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.
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