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!