  I want Ginsberg's world where people spend time to truly work out the images of their conversation. Where they say the true things and pour their truth into the sea of human awareness and experience. However, we do not always get what we want.

This may change one day.  I truly hope it does.  In fact, I feel bad about even trying to find ways to make the system work for me, because the system truly is Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows and that sucks.

Now in my head, I see some literary agent sitting in front of a confused Ginsberg and saying, "You need a brand, hon. I think your word will be . . . "controversial!"

The Rusty Mementos

Kudos to my roommate for calling the plumbers and managing to get them here today. The guy who showed up is the one my roommate has a level of rapport with, so he fixed what was wrong and didn't charge us for it. This is awesome because we're the seriously poor.

Once the plumber left, my roomie handed over the bit of pipe removed from the water heater.  He smiled when he did this, because he knows how sickly fascinated I am by these things. I love rusty mementos of plumbing.

I'm still rather excited about this one.  The buildup in it was so thick!  On one side, I could basically push my pinky finger through. On the other side, I couldn't even do that!  It was glorious!

Of course, after marveling at the damage and buildup, I had to clean it.  I took an old toothbrush and some wetwipes and worked on the small bit of pipe until I could see through it.  It was caked black inside, black and thick with a faint smell of iron.

I love rusted old things. I love water damage and wear.  To me, all of these serve to create a deep loveliness to things, nature marking and changing them, destroying them from their original state to become something unique.  It's almost scary how happy this makes me.

Organized Chaos

My computer is set up by a file cabinet. It's only two file levels high, so it makes a very nice side table. Inside, on both levels, are beautifully marked out and organized hanging files for all the sorting of paperwork and information we might need. Last month when I needed something for the car, it was right there.

Of course, tonight, when I needed to find the receipt for something, it was no where near the cabinet.

My roommate walked to our office area and began to search for the two Walmart bags that hold our more current and vital paperwork. For a while, the letters and receipts and documents were allowed to pile up around us, creating higher and more precarious stacks. We knew it was getting out of hand so we did the smart thing and filed it all away. . .  oh, wait, no . . . tossed it all into Walmart bags to be sorted at a later date.

Of course, he couldn't find the bags.  

To be fair, it's been several months since we thought about them. Things get moved around here and there and quite honestly, we've had other priorities. But not finding them opened up the slight trickle of panic in both of us.  Just the first step towards what could spiral into full scale "need to go to nut house" level panic.

I walked over to see if I could help and noted, that the office area was less disorganized that I thought it was, thought it could use a serious level of help in that department.  My roommate found some random bag of loose change. Neither of us remember where it came from. My guess is the car.  I didn't ask him if any of the money was a bit rusted.  If it was, that's a sure sign it was taken out of my car.

Oh, and I did eventually find the bags o'important paperwork.  They were in a pull out drawer made of molded while plastic and poverty. I'm guessing we put them in the drawer so we could quite easily remember where we put them.

We divided up the bags and began to search them. Nothing.  We search again. Nothing. WE SEARCH AGAIN. Nothing.  And by now, the panic is really starting to grow.

Because, this receipt was for something that cost us a lot of money and time and sanity.  It deals with a time that was hard on us, not just emotionally and financially, but physically because we had to do a lot of stuff on our own just to keep costs down. I don't think either of us feel like going through this again.

At this point, as we continue to find nothing, I'm thinking two things. The first is that I really should organize my paperwork into the happy little hang files I made for it. Secondly, I probably have the emotional stability suited for someone who lives in an apartment. I need the security of knowing maintenance will show up and fix the problems, that I have no responsibility beyond just calling them and waiting.  Beyond that, my brain starts to turn sideways.

Or maybe not . . . .

Because at the last minute, as we were both scrambling through the paperwork AGAIN, I remembered that we'd set all truly vital and important receipts in a vase on the mantle. And would you believe it? The document we needed was exactly in that vase.

Is there a moral to the story? Why yes, yes there is.

You can't control when things break. You can't control when things are going to fall apart.  You could try, but it would drive you bonkers.

But what you can control is how you are able to respond to the crisis. The absolute worst thing you can do is hit panic.  Once you've hit panic or anger, you won't make good decisions. In some cases, you won't make any decisions.

Any aspect of a situation that you have some measure of power over, use.  See that things are organized and stored in places that are easy to sort through and find. See that you have a good record of when things happen, as a way of predicting when they may happen again.  Finally, if you find yourself starting to panic, stop talking, stop thinking. Just take a moment, count to ten, do some deep breathing. Sit down. Find ways to calm yourself so you can handle the situation in  a rational manner.

If I'd not started panicking already, I probably would have remembered where we kept the important docs. I could have saved myself a lot of tense moments.  Hopefully next time, I'll have things more secure.

Beat It with a Bat!

Dammit!  Facebook changed stuff again! I hate that. People come to Facebook because they like it. Don't change it and make it confusing.  Don't feel like you have to compete with Google+. Believe me, you don't.

I realize there is this need to keep your tech and development people doing something, but how about just have them fix problems, not have them make things "more usable" when really they just make it worse. Idiots. Your changes are exactly what is going to make people leave you.

To me, this always comes off as insecurity on FB's part. Oh, everyone likes us, let's make sure we keep "getting better."  BAHHHH!!

Maybe it's just that I don't like change.  No wait, it's not that. It's that FB is changing things constantly and never for the better.

Okay, one time for the better. At one point, they tweeked their Games page to where it was really really useful . . . then they took it away from me.

Oh well, here's hoping someone makes a Chrome app that will fix FB back again.

The Quiet: Part Two

It's another quiet night here at the house. The weather was warmish for a while, but then eased into something almost chilly. I love this.  I have a cat sitting on my ottoman and only the low hum of my oxygen machine as noise.   This is why I love two in the morning.

It's a dark night, but we're not expecting storms.  The rain may return during the rest of the week and I think it would be quite welcome in its return . . . but not tonight. I watched a movie that made me happy cry and an anime that made me wicked laugh. As I said, I love this time of night.

Everyone needs time like this . . . a time of quiet, a time of contentment, a time of distraction.  It helps a lot, especially when we face so much chaos and fear and strife the rest of the time. I know I'm one to really tongue kiss the conflict and chaos, but even I like my quiet nights.

When I was a kid, my favorite times were also at night. I would be in my bed, but able to listen to the adults. I'm not talking about those nights when they were angry or crazy or despairing. I mean the nights when they had some measure of peace and tranquility about them. I can still remember the coolness of my cheek against the pillow as I listened to the low murmur of their conversation. I could only ever catch just fragments of the discussion, but it didn't matter.  Their momentary peace was so rare and special that it rippled out and even touched me.

Even now I can remember what those moments were like.  If ever asked, I think it's this that I would describe as a happy time in my childhood. It's a little strange that a happy time was a moment when I was removed from the activities at hand. And it's a little sad to think this is something I will never experience again.

Even if Fall brings me no more magic than just these quiet evenings, I think that may be enough. The quiet has been very restorative. I'm grateful for it.

The Gratefuls

I talked about my step-mom a while back, about how we're not really close but I like her. And I do like her. In fact, I'm in awe of this woman sometimes.

As I mentioned last night, my brother broke his leg. His surgery didn't happen until late in the evening. My sister-in-law's parents were taking care of their kids, so it was up to my dad and step-mom to help with things at the hospital.

My step-mother stayed with them until two in the morning. She not only helped there, she also drove from the larger city where the surgery was happening back here to our small town to pick up some things for them.  She did all of this for my brother who isn't even her kid. That's very remarkable.

In the wake of this, I feel very grateful. I am grateful my brother is recovering.  I am grateful he has sick leave days and that his job isn't going to suffer because of this. I'm grateful I have a wonderful sister-in-law who can remain calm in crisis situations. I'm grateful I have a step-mother who is kind.  Right now, in an odd way, I'm most grateful for that.

There is a lot of coldness in the world. I know this because sometimes I can be the cold one, the logical one. I can be the person who doesn't want to get emotionally involved or gets jaded or just stays stuck in place. But right now, I am humbled by the warmth and kindness of a woman who would drive so far out of her way just to get things so someone could be more comfortable in the hospital. That is beautiful. And it really makes me feel all gushy and happy inside.

Pause in the Raving

I know I didn't post last night. You're not getting much of a post tonight because I'm too upset. My brother broke his leg today while wakeboarding and he's having to have a titanium rod put in it. Plus a bunch of screws. He's in surgery right now and I feel worried and helpless.

I never know what to do in these situations. I'm not the reliable person of the family . . . or in anything, really.  I don't know if I should call or not. On one hand, I want them to know I care. On the other, I don't want them bombarded with calls.  I know that can be overwhelming when you're stressed.

So I'll wait and hope for the best. I'll go over and see them when he's in less pain. In the meantime, I'll do what I do.

The Quiet

After months and months of heat, many changes are coming to our little household. As I'm writing this, one of them is happening all around me. This change is the return of The Quiet.

The house is difficult to keep at a consistent temperature. To maintain a livable indoor climate, we have to run fans. Not just one fan or two, in fact, sometimes during the summer, we would have as many as 12 fans running at once. Fans not only cause a rush of air (at various volumes, depending on the size of the fan), but also quite often vibrate or shake or rattle or hum or all of the above.

None of them do this in unison either. So on any given day, we would have the sounds of many disharmonious machines all going at once. They would also rattle things around them, causing more disharmony. Because of the vibrations, quite often  this noise would build and build.

You get used to it, though, I can't say we ever make peace with it. The chaos of fan noise sticks with you. It fuzzes out the brain. I think sometimes I would hear it in my sleep. It doesn't cause harm, but it does cause wear on the soul.  The hours and hours and hours of noise made me feel tired and sometimes truly grated on my nerves.

It's getting colder now.  Most of the fans are turned off. I think one or two may still be on, but only the smaller ones. I feel like, for the first time in months, I can hear again. The loudest sound around me is my typing. I can hear the faint, calm sounds of my roommate as he sleeps. I can hear the cat snoring as she sleeps against my foot. A clock ticks.  My keyboard taps against the table.  Over all though, it's quiet. So, very, very quiet.

I love the fans and I am deeply thankful to have them. There are probably times this summer when they meant the difference between sleeping and being just a little uncomfortable . . . and not sleeping at all. We needed them and they kept us going. So yes, I am very grateful.

However, in this moment, in this quiet, where the frequency has been lowered to a far more manageable level, I am so happy for The Quiet.  I welcome The Quiet to me as if it were an old friend.  And it is, really.  A very old, dear, and healing friend.

Around a Table with People you Hate and Everyone has Stabby Things

I'm deeply glad I have nothing to do tomorrow. The weather fluctuations, humidity, and the fact that my body seems to delight in causing me hell all served to make today kind of sucktastic and exhausting. Despite that, I did manage to say some clever things.

I've been thinking about the stupid social platitudes they try and force on us, via campaigns and studies and other drivel. It's so funny how they never think these things through.

Case in point: Families having meals together.

In theory, sharing a meal with your family might be a great bonding experience. It is, after all, probably the basic way that humans socialized.  You know, all gathered around a fire and eating something.  To the blissfully lacking in insight social engineers, getting families to eat together just squees of goodness. And I guess as long as you use cardboard humans as your family, that's true.

However . . .

When I get really, really upset, I can't eat.  Part of the problem, I think, is that when I'm upset, I'm also angry, fatalistic, and frustrated. This makes the thought of food just nasty. A certain manipulative family member must have figured this out, because there were many "family dinners yay family dinners good and socially healthy yay" where said person would purposefully upset me so I'd stop eating. You know, in the hopes my eating less would cause me to be not-fat.

Somehow, this very clever family member never quite clued in how the spiral of upset would lead to deeper anger and then I would eat . . . usually alone and with far more enthusiasm and less concern for the consequences.  Needless to say, "family dinners together" have never been one of my favorite ideas.

See, the problem is, when everyone is forced to sit there at the table together, they're rather open to anything and everything the others might try.  Add in the need to feed yourself (as often many of these people probably are quite hungry at this point) and not only as you compelled to be there, but your basic needs are in play as well.

So what is it like, to be the kid who is sitting at the dinner table with the parent who rapes them?

What is it like to be the adult who is being belittled by the other parent in front of their children?

What is it like to be the forced near the loud, lying, insulting troll of a sibling who you usually avoid at all costs?

What is it like to try and eat in front of people who are angry at you? Or hate you? Or resent your existence? Or mock you? Or drain the very fucking life out of you?

And not only do you have to do this once, you have to do it over and over again, night after night after night of being around these people, trying to swallow your food as you swallow down hurt and fear and terror and anger.

In theory, this "family eats meals together" thing sounds wonderful. Maybe even for some people, it is great. I don't think it's something that should be pushed though.  There are just way too many assholes in the world for this to work.

Tuesday Night Randoms

I had a fun day today but now my head has become Ye Alde Snot Factory and I hates it. All of my smug "pressure points on the sinuses" stuff clearly did not work as well I as thought it would. That's what I get for being smug. That sucks too because if I was ever going to find something to be smug about, finding a way out of Sinus Hell certainly would be a great.

You know that old story about the women who would be required to go to the temple of the sex goddess? As a celebration of prostitution, they would stand around and wait for some man to pay them for sex. It didn't matter what man, it didn't matter how much he paid. Whatever the price or man, they would go off with him. Supposedly, women from all levels of society were required to do this, usually right before or right after their married. This sacrifice to the goddess wasn't seen as shameful.

Of course, the story may or may not be true.  It was one of those bits designed to criticize and shame certain cultures. In fact, the story usually concluded with the idea that while the beautiful girls got to leave very quickly after arriving, sometimes the ugly girls would have to wait around for YEARS before they were paid for sex and got to leave.

I kind of want to start a series of books about one of the ugly girls at the temple. You know, she's not picked for sex, she solves mysteries, she helps people in their lives, more of less ends up running the place. I think it would be awesome.

When you think about it, it would be a pretty sweet life. The temple provides for you. You get to meet a lot of interesting people. You never have to worry about dying in childbirth. I think my ugly girl would be purposefully uglying herself up to get to stay at the temple and avoid a marriage to some dude she didn't want.

Anyway, I'll have to think more on it later. Sinus Hell has decided my head will now throb painfully.

Happiness: An Ongoing Essay

There have been these articles and debates about whether men are not important now because they play video games while women get more degrees and stuff.  Things like this always make me nervous because everyone's overt and subversive misogyny comes out. However, while bracing myself for the "womenz is selfish" and "what has womenz done? Man makes invenshuns" comments, I was struck by a more basic question.

What's wrong with playing video games? What's wrong with watching cartoons and caring more about toys than anything else? What is wrong with a life geared towards happiness and "frivolity?"

The hard and fast answer is: Nothing. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this.

Given a couple of conditions.

The first condition is that even within your life of frivolity, you can still take care of yourself.  Your bills get paid, you get fed, your house maintains a standard of bug freeness.  How you manage to do those things is perhaps up for debate, so long as they happen.

The second condition is that you do not make commitments that eclipse your frivolity. I would say children are probably a commitment to this level. Some professions (surgeon, air traffic controller, etc) necessitate a certain serious and attention to detail. You get the idea.  Don't make commitments where other people are dependent on you.  Pretty simple.

Past that, what reason is there for not living a life based on your happiness?

None.

Though, there seems to be this push in society against a life of frivolity. Many out there seek to make us "grow up" and "mature" and do the stuff like have babies and  stop playing games and stop focusing on ourselves.

There are a lot of people who tell me and have told others that "growing up" and having kids made them happier. They feel once they stopped focusing on primarily, their own needs and wants, things were far more simple for them. Things just fell into place because they had this other thing to think about now.

This.......................makes absolutely no sense to me.

Maybe that's the point? Maybe there are people who really don't find that much satisfaction in a life of music and pleasure.  Maybe they really don't see the lush fun of hours of games of just random bullshitting with friends.  Maybe it doesn't hold the same joy and happiness that it does for me.

And while I realize that paragraph probably dripped with sarcasm as you read it in  BHB voice, I really didn't mean it that way.  I don't understand the people who want the babies and not the XBOX, but I'm sure they are sincere. I'll allow for them to enjoy life the way they wish.

However, I do expect the same respect. I'll let you be all adult and I won't roll my eyes when you gush about how great it is to be a parent . . . if you don't bitch at me when I swoon geekfully over a video game expansion pack.

Deal?

Acknowledgement of the Day

Today is Grandparents' Day.  Happy Grandparents' Day to all of you grandparenty people out there. I am quite sure this fact was overshadowed, but hopefully it wasn't. Grandparents shouldn't be overshadowed because they are awesome, even when they're not.

And why is this?

Because they are one level of fucked up removed away from you. They helped to fuck up your parents and therefore contributed to the fuckinguppage that your parents did to you!

Oh wait, that's a bit sardonic. Maybe I should start over . . .

There are some really sucky things about being a grandparent.  I think the fundamental sucktastic thing is the fact that you can have insanely deep emotional ties with people and have absolutely no control over what happens to them. Over the years, I've watched a lot of grandparents go through grief as their grandkids were put through bullshit by their parents.  It must be horrible to watch your son or daughter make shitty decisions not only for their own lives, but for those of their kids as well.

Like me, a lot of kids end up being raised by grandparents. I lived with mine off and on over the years and then all the time after I got into high school.  I won't say those years didn't have their bad points, but they were still far more stable and secure than the years with my mom.  Damage was done, but less damage.

There are some really neat things about being a grandparent though. For instance, you don't necessarily have to have children to be a grandparent. My dad's live in girlfriend has been in our lives for years.  They married a few months after my brother married, but they'd been a couple for over a decade by that point.

I like my step-mom, but I'm not close to her.  Granted, I'm as close to her as I am to my dad, maybe even a little closer, but we never bonded. I have no animosity towards her and I'll be sad when she dies, but I don't call her on a regular basis or go to see her (or my dad). 

She's like a distant friend. Someone you see at parties and talk to. Someone you know enough about to buy Christmas presents for. Very little beyond that.  And that's nothing against her.  She's a nice woman; she's just not my mom.

However, she IS my nephew and niece's grandmother. They have never known a time when she wasn't part of the family, so they just accept her as theirs. When my nephew was born and my brother and SIL were trying to figure out how to distinguish all of the many parents and grandparents and step-parents, my brother came up with a very interesting title for my step-mom.

Her name is Loretta, and so she became Nanalo. My brother thought this was so funny, because it rhymed with Manilow. My brother and I (and many others) have always have a running commentary about how boring Manilow's music is. Anyway, somehow the name stuck. My nephew refers to her as "my Nanilo."

And, it warms my heart how close they are to her.  My nephew will slip onto her lap and whisper "Nanilo, you're my favorite." It's so cute  . . . even if no one has told him he shouldn't pick favorites. I'm glad he and the niece have her to bond with. My mom died when my nephew was very young and even before my niece was born.  Nanilo helps to fill her absence.

So yeah, to all the grandparents out there, all the ones who suffer wondering what is happening with their babies, all the ones who are reading stories for the billionth time, all the ones who are singing Jimmy Buffet as lullabies, and all the ones who never realized they'd get to be a grandparent, I'm happy you have your day.  May you make a wonderful difference in people's lives, may they do the same for you.

Friday List: Things that Will Annoy Me this Weekend

This weekend will make the ten year date since the 9/11 attacks. There are many people who will take this weekend to seriously and reverently remember the events of that day and reflect on how it makes them feel. Some of them may even get together and do this. And I have no problem with that. It's probably needed. It may lead to some serious closure or healing.

However, there are also a lot of other people who will use the 9/11 ten year memorial for their own selfish ends.  These people are annoying and should be pied for about a week. Constantly. From that pie-anator Bozo the clown used to keep.

Just in case you lack self-awareness and aren't sure which of these two groups you fall into, I thought I'd make a nice Friday List to help you out.

You are being an asshole about 9/11 if you:

1. Are using the attacks to promote your religious organization, beliefs, or actions. I'm not going to pick on one form or religion or another here. Any of you folks who find yourself trying to use these horrific events to promote your zealotry should get your toes ran over by monster trucks. Just stop it.

2. Are using the attacks to promote your political agenda.  I realize in our country it's almost impossible to stop this. In fact, I'm sure a lot of people would argue that me even saying this is promoting a political agenda (one they don't agree with).  I get that people will link this event with politics, however, if you find yourself hearing anyone run for office and they start babbling about these attacks as . . . well, however they decide to exploit them, run from this person.  If you are this person, stop that!

3. Are using these attacks as a reason to be violent. Do I even have to explain this one? Just don't.

4. Are using the attacks as a reason to spam Facebook. If you're on Facebook, you know what I'm talking about. Flags, comments about who should be at the Memorial, copy and pasted block spam about the event.  Look, I don't mind if you post your own feelings and ideas....but just copying and pasting someone else's? Lame.

5. And finally, you are being a bastard about these attacks and should be pied in the face if you are using the attacks as a way to make money.  If you're selling your homemade 9/11 pillows or making 9/11 cakes or making cheaply produced program after program after program about it . . . yeah, you are annoying.  Stop it.

You know, maybe we'll luck out and none of these things will happen.  Maybe everyone will just pause, remember what happened, and try to make some peace with it.  That would be nice. It would be very nice.

I also don't want to hear that Toby Keith song.

The First Happies of Fall

Two days ago, I sat on the porch and basked in the cooler weather, all happy at the changes in light and density in air. It was lovely.

Today, my best friend grilled for me. We sat on her deck and drank beer while she cooked food for us.  The temperature was just right, neither too hot nor too cold. We talked about how revitalizing it was to be back on the deck again. It's something this long, horrible summer had taken away from us.

I have a cat on my ottoman, close enough for me to offer her toe-petting from time to time. She's content with this and I'm happy to oblige.  Three mornings ago, I had another kitty sleeping in the curve of my feet to keep warm. Cats always do such a better job of pretending to give a damn about you during the colder months.

In the morning, I can hear drumming. The high school band is practicing.  Even though I was in band for years and was even a drummer, this drumming doesn't remind me of school. It reminds me, always, of my grandfather. During Fall, he would always take his morning coffee out on the back porch so he could listen to the drums. He really loved them.

I had all the summer growth cut off of my hair. The lighter and broken-ended locks have given way to darker, stronger tresses.  I'm loving the hair and will soon be adding some dye to it.

And overall, I just feel more like myself. I feel like I've been able to move past survival mode and get back into the mode of living.  It's a very nice place to be.

The Land of Pus and Tacky

My roommate and I were talking the other day about the death of malls and how freaky that is for people of our age.  He was far more of a mallchild than I ever was (malls involve walking and people, not two of my favorite concepts), but I do have some pretty intense memories of malls.

For instance, Claire's played a big roll in a lot of my young womanhood. When I was six, I was taken to Claire's and placed in a chair. A woman who looked old and wise and serene (who was probably like 22) stuck a gun to my earlobe and popped its cherry.  When she moved the gun, a nice pretty little blue stud was in my ear. She did the same thing to the other one.

I remember riding home in the car, my fingers constantly returning to the earrings, rubbing them to feel this amazing change in my life. To my six years of age, this felt like the true mark of womanhood.  My thoughts filled with all the grand and beautiful adornments my ears would now have. For all of about two days, it was glorious.

Then my earlobes got horribly infected and everything was pain and pus and more pus.

Of course, by the time I was 12, I'd become far more sane and mature. Actually, I hadn't, otherwise I would have known that having one set of horribly difficult piercings wouldn't get any better by adding another set. Oh wait, adding two more sets. Honestly, I have no idea what possessed me to think I could handle six earrings when two plagued me almost to death.

And yet, I got them. Again, I rode home, playing with my new earrings, thinking this was the most badass thing ever. Damn, the level of horrible infection this time. Yet, I kept on. I poured peroxide over the red and angry little holes, winced at the pain, and contemplated using safety pins to do more holes. In fact, I did that quite a few times when I was ten.  I've tried to block the level of nastiness that caused from my brain.

Like most children of divorced parents, many weekends with my father were spent at the mall. I'd go to Hastings and other places, but always end up at Claire's.  I had this ritual where I would start at the front displays and just kind of blissfully make my way to the back of the shop, looking at everything and considering if I wanted it or not.  I'm sure I was just as annoying as possible to the people who worked in there. Middle schoolers have very little concept of such things though.

Sometimes I would buy a bracelet or a necklace . . . or one of those rather Claire kind of things that had lots of glitz and feathers. Most of the time though, I'd end up back with the earrings I considered to be rather befitting of me. You know, the deeply tacky pseudo goth ones.

By the way, historically, the Pseudo Goths were a barbarian tribe. Distant cousin to the Visigoths, they traveled Europe dressed in dyed black leather with straps, random bits of lace in their hair, and cheap metal earrings from Claire's.  They never sacked Rome, but they did introduce many of the other barbarian tribes to the music of Sisters of Mercy and even let them borrow their copy of Depeche Mode's Violator one weekend. But I digress . . .

I think I still have some working memory of the tacky earrings I bought from Claire's during that time. hell, I think I even have some of the earrings.

There was a spider web that came with a cuff to make it look like more of the web . . . and a spider dangling beneath it!!!!

There was a skull, because of course there was a skull, and at one point it had fake ass rubies for eyes.

There was a little happy rat. The companion earring was two smaller rats kind of dangling.

There was a morning star, because I had no concept that this was more of heavy metal thing.

There was a small chain . . . then a bat . . . then more chain . . . then a bat . . . then more chain . . . then a bigger bat! How I loved that fucking set of bat earrings!!

Wow. Even now, I can remember the pure, unadulterated joy I felt when I found each pair of these earrings.  It was like finding fucking identity at this point in my life.  To my middle school mind, this was how one became a rock star, possibly even how one became a goddess.

. . . actually, I think I wrote some short story about how those chain then bat then chain then bat etc. earrings really could make one a goddess . . .

Oh yes, Claire's, how you will be missed!  You broke open my skin, you helped me get infections, you lead me down the path of childhood tackiness, and you took my money for all of it. Understand though, I say all of this in the spirit of love and gratitude, because you also helped me to find the happy.  You helped me to let my imagination run wild.

And as an adult, my association with you serves to keep my humble.

The Tragedy of Neglectfulness

Sometimes I think the hardest part of life are those moments when you meant no harm but caused it anyway. This happens to us all, and, truly, I think it's more tragic than causing harm and meaning to.  At least when you cause the harm, you are fully aware of your actions. Things turn out as you intended.

This happens all the time. We move at the wrong time and step on someone's toe (or a cat's paw).  We don't receive messages and don't find out we were supposed to call someone. We get distracted and miss the vital aspect of a conversation. We stay within ourselves when someone needed us to come out and play with them.  Really needed us.

Are these things our fault?

Perhaps not.  We can't always pay attention.  We can't always see everything in front of us. Most of us, as much as we wished otherwise, are not great empathizers, not even really all that good at being sympathizers. Often we grew weary of conversation or others. We don't mean to. It just happens.  It happens a lot.

Even if it's not our fault people still get hurt from it.  You may not mean any harm by looking away from the road as you drive, but if you hit someone, they're still injured. They may even be dead. All from your moment of neglect.

Can we always be vigilant about how are actions are affecting other people? No.  We can try to be more so . . .sometimes we'll even manage to. But the rest of the time, we won't. And we can either accept that and try to live accordingly or drive ourselves insane trying to be perfect.

I hurt people and in almost every case, I never mean to hurt them.  See, even saying that sounds bad. It almost sounds better for you to say, "I hurt people and I always mean for it to happen."  Hell, half the time, that's what they believe anyway.

No matter what others believe though, we always know the truth of our actions or our inaction. I think most of the time, we truly don't mean to hurt others. So when we realize they are hurt, we do feel bad about it. We are sorry it happened.

People can get so shitty when you tell them you're sorry. They act like you don't mean it, because maybe they believe you think you didn't do anything wrong or that you just don't care.

I think that's sad.

I have a friend who tells me sometimes that they are sorry for what just happened. I always nod and say little in return. It's not that I'm upset with them and it's not that I don't believe them. I always believe this friend because in almost every case, the reason this person is apologizing because they know they hurt me and they truly didn't mean to.

The reason I'm quiet is because while they are sorry and I do forgive them, I'm usually still emotionally raw about the situation. You can forgive someone and still be mad about what they did. I'm also usually quiet because I know they didn't do this on purpose. It's just their nature. If I didn't accept their nature and their flaws willingly, I'd just choose not to be around them.

I would never expect them to say "I won't do it again" because I know they will. And this is okay because it's nothing violent or wrong. It's just one of those little moments that happen between people who spend a lot of time with each other.  In fact, I know they will hurt me again and not do it on purpose. That's just part of life.

I think one of the key factors in choosing people to be around hinges on these ideas.  We should always choose to be around people who accept us as flawed humans, who understand that we will fail them and hurt them, who understand that most of the time, we didn't hurt them on purpose, and who will then forgive us, knowing full well that we'll hurt them again.

Understand, I'm not talking about large transgressions. I'm not saying stay with someone who hits you or runs up your credit cards or makes you sick. And I am certainly not saying to stay with someone who is willingly making you miserable.

I'm talking about the instances when someone said the wrong thing at the wrong time and made you cry. I'm talking about the time when someone yelled at you because they needed to vent and you were the person standing there. I'm talking about the person who ignored you because they just couldn't pay attention to the conversation anymore. I'm talking about the person who sneezed on you and got you sick, but sneezed on you because they just happened to accidentally get too close.

I think Bob Marley put it best when he said, "The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."

Sometimes the suffering is small but often. Sometimes it grates on our nerves. Despite that, the person is probably still worth keeping around, especially if they choose to suffer for you as well.

If Blackhaired Barbie Was God: More Punishments

People have been on my nerves again lately.  Because of that, I decided I'd pretend to be god and punish the fuckwits again.

THOU SHALT NOT MAKE GENERALIZED COMMENTS ABOUT AN ENTIRE GENDER.

This is so shitty to do. And, okay, I'm not talking about a simple comment of "Men are annoying" or "Women are bad drivers." I mean if you have some whole thesis or theory about the other gender that you try and push onto other people all the time. If you like write articles about it or preach about it or try and convince other people it's the truth.

We all have these ideas of course. But that doesn't mean we need to promote them. Deep down we might believe them, but deep down we also should realize we're all bias fuckers and it probably isn't true.

These things get out of hand. Just in the last week, the internet and it's various denizens have informed me that women:

• can't be funny.
• don't have bowel movements.
• can't do math.
• are incapable of having deep conversations. 
• become increasingly desperate for marriage as they get older.
• don't read scifi.

Well HOLY FUCKING HOZZIBOB!! I'm so glad someone clarified all this stuff to me that happens or doesn't happened based on the fact that I have a cooter!  Awesome.

Anyway, punishments would vary and be deeply and ironically cruel. For instance, I think people who promote this idea that women aren't funny should be punished by having women tell very devastating jokes about said people whenever they're around. Yes, that would be lovely.

THOU SHALT NOT BE A SNOT ABOUT ACTIONS TAKEN BY OTHERS WHEN SAID OTHERS ARE DOING SAID ACTIONS OUT OF KINDNESS.

People aren't always assholes. Sometimes, people are actually passionate and kind. During these times, people do things like Race for the Cure or raise money for local people who need help or send letters to soldiers or donate to silent auctions.  They may drop someone a line to brighten  their day or bring someone a cake or flowers.

Okay, sometimes when people do these things, they may be calling attention to themselves or doing it because they have to, like by a court order, or because they want to be a superior asshole. I won't deny this doesn't happen.

However, we shouldn't assume this is the reason. We shouldn't sneer and snarl whenever someone decides to do something kind. We shouldn't question their motives or speculate to what level of personal orgasm this is bringing them to.  In fact, even if their motives are impure, if it still does positive things for people, who the fuck cares?

I think punishment for this will involve no one doing helpful things for you until you get over yourself.

WHEN IT IS IMPORTANT TO COMPLETE SOMETHING IN A TIMELY FASHION THAT WILL BE TO THE BETTERMENT OF MANY, THOU SHALT NOT DRAG THINE FEET OR ASS JUST TO BE A THORN IN SAID PROCESS.

Look, I realize how important it is to be looked upon. I realize how great it is to feel like you hold all the power. But if you're purposefully fucking something up just to keep the focus on you or to cause someone else pain, stop it! That's damned wrong and very shitty.

Not only does this hurt others, it also hurts you.  Quite often, whatever this thing is that needs to happen, even if you don't want to believe it, it will be better for you as well. Even if it's something like ending a relationship or moving out of a situation.

Now, I'm not talking about something where you have to do everything and other people might benefit from all of your work. That's bullshit.  This isn't "Oh, how about you go get a great degree and a good job so you can support us!!" This is more like, "it's time for things to change. I've done my part, you do yours."

Punishment for this sin would involve the other people getting to reap the benefits of the situation you kept dragassing on and you would get to watch them be happy while they ignored you.

Okay, so just three sins and punishments this time, but very worth it.  Have a good Labor Day, everyone. 

In Which She Feels like a Loser

I read this the other day. I'd heard about this woman before. Everyone is totes pissed off at her for being fat . . . or maybe now pissed off at her for losing weight. I'm not sure.

Anyway, I'm sure a lot of people get different reactions from reading about this woman. Because, even though the news screams at us every night that everyone is fat, fat people are still treated like some kind of weird anomaly.  When people see someone who is fat, they can't NOT react to them.

To me though, the crux of this article is the fact that this woman made over $90K last year on her web site where people come and PAY to watch her eat.

$90k . . .

$90K!!!!!!!!

What the FUCK am I doing with my life?

This woman makes that much money just by people paying to watch her eat? Seriously? I could be making money while people watch me eat? And I'm NOT? Why the hell didn't I think of this? I could be very rich by now. I have a fucking growth on my arm so I know my freakshow factor would HAVE To be higher than hers. Fucking $90k! To eat! Dammit!

Why the hell didn't I think of this? Is it too late to get in on this? Does this chick have the whole market? No pun intended.

Black, 9 Inches, and On the Floor in the Living Room

I'd promised a Friday List.  Then I'd told someone I was going to bed. I also told my roommate I might not even blog tonight. Then I read something and all of this was shot to hell.

There is some new Facebook thing going around for Breast Cancer Awareness. It's one of those "be mysterious and don't say why you made the obscure post" things.  The first one, which was the one that everyone remembers and the universe reported about, had to do with women posting their bra color.

The second one was about women posting where they put their purse without reference to it being a purse. If you left your purse on your desk, you would post "I like it on the desk." If you drop your purse on your bed, you'd post "I like it on the bed." As you will notice, there is a nice level of sexual innuendo to this.  I didn't participate in this though mine would have been awesomely funny.

"I don't care where it is, I just like to be able to find it quickly when I need it."

Another one of the games was about shoe size. You post your shoe size, without context, in inches. "Six inches." "Ten inches." Again, there is that sexual nod. Anything directly to do with boobs? No, but yet, the game continues.

Every year, people bitch about this. "What does the blahblah had to do with breast cancer awareness?" "This is stupid!" "I asked ALL THE BREAST CANCER PEOPLE and they said this was stupid and offensive." Or, you know, something along those lines. And for some reason, people can't just be mildly or quietly annoyed by this concept. They have to rage about it.

I've made this statement before, but I think it should be repeated.

While the Bra Game and whatever else games they come up with have nothing directly to do with breast cancer, while they raise no money nor actively give out any information, they are important to the cause. The games given people a way to allow the idea of breast cancer to enter their minds without it being full of horror stories.

The reality of breast cancer, which touches almost all of our lives, is very devastating and emotional. Both of my grandmothers died due to breast-cancer related issues. Many others have lost family members as well. We see images of women with parts of their bodies removed, hairless, pale, sickly, and scared. We see images of scared covered torsos where breasts used to be. We see graves.

Preventing breast cancer is invasive. Home exams involve people talking to us about our breasts, which I'm comfortable with and so are many of the women I hang with, but that isn't the way for most women. Mammograms are even more invasive, sometimes painful. And, again, scary.

So, you know, if we can find a way to open up the dialogue about breast cancer that starts with a simple game, this isn't a bad thing. If we can get people to show solidarity through playing this game, again, that isn't a bad thing.   If we're just OH SO SERIOUS and OH SO GRAVE about an issue, even a serious and grave issue, people are going to be more likely to block it out of their minds and just ignore it.

"Oh come ON, Blackhaired Barbie," you say, as you roll your eyes at me. "How does knowing what Derpina's bra color is help you to fight cancer?"

On the surface, it doesn't.

However . . .

So Derpina posts that her bra is blue. Or that she "likes it on the kitchen counter."  I  like her comment and in a private chat send a message to her that it was nice for her to post the things. So she posts back and tells me that breast cancer is a very important issue for her because her sister has it.  I post back and tell her about my own experiences with breast cancer, how it has touched so many women in my family.

The dialogue continues as she shares her worries about what her sister is going through. She asks me if anyone I knew had a mastectomy.  I tell her about my grandmother's and how while she was sensitive about it, as a child her never knew her in another context, I just accepted it as part of her and saw it as a mark of survival and courage and never as something disfiguring or scary.

So then Derpina passes this information along to her sister, who is in the process of deciding if she can emotionally handle the reality of a mastectomy. My story adds to the knowledge she had . . . which is. . . . wait for it . . . a higher level of awareness. About the scientific facts of the disease? No. About the complications of a certain procedure? No.

It adds to her knowledge of the Story of the Disease. Illness isn't just about the hard  cold facts. Illness is something real that happens to all of us. Some of us will be the ones who are ill. Others will be the ones who have to helplessly watch as our loved ones are dealing with their illness.

Being sick isn't an abstract concept from a book or a pamphlet.  Being sick, for many people, is a large factor in their every day lives. It's remembering to take meds. It's remembering doctor's appointments. It's the stress of wondering how long you will be in a waiting room. It's the frustration of being talked down to. It's the horror of knowing how close you are to death. It's the grim moment when you have to make very difficult and often devastating decisions.

The Facebook games don't cure anything. They don't give money to the causes.  They don't explain the right way to look for lumps in your boobies.

But they open a door. They give people the chance to share their stories about the disease.  They give people a chance to share their wisdom from handling certain aspects of the disease. They allow people to find a way to express their fears, their sadness, and even their anger.

When my grandmother was a girl, people didn't talk about sickness. They certainly didn't talk about things that could go wrong with "the female parts." When my grandmother found the lump in her breast, no one told her to look for it. The fact that she found it was a fluke.  When she was told her breast would be taken, there were no support groups for her and no one to talk to her about alternatives.  She made the hard decisions all on her own.  That's commendable, but I wish it wasn't the case. I wish she would have had people to talk to.

When my aunt got breast cancer last year, many many women who had survived called to talk to her about it.  They offered her details of their surgeries, told her what to expect afterwards, discussed the merits of alternatives. She was armed with a lot more than just what her doctor told her.

Did any of these women play that Facebook game? Possibly not. However, I bet some of them found out about her being ill because their daughters or granddaughters DID play the games and knew how important it was to tell the stories. And that, oh my brothers and sisters, is a damned wonderful thing.

Of Looms and Ideas

I finished my CPAP hose's sock today. It's ugly but has the weight and flexibility that I wanted. I'm thinking the next one will be far better.  I did all of this on my Elcheapo Walmart loom.  I have this big wooden-and-nails loom. It's pretty and it makes me feel all Shaker-level crafty, but I've yet to master it. This Fall though, I plan to . . . assuming it doesn't beat me.

Hopefully I'll get back in the groove of a lot of things now, like tackling some of my ongoing blog subjects.

This won't be a long post because I'm tired and rather emotionally drained from the day. Tomorrow you will get more from me. At the very least, you'll get some damned list!