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.
The subject of tolerance has been on my mind recently. Not so much in a voting or sitting on a bus kind of way but more about respecting the decisions and processes of other people.
I should note that I am currently the warehouse manager for Rupert's Idiosyncrasies, Quirks and Home Improvement Mecca. In my mind, my processes make sense. My decisions mostly make sense. Some of my idiosyncrasies do NOT make sense. I understand this. I acknowledge it. I own it, feed it, and walk it around the neighborhood.
And this is why I try REALLY REALLY HARD to respect the way other people "do things." In therapy, I've learned that casting negative judgement on others is generally an unhealthy method of feeling better about oneself. Unfortunately, it works but it does tend to net you the reputation of Judge-y Bitch Lady.
When I see someone doing something I don't understand, I try to calmly say to myself "That wouldn't be a good decision for me but it obviously works for them." This works sometimes. Other times, I dramatically enter the room and declare to Stuart or Edward "Okay, WHY.....<insert retarded behavior and name of possibly retarded person here>."
I admit it, it feels good to openly (within reason - MY reason) discuss why I think someone is a fucking idiot. And even after I question calmly or vent not as calmly, I do so with the intent of ending on a it's-their-choice-and-it-obviously-works-for-them note.
The problem is that I'm getting older. The strange thing about getting older is that you don't care as much about some things while caring a LOT more about others. I'm starting to have this irrepressible need to kick people off my lawn except that I do not have a lawn and I live too far from anything for someone to accidentally wander onto my not-lawn.
So I am conflicted. Conflicted between the water bong-y mantra of "Live and let live" and the luxury of allowing myself to believe another person is actually a fucking idiot.
Ayiyiyi. First world problems.
"I lost interest in him once he became a cheater." This sentence was uttered loudly recently at a gathering of friends which included an acquaintance who more or less peed all over her marriage vows in a pretty public way. I found it profoundly funny because who doesn't love a healthy slice of irony. The margarita or three I'd consumed didn't hurt either. The subject of the sentence was Tiger Woods who actually did become an more interesting individual after his wife went postal on his SUV with a golf club. But, I digress...
The topic of infidelity is a sore spot for me. I have experienced it personally and while we have "moved past it" and "done our homework", it does occasionally rear it's head and sends waves of ragey-rage through me.
Witnessing the transgressions of others brings up personal feelings as well as a deep sense of disappointment in humanity. Why?
Well, to put it bluntly, being cheated on sucks. As one of my therapy books put it, it is a "violation of human connection". Once the trust is broken, you can build some of it back but you can never reclaim all of it. The whole of it is lost forever. And try as you might to put on a brave face and silently repeat Stuart Smalley-esque positive affirmations, there is always the voice in your head that wonders if he really went to the grocery store or if he is actually getting his nuts yanked at Sven's House of Cock Torture. And that's just the tip of iceberg. You inadvertently assume a hyper-vigilance about all things relating to that person because you never want to be the idiot again. It's destructive and exhausting.
On a more fate-of-humanity level, your word is all you have. Or rather, our words are all we have. Theoretically, we grow up, learn who we are, learn how to communicate with others and do our best to be "good people" (whatever that is). This is why it never ceases to amaze me that time after time people allow themselves to be driven by the naughty bits.
I get that hormones are powerful. I agree that pheromones exist. I understand that sexual attraction can be intoxicating. But in order to be a civilized society, we maintain some type of control over our impulses. This is why we don't masturbate in Walgreens. (Well, I haven't. Your mileage may vary.) This is why we do not choke the lady in front of us who is taking forever to pay because her purse dog is sitting on her wallet. This is why we resist ramming into the inattentive driver who too busy talking on the phone to pay attention to large masses of metal and fiberglass whizzing past her.
As a whole, we do a decent job of maintaining surface civility. But in our relationships, it all seems to go to shit. People cheat all the time. In the case of my acquaintance, she'd been married for over ten years. Over a drug fueled weekend, she decided she didn't really want to be married anymore and then behaved as if she wasn't. Her partner was deeply hurt and although I do not know him well, I have felt a tremendous amount of empathy towards him. He didn't deserve this.
It's fine to decide that you're done with the June Cleaver pearls. But the catch is that you have re-negotiate or redefine your relationship before acting on your impulses. And this is what depresses me. In the case of my acquaintance, she decided (after her trust violation) that she wanted to have an open marriage. Ummm, NO. That is a completely idiotic request after such an egregious act. As I understand it, he has declined and they are divorcing.
I want to believe that we're NOT one tweet away from monkeys. But, I'm starting to wonder...
The times I've experienced sheer and utter panic are few and far between. Like most people, I have a tendency to get caught up in the minutia and sometimes lose sight of what a disaster really is.
This past Saturday evening, I experienced a panic so profound that words will probably never be able to truly articulate. Edward had driven home after a wine tour to attend to our cat. I stayed up north with friends and planned to return home the next morning. Before he left, I kissed him and asked him to call or text when he got home.
He never did.
The moment that I realized I should have heard from him and didn't felt like slow motion. My brow furrowed, my brain processed how much time had passed since he left and my body was overtaken with a deluge of panic.
I am generally decent in a crisis. I am extra decent when it's someone else's crisis. But I learned this past weekend that the closer my crisis is to ground zero, the more incoherent and useless I become.
Our brains are supposed to protect us from trauma, right? This is why people dissociate and repress. How does it make any sense then that in the least appropriate moment, my brain conjures up images that would make Wes Craven cringe?
My rational self realized that Edward had probably gotten home, forgotten to contact me and fallen asleep. This was very likely. This would not be out of character. In fact, it would be very much within his character.
No matter. The 10% chance that he was unconscious in a ditch somewhere overruled all else. I imagined him in my mangled Honda somewhere in a valley. I imagined him being unable to call for help because his phone had gone missing during the accident. I imagined him having a flat tire and being overtaken by road bandits while putting on the spare. I imagined having to clean out his closet and sell all of our furniture because I couldn't bear to keep any of it.
It seems odd that my brain would start the grieving process so early.
In between mentally sorting out my husband's possessions and preventing my heart from forcibly exiting my chest, my best friend took charge of the situation. She convinced a friend of ours to go to my house to see if he was there. After an agonizing 25 minute wait, Edward called sheepish and regretful. She had woken him from sleep and as we'd guessed, he had simply forgotten.
I was relieved but also angry. However, I also thought sleep was once again a possibility. It seemed logical that I could rest knowing that all was well.
Despite knowing that he was safe, my body refused to cooperate. My heart was still racing and I felt small bursts of electricity running white hot through my veins. At one point, I turned to Stuart and cried my eyes out. I would do the same thing again upon returning home.
Even now, 3 days later, I'm feeling the after effects of so much adrenaline. Sleeping has been difficult and I feel like I've been robbed of my energy. Recently, there have been a number of "life challenges" and although perhaps this should have put things in perspective, it has only served to wear me out.
My college research professor never had sex. I know this because he was in his office. All the time. Not having sex. Or perhaps more specifically, not having sex with another person. His research was his life, his sex partner and perhaps even more disturbingly, his idea of fun.
I spent the last two years of my undergraduate studies working with him on various research projects. No question about it, he was a brilliant man. But he never really mastered that life/work balance. And he felt that we, his loyal subjects, shouldn't either.
I spent many a Saturday administering questionnaires and conducting interviews with low income 12-year-olds who were just there for the free snacks. I spent many an evening trapped in "research meetings" that were somehow supposed to be less awful because he bought us pizza. (It helped. But I would have been happier with a can of soup at home.)
I had designs on graduate school for most of my college career. And after working with Dr. Slavedriver, I knew that I needed a break. After graduation, I got a job in my field thinking that I would take a short sabbatical from collegiate life but that a secondary degree was inevitably around the corner.
Never happened. I periodically checked in with myself and even researched grad schools a few times. I continued to feel that I was not ready to immerse myself in that environment again. Perhaps having a life outside of education was intoxicating. Or I'm just really lazy.
But in the last year or two, something has changed. An advanced degree in my current line of work doesn't make sense. I have to do continuing education so that satisfies my desire to learn somewhat.
Without trying to sound like a Rosetta Stone commercial, I've realized that I want to learn via travel. And really, that is sort of an odd thing for me. I love to be at home. I like being comfortable, having my stuff around and knowing exactly where everything is. But I've also realized that being in strange countries invigorates me. It challenges me on a level that I don't remember feeling since I was a fresh-faced first year student.
At home, history puts me to sleep. But when I'm standing in front of it, it's fascinating. I come home with a new appreciation for so many things. The world seems both bigger and smaller at the same time. And I find myself feeling a little more content in my corner of the world.
Patience is not my strong point. Certain things annoy me. And other certain things REALLY annoy me. In order to avoid being a narcissistic asshole (of which I am occasionally guilty), I do try to look inward to determine why Annoying Annie has such a ragey-ragey effect on me.
Sometimes I discover that a person reminds me of someone I knew in the past. Or someone who hurt me. Or someone who unceremoniously dumped the contents of our shared locker in the 8th grade hallway along with my Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing.
And sometimes... that person is someone who irks me irrational and insane levels simply because they fucking do.
I currently have a person in my life who falls in the Bi-Reasonal Category. She has personality traits that I also have (which I try to keep locked up) and she's generally garden variety annoying.
This person has never really grown up. And although I only have a couple of years on her, sometimes it feels like decades. She assumes I'm in charge of everything. And despite the many boundaries I've drawn around myself in order to keep from committing sodomy with a toilet brush, she continues to ask me the same fucking questions and make the same fucking assumptions (which are generally associated with me making every known decision in the universe).
Admittedly, I maintain a level of annoyance with her most of the time so she is at an unfair advantage on the How-Close-Am-I-To-Constructing-A-Voodoo-Doll-Of-You scale. Every time I want to shake her violently and scream at her to stop living like an 18 year old, I try to remind myself that I'm probably already irritated with her and am overreacting to the current annoyance-du-jour.
She does have positive qualities and is heavily enmeshed in my group of friends. I do occasionally enjoy her company. She isn't a bad person. I can, in my rational state, acknowledge this.
I do, however, wish she would find a different "leader." Perhaps, a lemming...
I have a love/hate relationship with stuff. I love to buy things but I hate clutter so I also love to throw things away. As I become older and more crotchety, I have become more particular about the stuff I accumulate. I want what I want which means that you should give those chotchkes to someone who will appreciate them.
My mother loves to buy me stuff. And when it happens to be things from a link that I've sent her, that is wonderful. However, she also buys me lots of crap. I've gently explained to her that I would really prefer she not do this. She appears to understand but two weeks later I will receive a random something-or-other because it reminded her of me. Most notably, I received a small print of cats in people-clothes with eyes that follow you across the room. It's creepy. It's currently stowed in the guest bedroom because I am scared of it (and because we keep the door shut so I'm reasonably certain it cannot get out). I do also give some of the things she gives me away to people who would like them more than I do. I made the mistake of telling her the last time I did this and there was a meltdown. I maintain that once it's been given to me, I am free to do with it as I please and if you are so attached to the outcome, you should probably never give me anything. (I have yet to solve the conundrum of telling vs. not telling. I'm thinking the meltdown really wasn't worth it and I may have to become the person who "loses things".)
Because of the abundance of stuff (and other emotional therapy-worthy reasons), I'm not a big fan of Christmas. This year, my inlaws gave us taster dishes. It was an appropriate gift because Edward cooks a lot and we do a fair amount of entertaining. However, it's one more thing to store. It will be one more thing to pack and move when we leave our home. It will be one more thing we come across while cleaning out a cabinet and say "Oh, we should have used these for the Dungeon-warming party."
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. More than the actual gift, I appreciate the time spent looking for it and picking it out. Much of the time, I would be happy if the person took a picture of the item and sent it to me with a note that says "This really reminds me of you. I'd love to buy it for you but I know you don't like stuff so just know that I was thinking of you *and* willing to plunk down the $15 for a watch with a stripping Batman on it." That would truly warm the cockles of my heart because it means I am loved and it also means I don't have to figure what to do with something I will never use, wear or look at. And best of all, I will never have to confess that I gave a stripping Batman watch to my very confused niece.
I realize this makes me a difficult person to shop for but the solution is simple. Don't buy me things. I won't be offended and you save money. It's win/win. And if you do buy me something anyway, just know that I will really enjoy throwing it away.
I don't do resolutions. I don't "turn over a new leaf" come January. And I don't make lame proclamations that THIS is the year I will <fill in the blank>.
However, there's been a concept that's been floating around in my head for some time that's just finally come together in a cohesive thought. And it's my new philosophy.
I worry too much about what other people think. I worry too much about what I think. I wonder if the mailman thinks I'm a perv. I wonder if people at Walmart think I'm a hoarder because I buy 6 boxes of Kleenex at a time. When purchasing new deodorant, I try to do my sniffing inconspicuously so people don't think I have a problem.
Getting off the I'm-concerned-with-everyone's-opinion-of-me-including-people-I-don't-like train is no easy task. I don't care how old you are - no one wants to be the creepy kid eating lunch by him/herself.
However, it's not healthy, it's time-consuming and it's a killer of stuff-doing because you fear looking silly.
So, my detour around such ruminations is to ask myself: What would I do when I'm 80?
When I'm 80, I will fart audibly and unapologetically in Walgreens. I will gleefully present my AARP card to get discounts. I will fake frailty to get priority boarding on airplanes. I will wear hot pink hats to dinner because I FEEL LIKE IT. I will fling my dentures at my dining companion because it's funny. I will plant a hair from my head in my food and claim it's a pube to get a free meal. I will use and abuse my age as much as possible but above all, I will do whatever the hell I want. Why? Because I'm 80.
I think it's karmically acceptable to "borrow" my 80-year-old-ness a little early. If I'm senile at 80, then I'll be happy not to have wasted it. I won't have to write pithy essays about all the things I wish I knew when I was younger. I won't bemoan the fact that "youth is wasted on the young." I will bask in the fact that I borrowed my sass and used it well. I will gloat that I did the things I wanted to do while I still could.
Now go away. I need to watch my stories.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
