I sat at the table with a group of friends... people I've known (and loved) for years. I wanted to leave. And because I couldn't leave without causing a scene, I started to think about much I hated each person at the table.
I hated her because of her martyr-y attitude. How she behaves so put upon although nearly every single duty is something for which she eagerly volunteered.
I hated her (a different her) because of her rampant narcissism. There is no genuine heartfelt "How are you? No, really, how ARE you?"
And he... well, he garnered my wrath for a variety of reasons - not being able to behave in public, for starters.
This isn't me. And it's not how I feel. Usually. Thanks to a drug cocktail designed to return my nasal passages into something at least marginally functional, I'm stuck on a steroidal hellish mood swing roller coaster. Yippee, motherfucker.
It's awful being overcome by "fake" feelings. I intensely dislike having to manage something that isn't my fault and isn't even permanent. It's like a super annoying excessive gum chewing temp was given a corner of my office without my permission. She makes loud phone calls, histrionically emotes about every little thing and has no awareness whatever of the space she's occupying. I want to staple her lips shut and poke holes in her face until all of the life falls out.
But I can't fire her without causing other problems. She is a means to an end. And unfortunately, we have several more weeks together. Try as I might to keep her bound and gagged in the corner, she is still able to wrench free for the sole purpose of causing imbalance and upset in my emotional Jenga game.
In regular MeowOnFire land, I struggle with the personalities of others. I get frustrated and irritated easily. It's a constant regulation of reminding myself that other people are not like me (why the fuck not?) and that is OKAY. Okay. It's okay. And I usually get there. Eventually. And if I don't, I construct a bunch of boundaries around myself until I feel better. ("Please excuse the inconvenience. The moat bridge is currently broken and there is no access to the Princess.")
But now, in my heightened agro eye-scraping state, people are a general nuisance. They're put in my path to further test my will and continually prove to myself that I can avoid killing them.
I have an indescribable desire to dig furiously into the backyard and make myself a very deep hole where I will live until I finish this prescription and can return to my normal semi well adjusted state of mostly doing alright in the world (and avoiding compound run-on sentences). The problem with that? Scorpions are REALLY annoying...
It's rare that I have what I term an existential crisis. I regularly stress about the idiosyncrasies of life, the life span of my breakfast sandwiches and whether or not flip-flops count at "dressy shoes." In general, I keep the "existentials" at bay and focus more on problems I can actually solve.
I currently find myself in the thick of ethical dissonance. Periods of ethical dissonance often lead to a lot of self-reflection, questions, and daytime drinking.
I think I'm a good person but am I really? Do I make decisions that are kind, thoughtful, and compassionate? Do I regard others with the appropriate amount of care and concern? Am I being honest with myself about the motivations behind my decisions? Do I recognize the less than desirable parts of my personality when they are indeed factoring into my decisions? Am I aware of those things and feelings? Do I deal with them appropriately when they arise?
I'm not a Christian but in many ways, I try to behave like one. I try to be honest with myself even (and perhaps especially) when my feelings and/or behaviors aren't pretty. I do my absolute best to take responsibility for my actions and the ramifications of those actions. I promised myself a long time ago that if I'm going to do something that I feel is ethically wrong, I have to say out loud "I know this is wrong and I'm doing it anyway." When faced with that "check," those unethical activities are a hell of a lot less appealing. Ultimately, I want to make Maslow proud.
As an atheist, I live under no particular moral code. My "philosophy" is to be a good person. Or, more simply, don't be an asshole.
It's no secret that I have standards for those around me. I try to keep those standards in check, allowing for negotiation and discussion because I know that no one arrived where I am by way of the same path. I also recognize that I am unquestionably flawed and fallible. To that end, I try to look at something from all angles. It's always possible that I have missed something.
Really, my ethical code is simple. Don't hurt anyone. And if you do, fix it.
"I don't actually own a TV." "I haven't owned a TV in xx years." I keep hearing these statements like these more and more often. Generally, there's a shit-eating smug-ness that accompanies these sentiments. And so I ask...
What is wrong with TV?
I admit it, I love TV. I have always loved TV. I do not feel as if it has rotted my brain or taken over my life (but then, I suppose the mark of a successful addiction is that you feel you can stop at anytime). I still have a job, family, friends and I even read books! Thanks to TV, I am quite knowledgeable in real estate markets around the world, I could probably conduct my own fingerprint analysis with super glue and duct tape, and I've witnessed three-way vampire sex.
This is ruining my life how, exactly?
TV is relaxing. And although both hubbies and I spent a fair amount of time watching TV (poly DOES increase TV-watching), I consider it quality time. We talk about the things we've watched and how it applies to our lives. We have discussions about the shelf stability of quinoa should we ever decide to become doomsday preppers.
I can't speak for anyone else but things I watch on TV make me think... about my life, my choices and my behaviors. It's a mirror of sorts to let me check in with myself and realize that my six bottles of Bath and Body Works lotion are OKAY because there was a sale and I had a coupon. (I do not like running out of things and have a tendency to stock up. However, I do not want to wake up one morning surrounded by dolls and dead mice so I occasionally examine my pseudo-hoarding to determine how close I'm getting.)
I have to wonder if the anti-TV moment is something dreamed up by hipsters so they could have a "cause" without actually having to do anything. If you're going to be smug about something, it might as well be something that you can't really "fix."
"Mom?"
My 8 year old self had just finished washing my hair and noticed a small bump on my head. I picked and picked at it but it wasn't coming off.
"What's wrong sweetie?"
"There's a bump on my head and I don't know what it is."
My mom parted my thick wet hair in search of the bump. I felt her poke it and then suddenly draw in her breath. Very quietly, she said "Oh my god, it has legs."
The thought of something in my hair WITH LEGS was much too horrifying to be real so I decided that I hadn't heard her.
It was Sunday night, we were getting ready for work and school and now suddenly, I had something on my scalp that was (or once was) alive. What did my mom do? She handled it.
She put me in the car and drove me to the emergency room. She told me to sit in the waiting room while she walked up and down the hallways in search of a doctor who would be willing to deal with whatever was living in my hair. Shortly after, she came out with a nurse who plucked the villain out with a pair of surgical scissors. I even got a lollipop.
In hindsight, taking me to the hospital because I had a tick on my head was probably a bit of an overreaction. But the point is that my mom took care of it. She got shit done. It may take tears, crying, begging or even stalking a financial aid advisor (true story) but she took care of things.
In turn, she taught me to get things done. In the wise words of Vanilla Ice... "if you got a problem, yo, I'll solve it." (I didn't even have to look up that lyric. That's how full of useless information I am.)
And now, as she approaches her twilight years and I approach my... my... ummm... middle age years (*ahem*), I find a shift taking place.
On a recent visit, we were shopping and her credit card was declined. The company noticed an out of state charge, thought it was fraud and turned off the card. No big deal, right? She nearly had a meltdown in the store. With her credit card in one hand and her phone in the other, she looked back and forth helplessly at me and then at the cashier. It started to get awkward so I whipped out my credit card, directed her to put her things back in the purse, paid and took her out to the car. Meanwhile, she was flipping out. Having had my card recently shut off because Edward was buying things from China, I knew this was an easily remedied situation. I had to get her credit card from her and actually dial the number for her. She freaked out at the the credit card representative. She yelled at my stepdad when he called her to let her know what was up. That conversation was actually kind of priceless:
"Hi honey, how are you?"
"Well, I'm PISSED because the fucking credit card was shut off."
"I'm glad you're having a good time. I wanted to let you know about the credit card..."
The whole thing was weird. My mom aka SuperWoman had a mental breakdown in a CVS because of a credit card. Having watched her deal with a homicidal boyfriend, an abusive baby daddy (which would be mine), and coping with doctors plunging adrenaline into her daughter's heart so she wouldn't die of an asthma attack... well, this was peanuts.
Suddenly, my mom has become get-shit-done handicapped. This is something that needs to go in the manual - eventually, your parents turn into toddlers and you get to deal with them even though you were very responsible and never had spawn on purpose.
My therapist has assured me this is very normal. And I suppose, if I take a big giant step backward, I see that it's pretty logical. But there's always that voice in my head that says "But that's my MOM." And moms know stuff. Moms know stuff so they can teach YOU stuff.
And that is why I'm having a difficult time reconciling all of this. I'm not a parent ON PURPOSE. The thought of being responsible for another human life is horrifying, awful, and extremely inconvenient. Yet I find myself having to parent her in these very basic, everyday situations. I remember having a conversation very recently about her friend. My mom was upset that she had emailed her friend and her friend hadn't emailed her back. She was taking the whole thing extremely personally and essentially deciding the fate of their friendship based on this exchange. I remember HAVING THE SAME CONVERSATION with her when I was in middle school. And she told me not to sweat it. And here I was reminding her that people get busy and it's irrational to break up with someone because they didn't sit with you at lunch.
I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready to hand-hold my very capable mother who suddenly isn't anymore. Unfortunately, this is probably just the beginning.
And this is why we drink...
I had a moment the other day where I thought I was crazy. Like, actually, justifiably hug-yourself-jacket crazy. And that got me to thinking... How does crazy happen?
Does it come bursting through your bedroom door in the middle of the night with guns blazing? Or does it whisper quietly to you until washing your socks in the toilet seems like a completely normal thing to do?
Is there a definitive moment where you think to yourself "I am crazy. Rocks are neat"? Or do you spiral down into your own personal nutscape until bathing yourself every day is a distant memory?
I'd like to know when I go crazy. I'd like to celebrate with a dessert and maybe a few friends (nothing crazy...). We could take turns going around the room and memorializing whatever sane things people can remember about me. Maybe we could let balloons go outside. We could draw lopsided faces on the balloons with extra ears and eyes. (Because, as you may recall, I am crazy now.)
I've often wondered what happens in the brain that causes crazy. Is it like a plank from a wooden bridge that's rotted away? Does a synapse passive aggressively throw his pencil down and leave in a huff? Perhaps formal notice is given. "It's been really great working with you all but it's my time to go. Yes, I know it won't be the same without me. Could whoever is controlling her limbs give her a whack in the face so she realizes something is wrong? Thanks. Oh, and Roger, stop hogging all the Jolly Ranchers. They're for everyone."
We all know that once you die, that's pretty much it. Is it the same for being crazy? Is it just one way or are round trips possible? I'm not suggesting that frequent flier miles are the way to go, but it might be nice to do a quick weekend getaway. Perspective and all that. I have to imagine mundane adult responsibilities become more appealing once you've spent the weekend defending your castle from evil toothbrushes bent on destruction.
I see the appeal of taking a walk (albeit a small one) on Mad-ison Avenue. Spending one's life hopping from one sane decision to another? Now that's crazy.
I make time for a lot of things. My relationships, work, my animals, exercise, friends... all of these things require time and I willingly give it. The thing I don't make time for is sex.
And why?
I've long thought that at some point, I acquired a skosh of religious guilt somehow. (And as an atheist, this is pure and utter bullshit.) I don't feel like a bad person when I have sex (usually). I'm not grossed out by it (usually). And I'm not afraid of accidental conception (anymore).
I like sex. Actually, if you catch me in the right moments, I love sex. But for whatever reason, sex is extremely removed from the "rest" (gesturing broadly) of my life. The part of me that likes sex lives in an annex, far away from the rest of campus. I sometimes forget it's there. And it's a long walk.
This annoys me and I know it annoys my partners. I've explained to them numerous times that I am light years away from sex most of the time but that shouldn't stop them from rattling the doorknobs of The Sex Annex. See if anyone's home or if the lights are on. They've both nodded in reluctant agreement but I can see it in their eyes that they think I've gone to Crazy Town.
It is in those Sybil-esque moments that I wonder why things are "arranged" this way and if it's possible to do a little reorganization. The best I can guess is that my carnal desires get buried beneath personal growth, partner duties, work and a growing ball of cat hair.
I'm in my middle 30's. Aren't I supposed to be desperately humping doorknobs at this point? Is "the peak" a pack of lies so we don't off ourselves before we finish college? Where is the surge of hormones propelling me towards the Magic Mike establishments of the world?
I suspect part of it is that I don't do lust very well. I can acknowledge a hot piece of tail when I see one but given the chance, would I go home with him? No. Of course not. I've watched Dateline. I know how this ends. And I have to get up early tomorrow. For that appointment. With that guy. About the thing.
I am usually one step ahead of the world in terms of planning, scheming, and organizing. My brain runs about 24 hours ahead of Pacific Time. This clearly is an issue because sex is happening right now but if I'm constantly ahead of myself, then it's not happening at all. And I refuse to plan sex. I know sex therapists encourage scheduling the boom-boom but I've found it to be an abject failure every time it's happened. If nookie is on the calendar, that will be the day that I come down with a raging yeast infection, the day that I did WAY too many squats that I can't sit down without wincing or the day that I feel victimized by world and need snuggles of the non-sexual variety.
I feel compelled to note that no one has complained. (And by "no one", I really mean just the two guys. I am not currently accepting comment cards from anyone else.) This is me engaging in first world neurosis, probably because my horse hasn't died and I'm not waiting for American propagandist coloring books to fall from the sky. This is me gazing out over the great beyond and wondering about other people's grass (Actual grass. Not big-girl grass. Sheesh. You people).
I really don't know how this ends. Perhaps The Sex Annex is fine where it is and I continue to visit it occasionally like an old friend whose phone calls I may have been dodging. Or maybe I find a way to move The Sex Annex a little closer to the rest of the action (which does introduce the unfortunate possibility of inappropriate fondling of fruit at the grocery store). Or maybe I ride off into the sunset with my not-dead horse and "America! Fuck Yeah!" coloring book. Yes, that sounds good. Sexy, almost.
I'm not a stupid person. And I'm certainly not naive. Aside from my rabid codependence, I do my very best to be considerate of other people's feelings. I don't do this in a super correct Emily Post sort of way (at least, I don't think so). I do it in a you're-a-person-with-feelings-and-I-should-treat-you-as-such sort of way. And this is why yesterday astounds me.
Although it's not for a week or so, I celebrated my birthday with a dinner and an intention to return to my house for cake and cocktails. I do not consider myself one of those crazy bow-down-before-me birthday zealots. But I admit that it's nice (really nice, actually) to have people gathered in one spot to celebrate the simple fact that I exist.
The first person (of importance) to bail was my brother-in-law. He claimed sickness although Edward questioned it because he is rarely sick.
The next person was my mother-in-law. She has known about this party for weeks now and even mentioned the fact that her brother would be in town and may she bring him. (Of course!) The two of them apparently spent the day working on Edward's grandmother's taxes and it was so enthralling, they "couldn't get away." It was hurtful but it was more hurtful because there's a pattern. She has historically ignored my birthday for many years. Do I think she obssessively pays attention to THE day and then makes a concerted effort not to contact me, psychically or otherwise? No. But it's the fact that I don't even warrant an email or a text and I've been her daughter-in-law for effectively 18 years.
She attempted to salve the offense with an offer to take me out to lunch. It's a nice thought but the offer was to take place during a weekend at a cabin with friends (which she is also attending). A weekend with my friends in the woods and you want me to go off with you "for the day"? She is not a stupid person which is why this offer confuses me. "During my replacement Burning Man weekend, I would TOTALLY like to abandon my friends so we can spend the day seeing a historical monument that I've already seen and having lunch. And you've offered to drive! How thoughtful."
And then there were the number of emails received throughout the day from people who "couldn't make it." Nevermind that reservations were made at the restaurant and that Stuart made arrangements for everyone who wished to attend. He specifically asked for RSVP's in order to make sure there was space for everyone. I received no stories of "a bear attacked my tent", "my desert home is currently flooded" or "I have an owwie." It was simply "I can't make it but have a wonderful day." Which would have been PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE before you know, THE DAY.
The tiny bits of life lint on the already marred frosting were the folks who RSVP'd and never said a damn word. I only knew of the whereabouts of two missing friends because another friend at the dinner texted them to ask where they were.
I really don't mean to be a princess here. (Although, I think if there's a day in one's life where you're allowed to a princess, it's probably on your birthday.) But the rudeness just kills me. This wasn't a giant blow-out Project-X-esque party where one soul or ten wouldn't be missed. It was a smallish birthday party. The guest list was carefully chosen. The seats of the absent were painfully apparent.
Most of the people who came to the restaurant opted not to attend the cake and cocktails at my house. Some of them said it and some of them didn't but the reality is that it was "too far." It was about 35 minutes door-to-door and in the sprawlfest that is our city, that is not a bad commute. I pretended to be a gracious party girl and claimed to understand but the wound quickly turned into a bloody mary.
The bright spot in the I-love-you-but-driving-a-half-hour-for-you-is-too-much was the arrival of two friends late last night. I only had about another two hours of party in me when they arrived but when I thanked the male partner for coming, he said "We thought we'd get more time with you here and your birthday is important to us. We wanted to see you and celebrate with you." It was unexpected and helped to tame the birthday embers.
I am loved. I know this and I appreciate the people in my life who make the effort to let me know this on a regular basis. I am grateful to as have many wonderful people in my life as I do. But I am still confounded by the notion that it is somehow acceptable to RSVP to a birthday party and not show up.
The tricky part now is resolving my hefty feelings of annoyance towards the ill-mannered. I'm not sure it's useful to say "It really hurt my feelings that you RSVP'd but didn't come to my party. Do you eat with your elbows on the table too?" What exactly does one do with these seemingly 9-year-old-but-dammit-they're-valid feelings?
Probably nothing. The reality is that the next time theres a function and I'm in charge of the guest list, I will want to NOT check the almighty social cool-ness box next to their name. And then I will have a mildly schizophrenic conversation with myself about whether or not I'm being a petty bitch. Oy.
Cake? There's plenty left over.
