I have just returned from 5 days in the Midwest. This trip had a few unusual perks - I had both partners with me, we stayed in our own place and we had a vehicle. I got to see two longtime friends and be a little more of a tourist in my hometown (which, admittedly, was fun).
I haven't yet been home12 hours. My ears have mostly popped, I've unpacked and already have laundry started. And I realize that I'm angry. Really angry.
I've reached a point of no return with my mother. The older I get, the less we have in common and the less I enjoy her company. This, in and of itself, is guilt-inducing because I know there will be a day in not too distant future when she's not around.
However... I also cannot ignore the overwhelming desire to shake her violently. My mother is in her mid 60's but has the coping skills and maturity of a 10 year old. Does this make me sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does. I've spent much of my adult life in therapy learning how to be a mature person with appropriate coping skills and appropriate boundaries. My mother's approach has been to find a partner who will cater to her whims and SOMEHOW ignore the fact that she's never really grown up emotionally.
Cases in point:
We had reservations for Christmas brunch. My mother was unhappy with where our table was located in relation to the buffet. She asked the hostess if we could move to a closer table. The hostess went to check and while she was gone, my mother complained loudly about how long it was taking. When the hostess returned, she explained that all the tables were reserved and we could not be moved. My mother said "But I just had knee surgery and can't walk that far." The first part is true, the second part... not so much. The wait staff offered to get/carry her plates for her while my mother remained silent. As we started to settle at our table (which was rather pleasant because we were away from loud children/people), my mother loudly said "And I made these reservations MONTHS AGO." The hostess again apologized while my mother continued to grumble. When she doesn't get what she wants, she will often treat the wait staff poorly. It's kind of like ignoring your best friend as of yesterday at lunch today. Really fucking childish.
And THEN... she had her heart set on taking us to a brewery for lunch on our last day. We realized it would be our last chance to eat at a local fast food restaurant that Edward and I love and had been talking up to Stuart for oh... five years. I told her that we would prefer to do that instead. She opted not to join us for lunch at all.
My therapist says that resentment is poison for relationships. And I resent the hell out of the fact that my mother behaves in the way that she does.
Ultimately, I know that if there was ever a time to summon my superhero coping skills, this is it. But I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to silence the child who really feels she deserved a better role model.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Home Alone
I really thought I'd had enough alone time in my nerdy somewhat socially awkward childhood. As an only child with divorced parents, I had to become good at entertaining myself and being alone. And this was true... until I became poly.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Clean-up on Aisle 10
My favorite superhero is Batman. Long before Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer or the disaster that was George Clooney (seriously?!?! They hired the handyman from Facts of Life?), I was captivated by the magic of Adam West. The TV show that aired well before I was alive kept me rapt many afternoons after 7.5 hours of public education. He was the pinnacle of suave and dammit, he lassoed villains like nobody's business. (I think I asked my mother once if cops lassoed criminals in the '60's. She replied with a brusque "No.")
Aside from my adoration for Adam, I truly loved the Batcave. It was a secret hideout in a CAVE for Pete's sake. It was large enough to hold the Bat-equivalent of the copy machine as other machines with mysterious lights and buttons that did really cool shit. And it held the Batmobile. But the best part? The labels. Everything was labeled. It was if some expert from a TLC hoarding midget cake show came in there and Organized-Living'd the place. The little placards with the cautious writing and the complete lack of clutter... It was neat. It was tidy. It was beautiful.
And therein lies the problem with reality. It's messy. Disorganized. Sometimes the labels are wrong. (Who hasn't sugared their coffee with cocaine on a sleepy morning?) And that's just the STUFF.
People are even messier. Emotions and bodily fluids spill out like an overstuffed taco (you knew you were putting too much in there but you bet on hope that it would work anyway. Now you're eating your finger food with a fork. Fail.).
I dislike the mess and the unpredictability. And before you regale me with flowery quotes from the likes of Eckhart Tolle or Miguel Ruiz, I KNOW. The journey is more important than the destination, blah, blah, blah. Get off my lawn.
Despite what my husband(s) would tell you, I dislike illogical thinking and behavior. It feels like when you rub a cat's fur the wrong way. Nothing is ruined but it's WRONG and youshouldreallyfixitrightfuckingnow. This occasionally makes me a rigid asshole. I could apologize for it, but I'm not sorry. I own it, embrace it, and would ask the groomer to put pink bows on it if I could.
As one could imagine, this rather strong and stubborn trait of mine often makes me ill-suited for the real world. I try to assimilate, go along with the flow, and give the appearance of being flexible. But really, I'm just waiting it out. There's the tiny hope that eventually you all will see the error of your ways and come to your senses. And then we will have a big fucking labeling party. Ambiguity? Poof. Disorganization? Gone. Clutter? Eradicated. It will be beautiful. Then I will lie contentedly on my chaise lounged labeled neatly "Chaise Lounge" with my book labeled "Book" like a cat purring in the sun. And if you rub my fur the wrong way, I will cut you.
Aside from my adoration for Adam, I truly loved the Batcave. It was a secret hideout in a CAVE for Pete's sake. It was large enough to hold the Bat-equivalent of the copy machine as other machines with mysterious lights and buttons that did really cool shit. And it held the Batmobile. But the best part? The labels. Everything was labeled. It was if some expert from a TLC hoarding midget cake show came in there and Organized-Living'd the place. The little placards with the cautious writing and the complete lack of clutter... It was neat. It was tidy. It was beautiful.
And therein lies the problem with reality. It's messy. Disorganized. Sometimes the labels are wrong. (Who hasn't sugared their coffee with cocaine on a sleepy morning?) And that's just the STUFF.
People are even messier. Emotions and bodily fluids spill out like an overstuffed taco (you knew you were putting too much in there but you bet on hope that it would work anyway. Now you're eating your finger food with a fork. Fail.).
I dislike the mess and the unpredictability. And before you regale me with flowery quotes from the likes of Eckhart Tolle or Miguel Ruiz, I KNOW. The journey is more important than the destination, blah, blah, blah. Get off my lawn.
Despite what my husband(s) would tell you, I dislike illogical thinking and behavior. It feels like when you rub a cat's fur the wrong way. Nothing is ruined but it's WRONG and youshouldreallyfixitrightfuckingnow. This occasionally makes me a rigid asshole. I could apologize for it, but I'm not sorry. I own it, embrace it, and would ask the groomer to put pink bows on it if I could.
As one could imagine, this rather strong and stubborn trait of mine often makes me ill-suited for the real world. I try to assimilate, go along with the flow, and give the appearance of being flexible. But really, I'm just waiting it out. There's the tiny hope that eventually you all will see the error of your ways and come to your senses. And then we will have a big fucking labeling party. Ambiguity? Poof. Disorganization? Gone. Clutter? Eradicated. It will be beautiful. Then I will lie contentedly on my chaise lounged labeled neatly "Chaise Lounge" with my book labeled "Book" like a cat purring in the sun. And if you rub my fur the wrong way, I will cut you.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Depression Rules
Depression is an evil mistress that can manifest itself in seemingly insignificant ways all the way up the Blues Grande which generally involves unwashed hair and boatloads of shame. It can be ninja sneaky or it can arrive with the fanfare of the histrionic aunt who arrives at Thanksgiving and does not shut up. Ever.
As difficult it is for me to get a lasso around these slippery devils, I know it's arguably even more difficult to watch someone you love get sucked into the Hole of Gloom. So, this is a survival guide of sorts. Some rules of engagement for interacting with, loving, and tolerating your very own Daria...
1. Being codependent just makes it worse. While I get that it comes from a place of love and concern, I already feel like a loser because I can't just "fix it" and then I feel even worse because it's affecting you so profoundly as well. After while, I feel pissy about the repeated queries of whether I'm okay. NO. I'm not. But THAT is okay. You being unhealthy while I'm already unhealthy is adding emotional food poisoning to an already terrible meal.
2. You can't fix it. No matter how much you want to.
3. It's helpful to remember that depression doesn't tend to have a short shelf life. It generally arrives for a sizeable visit and asking me 8 hours later if I'm "still depressed" makes me want to throw the newest (and largest) edition of The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders at you. I would be willing to open a Twitter account so I could tweet the exact moment I feel better in order to avoid this.
4. You still can't fix it. You can bring me flowers, chocolate and coloring books. And while those may lift my spirits temporarily, sugar cannot fix a chemical imbalance. If it could, Betty Crocker would have changed her business plan years ago.
5. Please don't tell me what I *should* do. If ground up newt genitals could cure depression, I would have my own newt farm in the backyard. Trust that I've investigated the plethora of options and am doing what I feel is best.
6. Learn what depression really is. A somewhat depressed person may kill you for telling him or her to "cheer up." If you must dole out this intensely ridiculous advice, find a very depressed person as they will not have the energy to inflict bodily harm. Probably. (And consider whether you would suggest to a diabetic that they learn "how to process insulin better.")
7. You still can't fix it. But I love you for wanting to.
8. I rationally get that completing a small list of relatively easy tasks isn't a massive to-do list, but even the smallest of things can seem insurmountable. Trying to "understand" why we're overwhelmed isn't probably terribly productive for either of us. And usually, you want to understand so you can fix. But as we've briefly discussed, you cannot.
9. This doesn't end. The light of the end of the tunnel could be daylight or it could be another train. I know this. You should also know this. Just as a diabetic's pancreas won't fix itself, my brain won't either. And if you suggest I "work on being more positive", I will add shanking you to my small list of easy tasks.
10. As unsatisfying as it is, there often isn't a why. As much as I WANT to be a logical mass of neurons, I'm not. So when you ask me why I'm depressed, I feel compelled to find a reason even if there isn't one. The fact that it exists without rhyme or reason is more frustrating to me than it is to you. And would if I could, I'd get you a little shot glass of it so you could have a small taste of my What-The-Fuck juice.
11. You can't fix it.
12. Nope.
As difficult it is for me to get a lasso around these slippery devils, I know it's arguably even more difficult to watch someone you love get sucked into the Hole of Gloom. So, this is a survival guide of sorts. Some rules of engagement for interacting with, loving, and tolerating your very own Daria...
1. Being codependent just makes it worse. While I get that it comes from a place of love and concern, I already feel like a loser because I can't just "fix it" and then I feel even worse because it's affecting you so profoundly as well. After while, I feel pissy about the repeated queries of whether I'm okay. NO. I'm not. But THAT is okay. You being unhealthy while I'm already unhealthy is adding emotional food poisoning to an already terrible meal.
2. You can't fix it. No matter how much you want to.
3. It's helpful to remember that depression doesn't tend to have a short shelf life. It generally arrives for a sizeable visit and asking me 8 hours later if I'm "still depressed" makes me want to throw the newest (and largest) edition of The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders at you. I would be willing to open a Twitter account so I could tweet the exact moment I feel better in order to avoid this.
4. You still can't fix it. You can bring me flowers, chocolate and coloring books. And while those may lift my spirits temporarily, sugar cannot fix a chemical imbalance. If it could, Betty Crocker would have changed her business plan years ago.
5. Please don't tell me what I *should* do. If ground up newt genitals could cure depression, I would have my own newt farm in the backyard. Trust that I've investigated the plethora of options and am doing what I feel is best.
6. Learn what depression really is. A somewhat depressed person may kill you for telling him or her to "cheer up." If you must dole out this intensely ridiculous advice, find a very depressed person as they will not have the energy to inflict bodily harm. Probably. (And consider whether you would suggest to a diabetic that they learn "how to process insulin better.")
7. You still can't fix it. But I love you for wanting to.
8. I rationally get that completing a small list of relatively easy tasks isn't a massive to-do list, but even the smallest of things can seem insurmountable. Trying to "understand" why we're overwhelmed isn't probably terribly productive for either of us. And usually, you want to understand so you can fix. But as we've briefly discussed, you cannot.
9. This doesn't end. The light of the end of the tunnel could be daylight or it could be another train. I know this. You should also know this. Just as a diabetic's pancreas won't fix itself, my brain won't either. And if you suggest I "work on being more positive", I will add shanking you to my small list of easy tasks.
10. As unsatisfying as it is, there often isn't a why. As much as I WANT to be a logical mass of neurons, I'm not. So when you ask me why I'm depressed, I feel compelled to find a reason even if there isn't one. The fact that it exists without rhyme or reason is more frustrating to me than it is to you. And would if I could, I'd get you a little shot glass of it so you could have a small taste of my What-The-Fuck juice.
11. You can't fix it.
12. Nope.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Miss Communication
My first memory is hiding in the kitchen pantry while my mother and father screamed at each other. My second memory is following my mom around the house while she piled things into cardboard boxes as she moved out.
So, it's shocking to no one that loud argumentative voices make me cringe (and that is the best case scenario - don't ask about the worst). This has presented a repetitive issue in Edward's and my marriage. He is, by nature, a loud person. He raises his voice excitedly, gesticulates wildly, and at times, seems larger than life (especially after a shot or three of bourbon). This is, admittedly, one of the reasons I love him.
However, the flip side of his sideshow personality is that he tends to raise his voice when we argue. It doesn't take a Freudian to figure out where that comes from... his dad is very similar and likes to win arguments by being louder (and of course, he's always right). And to his credit, he has eradicated much of that "gift" from his father.
I, on the other hand, unwillingly and indisputably turn 5 years old again when he raises he voice. I realized recently that this trigger goes a lot deeper than even *I* realized.
I recognize cognitively that a raised voice isn't in and of itself "bad", per se. Unfortunately, this logic goes completely out the window and is replaced by a visceral reaction complete with tears, snot, and a generous helping of defensiveness.
In that stupid single moment when Edward gets emotional and raises his voice, I completely forget that I am a rather functional adult with a whole arsenal of coping skills. Instead, I turn into a fearful child on the verge of tears who has no idea how to defend herself in the bad scary world.
This is fucking annoying.
And of top of being annoying, it has produced something of a stalemate between Edward and myself. I think raising one's voice during an argument is inappropriate. He thinks it facilitates communication. I react poorly to it and often find it nearly impossible to have a logical adult conversation, which is frustrating for him. It has been easy to blame him for my re-activeness and disagreements between us often turn into a grand royale clusterfuck with cheese.
Recently, I took this issue to my therapist in hopes of finding a happy medium-ish. As we were discussing the dive into emotional oatmeal my brain takes during an argument, I was struck by a sudden vision of my 5 year old self cowering while my rather tall father yelled at me with his booming voice that seemed to carry for miles. Immediately, I realized that is the manifestation of the aforementioned emotional oatmeal. And, suddenly I understood the reason I get flooded so easily when we disagree.
I'm going to need a bigger suitcase for my Daddy issues...
So, it's shocking to no one that loud argumentative voices make me cringe (and that is the best case scenario - don't ask about the worst). This has presented a repetitive issue in Edward's and my marriage. He is, by nature, a loud person. He raises his voice excitedly, gesticulates wildly, and at times, seems larger than life (especially after a shot or three of bourbon). This is, admittedly, one of the reasons I love him.
However, the flip side of his sideshow personality is that he tends to raise his voice when we argue. It doesn't take a Freudian to figure out where that comes from... his dad is very similar and likes to win arguments by being louder (and of course, he's always right). And to his credit, he has eradicated much of that "gift" from his father.
I, on the other hand, unwillingly and indisputably turn 5 years old again when he raises he voice. I realized recently that this trigger goes a lot deeper than even *I* realized.
I recognize cognitively that a raised voice isn't in and of itself "bad", per se. Unfortunately, this logic goes completely out the window and is replaced by a visceral reaction complete with tears, snot, and a generous helping of defensiveness.
In that stupid single moment when Edward gets emotional and raises his voice, I completely forget that I am a rather functional adult with a whole arsenal of coping skills. Instead, I turn into a fearful child on the verge of tears who has no idea how to defend herself in the bad scary world.
This is fucking annoying.
And of top of being annoying, it has produced something of a stalemate between Edward and myself. I think raising one's voice during an argument is inappropriate. He thinks it facilitates communication. I react poorly to it and often find it nearly impossible to have a logical adult conversation, which is frustrating for him. It has been easy to blame him for my re-activeness and disagreements between us often turn into a grand royale clusterfuck with cheese.
Recently, I took this issue to my therapist in hopes of finding a happy medium-ish. As we were discussing the dive into emotional oatmeal my brain takes during an argument, I was struck by a sudden vision of my 5 year old self cowering while my rather tall father yelled at me with his booming voice that seemed to carry for miles. Immediately, I realized that is the manifestation of the aforementioned emotional oatmeal. And, suddenly I understood the reason I get flooded so easily when we disagree.
I'm going to need a bigger suitcase for my Daddy issues...
Friday, October 28, 2011
Pithy Party
I'm going to a party tomorrow evening. I hadn't even decided until about two days ago that I was for certain going to attend. More and more, I am finding big parties overwhelming. There is something seriously awesome about getting hugs from 45 people who actually recognize you at a party. And there is something depressing about the fact that less than 5% of those people actually know anything about me.
I think my distaste for parties comes from the fact that I tend to have the same experiences repeatedly. The cast of characters I seem to stumble upon has become more predictable than a Kate Hudson rom-com. Here's a short list you won't find on IMDB:
The Fucked Up Person: "So I was on nitrous the other night and I was looking at the popcorn ceiling in my friend's apartment and I thought WHOA. I wonder if that's what Mars looks like. Do you think they have popcorn on Mars?" This person will not wait for me to answer whether I think there is popcorn on Mars but will forge ahead tangentially until I "need to go to the bathroom." This person may or may not notice that I have left.
The Really Fucked Up Person: No quotes. Just saucer-sized pupils and incessant giggling. The upside is that it's easy to gracefully get away because they truly have no idea where they are or who you are.
The Too Much Information Person: "Yeah, so my roommate just up and moved out because of this wacko dominatrix she met on Craigslist. My rent is due in 3 days and I am B-R-O-K-E broke. I'm also super fucked up because I'm being hounded for this hospital bill from like 3 years ago when my boyfriend's cousin blew up his meth lab in his garage. It was so sick, but then like, I got sick. Hey, are you getting another beer?" This is all in response to the seemingly innocuous question of "How are you?"
The Looking For A Better Offer Person: This person will politely greet and hug you but it's tough not to be acutely aware that they are scanning the room for someone more interesting/hotter/selling drugs.
The Universer: Uses words like energy, vibration and aura. Is probably sporting a hula hoop like a purse. Believes "things happen for a reason" and that because it is so obviously true, you believe that as well. It is dangerous to engage this person in conversation because listening to them is like listening to a baby talk. There are sounds but none of it makes sense.
The Angry Guy: Cannot wait to tell you how such-and-such person(s) has fucked him over in infinite ways. Seems on the verge of knocking over a liquor store. Is on a personal mission to inform the entire community that Joe-Bob is an asshole without stopping realize that his personal mission more or less personifies him as an asshole as well.
The Perpetually Stoned: Conversation is usually impossible but they will offer you special cookies.
The Bad Parent: Tells you stories of how terrible their kids are and you inevitably wonder "What the fuck are you doing at a party? Why aren't you home teaching your kid not to be a psychopath?"
The Goo-goo Parent: Thinks EVERYONE cares that they have recently birthed a human being. Believes that pictures of recently hatched human being supercede all else. Will whip out small person photos despite the thumping music and black lights. You point out that their baby has horns but they cannot hear you.
The Old Hippie: Starts most conversations with "Remember when..." or "Did you hear about when we..." Usually has a collection of Natty Ice cans around their feet and probably half a doobie clenched tightly in hands that have never seen anti-bacterial soap.
The Creepy Guy: Will hit on anything that *may* have a vagina. Is occasionally wrong. Breathes on you and has no concept of personal space. Tries to flirt but leaves you feeling sexually harassed and wondering if the party has an HR department.
The Party Swingers: Probably not actual swingers, but often have no boundaries at parties. Prefer to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Will probably fight at some point during the evening and create awkward situations by asking party-goers to choose sides. Often resort to such tried-and-true tactics as making out with the partner's arch enemy. Will probably have nasty make-up sex in your bathroom. Put out some extra towels.
Lest you think I am the penultimate elitist wet blanket, I have occasionally BEEN some of these people. I am most certainly not immune to being annoying or getting fucked up. But the parties are frequent and I admit to being bored with all the nodding and smiling. I also tend to reserve my alcohol-fueled brilliance for small gatherings.
Predictable caricatures aside, I will don my party smile and do my best to enjoy the interesting and ignore the annoying.
Party on, Wayne.
I think my distaste for parties comes from the fact that I tend to have the same experiences repeatedly. The cast of characters I seem to stumble upon has become more predictable than a Kate Hudson rom-com. Here's a short list you won't find on IMDB:
The Fucked Up Person: "So I was on nitrous the other night and I was looking at the popcorn ceiling in my friend's apartment and I thought WHOA. I wonder if that's what Mars looks like. Do you think they have popcorn on Mars?" This person will not wait for me to answer whether I think there is popcorn on Mars but will forge ahead tangentially until I "need to go to the bathroom." This person may or may not notice that I have left.
The Really Fucked Up Person: No quotes. Just saucer-sized pupils and incessant giggling. The upside is that it's easy to gracefully get away because they truly have no idea where they are or who you are.
The Too Much Information Person: "Yeah, so my roommate just up and moved out because of this wacko dominatrix she met on Craigslist. My rent is due in 3 days and I am B-R-O-K-E broke. I'm also super fucked up because I'm being hounded for this hospital bill from like 3 years ago when my boyfriend's cousin blew up his meth lab in his garage. It was so sick, but then like, I got sick. Hey, are you getting another beer?" This is all in response to the seemingly innocuous question of "How are you?"
The Looking For A Better Offer Person: This person will politely greet and hug you but it's tough not to be acutely aware that they are scanning the room for someone more interesting/hotter/selling drugs.
The Universer: Uses words like energy, vibration and aura. Is probably sporting a hula hoop like a purse. Believes "things happen for a reason" and that because it is so obviously true, you believe that as well. It is dangerous to engage this person in conversation because listening to them is like listening to a baby talk. There are sounds but none of it makes sense.
The Angry Guy: Cannot wait to tell you how such-and-such person(s) has fucked him over in infinite ways. Seems on the verge of knocking over a liquor store. Is on a personal mission to inform the entire community that Joe-Bob is an asshole without stopping realize that his personal mission more or less personifies him as an asshole as well.
The Perpetually Stoned: Conversation is usually impossible but they will offer you special cookies.
The Bad Parent: Tells you stories of how terrible their kids are and you inevitably wonder "What the fuck are you doing at a party? Why aren't you home teaching your kid not to be a psychopath?"
The Goo-goo Parent: Thinks EVERYONE cares that they have recently birthed a human being. Believes that pictures of recently hatched human being supercede all else. Will whip out small person photos despite the thumping music and black lights. You point out that their baby has horns but they cannot hear you.
The Old Hippie: Starts most conversations with "Remember when..." or "Did you hear about when we..." Usually has a collection of Natty Ice cans around their feet and probably half a doobie clenched tightly in hands that have never seen anti-bacterial soap.
The Creepy Guy: Will hit on anything that *may* have a vagina. Is occasionally wrong. Breathes on you and has no concept of personal space. Tries to flirt but leaves you feeling sexually harassed and wondering if the party has an HR department.
The Party Swingers: Probably not actual swingers, but often have no boundaries at parties. Prefer to ask forgiveness rather than permission. Will probably fight at some point during the evening and create awkward situations by asking party-goers to choose sides. Often resort to such tried-and-true tactics as making out with the partner's arch enemy. Will probably have nasty make-up sex in your bathroom. Put out some extra towels.
Lest you think I am the penultimate elitist wet blanket, I have occasionally BEEN some of these people. I am most certainly not immune to being annoying or getting fucked up. But the parties are frequent and I admit to being bored with all the nodding and smiling. I also tend to reserve my alcohol-fueled brilliance for small gatherings.
Predictable caricatures aside, I will don my party smile and do my best to enjoy the interesting and ignore the annoying.
Party on, Wayne.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Fall-ing Down
It's my absolute favorite time of year. Halloween is around the corner and I love the promise of cooler days, snuggling under warm blankets and having an excuse to bake. Unfortunately, it's the time of year I seem to be most prone to depression and anxiety.
I've long tried to figure out why but have yet to discover why my favorite season seems to summon depression like fleas on a cat.
That's the I-don't-know-why piece of my regularly scheduled melancholia. The I-do-know-why piece is that the season holds a rather unpleasant anniversary for me. It's been almost two years since That Day. With as many tears I've shed, hours spent in my therapist's office, and uncountable conversations, you'd think I could just move forward along my merry way.
Sadly, grief doesn't work that way. I have forgiven (to the best of my ability which is not completely) but I haven't forgotten. I still get angry. I still feel betrayed. I still ask myself if reconciliation was the right option. Unflatteringly, I still entertain thoughts of revenge. I still suffer from the insecurities of wondering if I am truly "good enough."
I remind myself that everyone makes mistakes and try to ignore the voice in my head that counters with "But, how does one make THAT mistake?" I remember the bond that brought us together before and the bond we've fought so hard for since. I try to push the images out of my head that have haunted me for two years.
The others involved are still in my life but the bonds have faded which somehow makes "the incident" seem all the more pointless.
I find it much easier to feel hope and optimism when I'm not so close to That Day.
I've long tried to figure out why but have yet to discover why my favorite season seems to summon depression like fleas on a cat.
That's the I-don't-know-why piece of my regularly scheduled melancholia. The I-do-know-why piece is that the season holds a rather unpleasant anniversary for me. It's been almost two years since That Day. With as many tears I've shed, hours spent in my therapist's office, and uncountable conversations, you'd think I could just move forward along my merry way.
Sadly, grief doesn't work that way. I have forgiven (to the best of my ability which is not completely) but I haven't forgotten. I still get angry. I still feel betrayed. I still ask myself if reconciliation was the right option. Unflatteringly, I still entertain thoughts of revenge. I still suffer from the insecurities of wondering if I am truly "good enough."
I remind myself that everyone makes mistakes and try to ignore the voice in my head that counters with "But, how does one make THAT mistake?" I remember the bond that brought us together before and the bond we've fought so hard for since. I try to push the images out of my head that have haunted me for two years.
The others involved are still in my life but the bonds have faded which somehow makes "the incident" seem all the more pointless.
I find it much easier to feel hope and optimism when I'm not so close to That Day.
Friday, October 21, 2011
It's Not You, It's... Well... You.
I am currently on a break from Facebook. I spontaneously decided on Wednesday that I would take a week off from reading or posting. Why, oh why, you ask, have I chosen to teeter on that cliff of social and cultural relevance?
There are a couple of reasons.
It is, as you all probably know, a colossal time waster. I get a number of fascinating work related articles and I put off reading them because I am watching a video of a cat in a bag. One cat in a bag video is fine. Five is questionable.
It has felt increasingly superficial and narcissistic lately. Granted, I knew it was the pinnacle of narcissism when I opened my account but lately it's felt that way on levels that would give even Charlie Sheen pause. People who I meet once at an event send me a friend request and then never speak to me again. Instead, we go on wordlessly observing each other's lives until I inevitably hide them because they are A) annoying or B) annoying and forget they exist. People I went to high school with send me friend requests without even so much as a "Hi! We went to high school together and passed notes during Basketweaving Class. How are you?". Same conclusion with random event people. And oddly enough, I get requests from people I BARELY SPOKE TO IN HIGH SCHOOL. Why are you friending me now? What is the point? Are people really feeling internally validated by the number of friends on their pages? (And the answer is yes. I was so that person when I had 20 friends. Sue me.)
The third reason is somewhat difficult to articulate. Inexplicably, I feel left out of things even when I've been invited to them. I actively choose not to go and do something I would rather do instead (which is usually a big fat nothing) but later feel a sense of wistfulness. Logically I know I probably didn't miss anything awesome, but still... And the cake topper on that one is when I see friends who've gotten together without me and I feel like the dorky second grader eating lunch by herself. The really stupid part is... I do this too. So why does it bug me when other people do it? If only it were the 80's and I could go on Sally Jesse Raphael to figure this out. The red glasses knew all.
I've decided that too much awareness is a bad thing. At least for now until I can stop being all tween-y about it.
I will mostly likely resume my Facebooking at some point. But it will probably be with the same restraint I reserve for nutritionally void foods.
By the way, I had oatmeal for breakfast. I thought someone should know.
There are a couple of reasons.
It is, as you all probably know, a colossal time waster. I get a number of fascinating work related articles and I put off reading them because I am watching a video of a cat in a bag. One cat in a bag video is fine. Five is questionable.
It has felt increasingly superficial and narcissistic lately. Granted, I knew it was the pinnacle of narcissism when I opened my account but lately it's felt that way on levels that would give even Charlie Sheen pause. People who I meet once at an event send me a friend request and then never speak to me again. Instead, we go on wordlessly observing each other's lives until I inevitably hide them because they are A) annoying or B) annoying and forget they exist. People I went to high school with send me friend requests without even so much as a "Hi! We went to high school together and passed notes during Basketweaving Class. How are you?". Same conclusion with random event people. And oddly enough, I get requests from people I BARELY SPOKE TO IN HIGH SCHOOL. Why are you friending me now? What is the point? Are people really feeling internally validated by the number of friends on their pages? (And the answer is yes. I was so that person when I had 20 friends. Sue me.)
The third reason is somewhat difficult to articulate. Inexplicably, I feel left out of things even when I've been invited to them. I actively choose not to go and do something I would rather do instead (which is usually a big fat nothing) but later feel a sense of wistfulness. Logically I know I probably didn't miss anything awesome, but still... And the cake topper on that one is when I see friends who've gotten together without me and I feel like the dorky second grader eating lunch by herself. The really stupid part is... I do this too. So why does it bug me when other people do it? If only it were the 80's and I could go on Sally Jesse Raphael to figure this out. The red glasses knew all.
I've decided that too much awareness is a bad thing. At least for now until I can stop being all tween-y about it.
I will mostly likely resume my Facebooking at some point. But it will probably be with the same restraint I reserve for nutritionally void foods.
By the way, I had oatmeal for breakfast. I thought someone should know.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Dark Side Of The Moo
Nearly every little girl dreams of getting married. And when it finally happens, it's a whirlwind of rosettes, table settings and starvation so the boning in the dress doesn't squeeze a rib out. There are dreams of a nice home, date nights at a local winery, and offspring (or pets). When I was engaged, I suddenly developed wedding ring radar. Within about 10 seconds, I could tell you if our waiter, gas station attendant or mechanic were married. I studiously observed other couples at restaurants. I wondered if they knew "the secret" to being happily married. I wondered constantly what it was like to be married and also wondered if I (or we) had the chops to make it work.
When I thought about what the bumps would be, I sort of imagined that it would be me picking up Edward's socks and shaking my head with a knowing smile as the camera went in for a tight shot and the 50's housewife music implied that picking up dirty socks is actually a pastime of mine.
What nobody told me is that marriage is hard. Really hard. And that eventually, I would wonder about the structural integrity of those socks and whether they could be used to strangle a spouse. This was shocking.
Murder was not part of the plan. Determining what my specialty would be in a circus act so I could actually run away was not part of the plan. Crying in the shower, breaking my favorite coffee mug, and emptying half a box of tissues in one sitting were not part of the plan.
Where were my dirty socks?!?!?! I wanted a refund.
There have been times in Edward's and my relationship when I truly thought our marriage was over. This was especially true in the beginning. We would have a massive fight complete with yelling, door slamming and if we were really going to the top, somebody would pack a bag. Because how do you recover from that? How do you return to status quo after going after each other like vicious roosters?
These instances were WAY beyond flowers, chocolate or wine. If Edward had tried to fix things with a pretty bouquet, I probably would have been inclined to bathe them in bleach or run them over with my car. FLOWERS. Flowers. After he accused me of all those things. The nerve.
THIS is the dirty little secret about relationships. This is not what your mom whispers in your ear right before you walk down the aisle (although perhaps she should). This is also the point where many people decide that enough is enough and walk away.
Neither Edward nor I grew up in peaceful homes. We were both children of divorce and we both lived in particularly volatile home environments. I honestly can't tell if you if our parents' marriages would have worked if there had been more apologies, more contrition and more willingness to work on personal issues. I don't know. Some people just shouldn't be together.
What I do know is that a lot of people hit that wall... that terrible nasty wall covered in spikes, sarcasm, and already chewed gum. They do not see a way around that wall usually because they "haven't done anything wrong." And so relationships disintegrate.
The reality I stumbled upon like a giant hairy spider in the bathtub is that marriages are MESSY. There will be broken hearts, metaphorical blood, sticky ectoplasm, and a general disarray that cannot be cleaned with any type of Oxy or Sham-Wow product. And the icing on the cake is that cleaning up is a bitch.
I don't know if it's possible to adequately explain all of this to bright and shiny newlyweds. Even if you could articulate it, I suspect it would fall on deaf ears. It's easy to get lost in cake tastings, dress fittings and the knowledge that you will never have to attend another fucking office party ALONE.
In some ways, I feel like the grizzled-missing-a-limb veteran chain smoking in the corner watching the bunny-ear-wearing "freedom fighters" camping on Wall Street. It all seems so ridiculous when you look at the big picture (or compare "the war on the middle class" to the war that took place in the tunnels of Vietnam).
Edward's and my marriage is considerably different now than it was umpteen years ago. There is much less door slamming and yelling. We usually manage to find our way to the couch so that we can at least argue sitting down. We don't always agree on how things went down or if things that were said were inappropriate, but it is far closer to what I imagine "adult conversation" to be. If we really get stuck, I take the issue to my therapist or we go together. We have learned to agree to disagree. And as unsatisfying as it often is, it beats haranguing each other for being "wrong."
He also doesn't really wear socks anymore. Perhaps this was a smart move.
When I thought about what the bumps would be, I sort of imagined that it would be me picking up Edward's socks and shaking my head with a knowing smile as the camera went in for a tight shot and the 50's housewife music implied that picking up dirty socks is actually a pastime of mine.
What nobody told me is that marriage is hard. Really hard. And that eventually, I would wonder about the structural integrity of those socks and whether they could be used to strangle a spouse. This was shocking.
Murder was not part of the plan. Determining what my specialty would be in a circus act so I could actually run away was not part of the plan. Crying in the shower, breaking my favorite coffee mug, and emptying half a box of tissues in one sitting were not part of the plan.
Where were my dirty socks?!?!?! I wanted a refund.
There have been times in Edward's and my relationship when I truly thought our marriage was over. This was especially true in the beginning. We would have a massive fight complete with yelling, door slamming and if we were really going to the top, somebody would pack a bag. Because how do you recover from that? How do you return to status quo after going after each other like vicious roosters?
These instances were WAY beyond flowers, chocolate or wine. If Edward had tried to fix things with a pretty bouquet, I probably would have been inclined to bathe them in bleach or run them over with my car. FLOWERS. Flowers. After he accused me of all those things. The nerve.
THIS is the dirty little secret about relationships. This is not what your mom whispers in your ear right before you walk down the aisle (although perhaps she should). This is also the point where many people decide that enough is enough and walk away.
Neither Edward nor I grew up in peaceful homes. We were both children of divorce and we both lived in particularly volatile home environments. I honestly can't tell if you if our parents' marriages would have worked if there had been more apologies, more contrition and more willingness to work on personal issues. I don't know. Some people just shouldn't be together.
What I do know is that a lot of people hit that wall... that terrible nasty wall covered in spikes, sarcasm, and already chewed gum. They do not see a way around that wall usually because they "haven't done anything wrong." And so relationships disintegrate.
The reality I stumbled upon like a giant hairy spider in the bathtub is that marriages are MESSY. There will be broken hearts, metaphorical blood, sticky ectoplasm, and a general disarray that cannot be cleaned with any type of Oxy or Sham-Wow product. And the icing on the cake is that cleaning up is a bitch.
I don't know if it's possible to adequately explain all of this to bright and shiny newlyweds. Even if you could articulate it, I suspect it would fall on deaf ears. It's easy to get lost in cake tastings, dress fittings and the knowledge that you will never have to attend another fucking office party ALONE.
In some ways, I feel like the grizzled-missing-a-limb veteran chain smoking in the corner watching the bunny-ear-wearing "freedom fighters" camping on Wall Street. It all seems so ridiculous when you look at the big picture (or compare "the war on the middle class" to the war that took place in the tunnels of Vietnam).
Edward's and my marriage is considerably different now than it was umpteen years ago. There is much less door slamming and yelling. We usually manage to find our way to the couch so that we can at least argue sitting down. We don't always agree on how things went down or if things that were said were inappropriate, but it is far closer to what I imagine "adult conversation" to be. If we really get stuck, I take the issue to my therapist or we go together. We have learned to agree to disagree. And as unsatisfying as it often is, it beats haranguing each other for being "wrong."
He also doesn't really wear socks anymore. Perhaps this was a smart move.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
FriendShit
The only certainties in life are death and taxes (and you can get around that second one if you're careful). So, how do we determine that a person is *safe*? Not safe as in being sure that person will not boil your bunny, sell your Grandma's ring for the-most-awesome-phone-yo, or volunteer to house-sit as a cover for a designer drug operation.
No. I mean "safe", as in they will keep your cherished secrets, not judge you when they totally should (because that was a pretty awful thing you did), or MAYBE (given the "right" circumstances), help you hide a body.... or a body part.
I consider myself a decent judge of character but have become decidedly more suspicious in my bronze years (we aren't quite to golden yet). As much as I *want* to believe that most people are good, the pragmatic part of my brain remains guarded. My armored heart is as much from suspicion as it is from just plain 'ole getting stomped on.
I have observed that the majority of people whom I encounter and might possibly start a friendship are either A) selfish or B) lack sufficient coping skills.
The Selfish are generally emotional politicians. They hang around long enough to see what you can offer but when push comes to shove, they quickly bail and catch the next possible coat-tail. Unfortunately, they are generally gregarious folk who are fun, vivacious, and suck you in like an infomercial. It's easy to tell when you've been targeted because you find yourself short on cash, energy, and Facebook friends but you do have a closet full of Mary Kay, wrapping paper, and broken promises.
The Coping Retarded are another breed entirely. I understand these folks rather well because I used to be one (and on really bad days, I fall right back in line with them). CR's usually have decent intentions but lack the coping skills to problem solve, diffuse conflict and often jump to ridiculous fucking conclusions. Their coping skills are... well... retarded. CR's are generally drama queens, codependent, and keep a watchful eye out for those who are just waiting to screw them (which is pretty much everybody).
I used to wonder why I had the worst luck with friends. And I became more confused upon hearing so many other women complain about friends. I couldn't figure out why we were all pissing in each other's Cheerios. Simply declaring that people suck wasn't good enough. It's general, lacks explanation, and doesn't lend itself to any type of resolution. To an observer of human behavior coupled with a pathological need for reason, this was wholly unsatisfying.
Lumping folks into the Red Robin or Blue Bird groups is somewhat satisfying. I keep my distance from The Selfish and politic only the necessary amount. I feel empathy for the Coping Retarded and this helps me not mail them anthrax. (I still think about it but don't actually purchase the baby powder anymore.)
I wish I could say that I have a foolproof vetting process. I don't. I use my wicked observational skills, intuition (this is about as accurate as a weather forecast in the Midwest), and I give a friendship some time before purchasing the BFF necklaces.
Cheers to grown up friendships, good decisions, and a *little* bit of baby powder in my bathroom closet...
No. I mean "safe", as in they will keep your cherished secrets, not judge you when they totally should (because that was a pretty awful thing you did), or MAYBE (given the "right" circumstances), help you hide a body.... or a body part.
I consider myself a decent judge of character but have become decidedly more suspicious in my bronze years (we aren't quite to golden yet). As much as I *want* to believe that most people are good, the pragmatic part of my brain remains guarded. My armored heart is as much from suspicion as it is from just plain 'ole getting stomped on.
I have observed that the majority of people whom I encounter and might possibly start a friendship are either A) selfish or B) lack sufficient coping skills.
The Selfish are generally emotional politicians. They hang around long enough to see what you can offer but when push comes to shove, they quickly bail and catch the next possible coat-tail. Unfortunately, they are generally gregarious folk who are fun, vivacious, and suck you in like an infomercial. It's easy to tell when you've been targeted because you find yourself short on cash, energy, and Facebook friends but you do have a closet full of Mary Kay, wrapping paper, and broken promises.
The Coping Retarded are another breed entirely. I understand these folks rather well because I used to be one (and on really bad days, I fall right back in line with them). CR's usually have decent intentions but lack the coping skills to problem solve, diffuse conflict and often jump to ridiculous fucking conclusions. Their coping skills are... well... retarded. CR's are generally drama queens, codependent, and keep a watchful eye out for those who are just waiting to screw them (which is pretty much everybody).
I used to wonder why I had the worst luck with friends. And I became more confused upon hearing so many other women complain about friends. I couldn't figure out why we were all pissing in each other's Cheerios. Simply declaring that people suck wasn't good enough. It's general, lacks explanation, and doesn't lend itself to any type of resolution. To an observer of human behavior coupled with a pathological need for reason, this was wholly unsatisfying.
Lumping folks into the Red Robin or Blue Bird groups is somewhat satisfying. I keep my distance from The Selfish and politic only the necessary amount. I feel empathy for the Coping Retarded and this helps me not mail them anthrax. (I still think about it but don't actually purchase the baby powder anymore.)
I wish I could say that I have a foolproof vetting process. I don't. I use my wicked observational skills, intuition (this is about as accurate as a weather forecast in the Midwest), and I give a friendship some time before purchasing the BFF necklaces.
Cheers to grown up friendships, good decisions, and a *little* bit of baby powder in my bathroom closet...
Friday, October 7, 2011
Life is Hard. Let's Go Shopping.
It's inevitable. This time of year often sparks the nostalgia in me and I start thinking of the past 10 months. Without fail for at least the past 5 years, I've made it to November-ish and internally (and occasionally externally) exclaim "I am SO GLAD 20xx is over. What a crap year. Looking forward to a fresh start."
ACK. Why? Is life really that difficult? Or am I an overgrown pessimist? Or has this year truly sucked in a way that would be inappropriate to describe in reading material for the masses?
Obviously, I put my big girl pants on and forge ahead but it's hard not to ask if I'm being the world's biggest pussy about things. Maybe I slept in when they handed out this note:
Dear You,
This all sucks. A lot. Haha.
Sincerely,
Your Dead Ancestor
Just for once, I would like to arrive a little less battered come autumn. I'd like to look back on a year and say "Wow, that was really uneventful. And because it was so uneventful, I'm now ready to skydive/munch on blowfish/drive in the grocery store parking lot *without* a seat-belt."
But, no. Instead, I am shaking my fist at an invisible deity in the sky that I don't believe in anyway. (And this is as pointless as it sounds.)
Who is responsible for this nonsense? Where do I lodge a complaint? Where can I gleefully answer with expletives the question of How Are We Doing?
I am reminded of my hippy dippy friends who regularly send notes or requests to "the universe." As in...
Dear Universe,
I need a car. Please and thanks.
Sincerely,
Clueless Idiot
Or...
Dear Universe,
Please stop testing me. I'm trying to learn what you are teaching me.
Namaste,
Whole Foods Minion
I know about these notes because they are Facebook. Because, of course, the universe has a Facebook account. Duh.
Maybe these people are onto something. Maybe there is some sort of psychic cosmic release when you emote your feelings or request into the universe. (Or maybe the universe grunts uncomfortably and says "A little lube, please?")
Perhaps I shouldn't knock what I haven't tried. So, with the flourish of THIS keystroke (or maybe THIS keystroke) I submit my request for an uneventful year. Or an uneventful month. Or a pony.
This is what I received in response:
Dear You,
LOLZZZZZZZZ. U R so funnie. N Joy all the shit. Me n' Steve 4EVAH.
Luvs,
The Universe (west siiiiiiiiiiiide, yo)
Yes. That's what I thought.
ACK. Why? Is life really that difficult? Or am I an overgrown pessimist? Or has this year truly sucked in a way that would be inappropriate to describe in reading material for the masses?
Obviously, I put my big girl pants on and forge ahead but it's hard not to ask if I'm being the world's biggest pussy about things. Maybe I slept in when they handed out this note:
Dear You,
This all sucks. A lot. Haha.
Sincerely,
Your Dead Ancestor
Just for once, I would like to arrive a little less battered come autumn. I'd like to look back on a year and say "Wow, that was really uneventful. And because it was so uneventful, I'm now ready to skydive/munch on blowfish/drive in the grocery store parking lot *without* a seat-belt."
But, no. Instead, I am shaking my fist at an invisible deity in the sky that I don't believe in anyway. (And this is as pointless as it sounds.)
Who is responsible for this nonsense? Where do I lodge a complaint? Where can I gleefully answer with expletives the question of How Are We Doing?
I am reminded of my hippy dippy friends who regularly send notes or requests to "the universe." As in...
Dear Universe,
I need a car. Please and thanks.
Sincerely,
Clueless Idiot
Or...
Dear Universe,
Please stop testing me. I'm trying to learn what you are teaching me.
Namaste,
Whole Foods Minion
I know about these notes because they are Facebook. Because, of course, the universe has a Facebook account. Duh.
Maybe these people are onto something. Maybe there is some sort of psychic cosmic release when you emote your feelings or request into the universe. (Or maybe the universe grunts uncomfortably and says "A little lube, please?")
Perhaps I shouldn't knock what I haven't tried. So, with the flourish of THIS keystroke (or maybe THIS keystroke) I submit my request for an uneventful year. Or an uneventful month. Or a pony.
This is what I received in response:
Dear You,
LOLZZZZZZZZ. U R so funnie. N Joy all the shit. Me n' Steve 4EVAH.
Luvs,
The Universe (west siiiiiiiiiiiide, yo)
Yes. That's what I thought.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Dear Me...
Dear Me,
As I sit here with a highball of whiskey and nibbling on nursing home crackers with teeth that may or may not be my own, I thought you should know some things. Sort of like a letter from the future without the need for a flux capacitor. This might help you navigate the art of living and trust me when I say it IS an art.
Good job on reigning in the co-dependence. Now, you cannot rid yourself of it entirely because then you would not be you, but feeling responsible for everyone and everything around you is far too much work for an old lady like yourself (or myself. Same difference). Keep an eye on it because it will run away if not leashed carefully. Don't you waste any more of your time chasing it.
You spend far too much criticizing yourself for "not measuring up." Whatever that means. Stop it.
I'm proud of you for not following convention. While it may not be socially acceptable to be child-free and have more than one partner, YOU GO GIRL. (Better to be picking up condom wrappers than Barbie shoes, right?)
Stop experiencing loss before it happens. You'll spend far too much time grieving this way. That little kitty of yours? He won't be around forever. You know that. But love and cherish him every single second of right now. Deal with the loss when it happens and stop "pre-doing" it because you think it will make things easier. It won't.
Breathe. All the time. Bad things will happen if you don't. And blue isn't your color.
Your instincts are good but need a little tempering. Remember your friend who told you in your 20's to "guard your heart and love with abandon"? Yeah. Do that. More.
Cheers to good boundaries. You learned well. Continue honoring yourself and those around you.
Trust in your abilities to handle negative situations and negative emotions. You've got this. (And when you don't, take today off and get it tomorrow.)
Remember that much of the "friend worship" you see around you is about politics, manipulation, and elevating one's sense of self worth. Trust me, you WANT to be left out of that. Continuing to be neutral gives you much more space to move around.
Take more chances. And re-read the part about trusting in your abilities.
Love your body. And if that's impossible, try to at least have a civil relationship with it. Say good morning when you step out to get the paper and maybe borrow a cup of sugar once in a while.
Appreciate yourself. It's nice to feel appreciation from others, but relying on that is a mistake.
Keep your coping phrase "There is more than one way to do things" close at hand. You will never stop needing it.
Be the person that Stuart's dogs think you are. The one that makes them homemade dog treats and accepts being sneezed on and pawed on the boob.
Keep having fun. Never stop.
Love,
Your 85 year old self who may or may not running around naked at a swinger resort in the Caribbean
As I sit here with a highball of whiskey and nibbling on nursing home crackers with teeth that may or may not be my own, I thought you should know some things. Sort of like a letter from the future without the need for a flux capacitor. This might help you navigate the art of living and trust me when I say it IS an art.
Good job on reigning in the co-dependence. Now, you cannot rid yourself of it entirely because then you would not be you, but feeling responsible for everyone and everything around you is far too much work for an old lady like yourself (or myself. Same difference). Keep an eye on it because it will run away if not leashed carefully. Don't you waste any more of your time chasing it.
You spend far too much criticizing yourself for "not measuring up." Whatever that means. Stop it.
I'm proud of you for not following convention. While it may not be socially acceptable to be child-free and have more than one partner, YOU GO GIRL. (Better to be picking up condom wrappers than Barbie shoes, right?)
Stop experiencing loss before it happens. You'll spend far too much time grieving this way. That little kitty of yours? He won't be around forever. You know that. But love and cherish him every single second of right now. Deal with the loss when it happens and stop "pre-doing" it because you think it will make things easier. It won't.
Breathe. All the time. Bad things will happen if you don't. And blue isn't your color.
Your instincts are good but need a little tempering. Remember your friend who told you in your 20's to "guard your heart and love with abandon"? Yeah. Do that. More.
Cheers to good boundaries. You learned well. Continue honoring yourself and those around you.
Trust in your abilities to handle negative situations and negative emotions. You've got this. (And when you don't, take today off and get it tomorrow.)
Remember that much of the "friend worship" you see around you is about politics, manipulation, and elevating one's sense of self worth. Trust me, you WANT to be left out of that. Continuing to be neutral gives you much more space to move around.
Take more chances. And re-read the part about trusting in your abilities.
Love your body. And if that's impossible, try to at least have a civil relationship with it. Say good morning when you step out to get the paper and maybe borrow a cup of sugar once in a while.
Appreciate yourself. It's nice to feel appreciation from others, but relying on that is a mistake.
Keep your coping phrase "There is more than one way to do things" close at hand. You will never stop needing it.
Be the person that Stuart's dogs think you are. The one that makes them homemade dog treats and accepts being sneezed on and pawed on the boob.
Keep having fun. Never stop.
Love,
Your 85 year old self who may or may not running around naked at a swinger resort in the Caribbean
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Blog Project
YAY. Something new! Something original!
(But it's about all those old blogs I've been posting. Sorry.)
I decided to save the "best of" my old blogs in the event that the space where they were living closes my account for lack of logging in or because it might eventually succumb to the Church of Google. Now, of course, they live permanently on a Google-hosted website so we're good, right? No midnight visitors named Larry?
Picking the "best of" required me to read through all of my old blogs and it was an odd experience. Remember how in high school when you were a junior and you'd look back at your freshman class picture and think, "WOW, I was a dork. Thank beans I'm SO much cooler now." And then you look at your junior high school picture when you're a freshman in college and it's Cool Deja Vu all over again? It was kinda like that.
But, because those old shades of me have come to rest in my shiny new word outlet, it's a strange merging of my selves. I think this is a good thing. My writing tends to happen in spurts and there are often years between spurts. And then, I look back and it feels like I'm reading the diary of someone I'm intimately familiar with but don't actually know. And then and then (that was intentional), it all starts to feel somewhat mental illness-y. That in and of itself is not so much an issue but I'll be damned if I'm going to wake up one morning in a cold sweat demanding to know just how many me-'s are out there. So, here's my attempt to avoid The Three Faces of... Me-eve (*snicker*). Rejoice.
I leave you with one of my favorite poems:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I am schizophrenic
And so am I.
(But it's about all those old blogs I've been posting. Sorry.)
I decided to save the "best of" my old blogs in the event that the space where they were living closes my account for lack of logging in or because it might eventually succumb to the Church of Google. Now, of course, they live permanently on a Google-hosted website so we're good, right? No midnight visitors named Larry?
Picking the "best of" required me to read through all of my old blogs and it was an odd experience. Remember how in high school when you were a junior and you'd look back at your freshman class picture and think, "WOW, I was a dork. Thank beans I'm SO much cooler now." And then you look at your junior high school picture when you're a freshman in college and it's Cool Deja Vu all over again? It was kinda like that.
But, because those old shades of me have come to rest in my shiny new word outlet, it's a strange merging of my selves. I think this is a good thing. My writing tends to happen in spurts and there are often years between spurts. And then, I look back and it feels like I'm reading the diary of someone I'm intimately familiar with but don't actually know. And then and then (that was intentional), it all starts to feel somewhat mental illness-y. That in and of itself is not so much an issue but I'll be damned if I'm going to wake up one morning in a cold sweat demanding to know just how many me-'s are out there. So, here's my attempt to avoid The Three Faces of... Me-eve (*snicker*). Rejoice.
I leave you with one of my favorite poems:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I am schizophrenic
And so am I.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Goodbye to Gram
<Originally posted on March 4th, 2007>
The trip out here was tedious. I detest flying and it seems like a secondary punishment when I'm already on a mission I'd rather not complete. The flight was long but Edward and I were lucky enough to get three seats to ourselves so we weren't crammed into the personal space of others (something else I hate about travelling).
Right before boarding, I got a call from my stepdad saying that Gram was now in a coma. They couldn't treat the stroke damage because the medication was hurting her heart. She was in no pain, but she was also no longer responsive. I knew at that moment that she was really gone and I'd never share an amaretto sour with her again.
Mom and her husband picked us up from the airport and aside from a quick stop for food, we went straight to the hospital. Making the trip through the glass walkway into the hospital was almost surreal. The sunlight washed over us as we walked solemnly into the lobby. Only two visitors were allowed in ICU and as soon as I stepped into Gram's room, I drew in my breath and clamped my hand over my mouth. My eyes welled up with tears as I saw my Gram laying there.. looking so helpless and small. Part of her face drooped from the stroke and her mouth was caved in because she wasn't wearing her dentures. She looked like a faint shadow of the cigarette-smoking cursing Grandma I've known and loved.
For several moments, I couldn't even approach her. It was too painful. My mom and I sat and cried together for a bit. When I felt slightly more composed, I asked for some alone time to say goodbye.
I pulled a chair up to her bedside and quietly held her hand. I remembered when I would stay over on Friday nights and we'd watch Falcon Crest. I remembered how she'd also let me "do" her hair since she always had a hair appointment the next day and her stylist would say "Your granddaughter is staying over, isn't she?" because Gram's hair was a mess from my handiwork. I remembered how she always called me "punkin". I remembered how much she used to fawn over the letters and pictures I sent. I remembered how annoyed she used to get when driving and complain about "the goddamn old people." I remembered how she would order in Italian at one her favorite restaurants and how they always brought her a drink right away because she'd been going there for years. I thought about what a spitfire she was and how glad I was that some of that rubbed off onto me.
I told her how very much I loved her and how much she would be missed. I told her that it was okay to go because I know how much she missed Grandpa and wanted to be with him. I told her that we all understood and we wanted what was best for her. I told her that I couldn't say goodbye because that sounded a little too final. I know that she'll always be with me... in one way or another. I kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
We headed over to Grandma's house to meet up with my cousins and uncle to start going through papers and collecting her valuables. Grandma had left us something of a treasure map - we were to look in her manicure box for one set of papers and in a secret panel in her closet for another. We had just started the process when the hospital called Mom. We were all summoned back to the hospital and even though they weren't allowed to tell us, we all knew why we were going back.
The chaplain gathered us in her room and as soon as I walked in, I realized the monitors were off. Grandma's chest was no longer pumping forcibly up and down by the breathing machine. It was over. Based on the time of death, I figured out that Gram had passed about a half hour after I left her room. She waited for me. I know she did. And I am so thankful that I got here in time to have some last words with her. I'm thankful I got to hold her hand and tell her I loved her one more time.
And now comes the mess... the wills, the bank accounts, dividing up the life that took 85 years to create. I think services will probably be on Wednesday. But I don't think I'm going to stay for that. I've had my final moments with her and don't need to relive that in a public setting. Thankfully, Mom is supportive of my wishes and has said it's okay if I go.
So, now I sit... tired and exhausted, relieved and overwhelmed. I'm not looking forward to my first realization in the morning when I remember that she is gone. Tonight, I wonder if she is finally at peace. I hope she's gone to find Grandpa and that they are dancing the night away. Grandma, I love you and I miss you already.
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