<Originally posted elsewhere on February 14th, 2009>
As a kid, I loved Valentine's Day. I couldn't wait to start in on my "valentine's mailbox", which was essentially a shoebox pimped out with foil, glitter, stickers and as many construction paper hearts as would fit. (Tell me I'm not the only one who did this?!?!?!) I could barely stand still in the store as I carefully chose my box of pre-packaged valentines for which I hoped would ultimately deem me as cool - a suave combination of cartoon fun with a little sophistication thrown in for good measure.
Usually, on a Saturday afternoon, I would settle in with my box, my brightest colored markers and I would have to have the same conversation with my mom of years past.
"I really have to give one to every single person in class?"
"Yes, you do."
(I'll just note here that I am grateful that probably many parents had this same exact conversation with their child. Were it not for this conversation, I might have had a mostly empty valentine's box as I was a pretty nerdy kid and something of an outcast because I had.... shhhhhh.... divorced parents. Having two Christmases was yet to be cool.)
We'd all wait eagerly for the half-day mark to come so we could start the Valentine's party (except for the Jehovah's Witness kid who had to leave for every party - I always wondered why his parents hated him so much). There were valentines, candy, and little girls giggling over pink things. What's not to like?
Valentine's Day took a decidedly different turn in high school where we used it as measure of self worth by how much your boyfriend spent on you. It was fashionable to have flowers delivered to your classroom but the rule was that you had to look slightly annoyed about lugging them around the rest of the day even though you could barely stop the "I win! I win!" thoughts running through your mind.
I was perpetually single and never the recipient of classroom flowers so I deemed Valentine's Day the holiday of the sheep. (Of course, the one year I had a boyfriend for Valentine's Day, I was a senior and he was away at college. I believe he gave me a single rose on our date closest to Valentine's Day but this was not useful for making everyone aware of my crappy-chocolate-and-pathetic-stuffed-bear worthiness. Additionally, this was the guy who thought it was hilarious to send me funeral cards for my birthday. I find it amusing now, but back then, I was furious with him for "doing it wrong.")
There was a four week period when I was 18 that I was single but aside from that, I've had a partner for Valentine's Day for the last fifteen-or-so-ishly years.
Early on in that time, it was really important to me to celebrate Valentine's Day. Why? Because that's what you do. It's how you let everyone know that another human being has independently and without the help of mind altering drugs (hopefully) decided to be in a relationship with you. It's a public declaration that you (probably) do not suck.
Perhaps the magic has been sucked away by real life or my priorities have changed, but I now regard Valentine's Day much the same way I regard Christmas. If you can't show me that you love me the rest of the year, a cellophane wrapped bear and box of Whitman's isn't going to do your talking for you. (And likewise, if you don't talk to me the rest of the year, sending me a Christmas card acknowledging that I haven't bit it yet is rather pointless. I will likely scribble back a reciprocal pointless and meaningless card - "Happy Holidays! We need to catch up soon!" and then we can both feel empty and irrelevant. Yes, that was a meaningful exchange!)
I still like Valentine's Day for the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate covered don't-know-what-it-is-til-you-bite-into-it, but that's about it. And perhaps it's an excuse to eat a slightly more decadent dinner than usual but I really don't need any particular encouragement to do that other than saying "Hey! Let's eat a slightly more decadent dinner than usual." But more importantly, I love my family and my friends year-round.
So, if you're rushing out today to buy the requisite bear and candy, you've probably missed the point. It's far more fun to go to the store together, see the sheer desperation as usually clueless guys try to pick out stuff that will not cause their significant others to go batshit angry, and buy your overpriced heart shaped chocolate feeling smug that you aren't one of "those people." (Bonus points if you get in a fake fight at the cashier about who gets to eat the caramel AND who gets to be tied up tonight.)
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Bank of America Can Suck Me
<Originally posted elsewhere on April 16th, 2009>
I know it's a good title when typing it makes me giggle. And it does. I am giggling right now.
Really, they can. I will even attach a fake hairy ball sack for them to nibble on. Because I'm considerate like that.
I went to a Bank of Assholes branch this morning to cash a client check. As I was standing in line with the other 47 people in need of a little ching-ching, this pissy looking lady with a clipboard paces around the group like a hungry tiger and asks if there are any non-account holders in line. I raise my hand and she says "M'am, I need you to step out of line and sign in."
As I slink over to her feeling like I'm about to get my knuckles rapped with a ruler, she explains to me that "from now on" (which was apparently at 9:02 a..m to-fucking-day) non-account holders have to "sign in with the lobby leader and sit in the waiting area until your name is called."
A lobby leader? Are you kidding me? Fuck me with a chainsaw if I ever have the job title of lobby leader. Sweet relief with a staple puller seems like a better alternative.
And so I am relegated to the waiting area reserved for maybe-customers. The line continues to grow and I realize that after I am "helped" (which I am assuming will amount to a sales pitch to open an account and annoying condescension about why I'm not cashing my checks at my own bank) I will probably have to wait in the godforsaken line which is starting to look like the soup kitchen line on Thanksgiving.
"Robert" aka Fucktard aka Lobby Leader Bitch calls me back in his office and asks me how I'm doing. "Fine," I say through pursed lips. He looks at me quizically with fake concern and says that I seem upset. I tell him that this seems like an awful lot of trouble just to cash a simple check.
Robert kindly explains to me that pulling non-account-holders aside and handling things this way doesn't bog down the line of account holders who have swank fast food jobs waiting for them. He then brightly says that they'd love to have me as a customer as well but seems to ignore me when I tell him that the customer service thus far is unconvincing.
As he's accessing the account information of my client, I ask him if I'm going to have to wait in the soup kitchen line after he's finished with me.
"I'm just checking on a few things."
Hey! Robert! I'm sorry your life sucks but that's not a fucking answer.
He then tells me that the signature on the account does not match the signature on the check. He calls my client at home but they apparently have an invalid number for her. He refuses to take any phone numbers from me because I apparently look unprofessional in my Batman t-shirt with purple and blue highlights in my hair. (Yes, I know. There's a valid reason for this. Still annoying.)
It is becoming exceedingly clear that there will be no check-cashing on this good morn and I need to get out of there before I paper-cut him to death with a check that is fabulously useless.
I am reaching across the desk to retrieve my license when I discover that he has called someone else into the room to "look at this" and further suck up my morning.
"If the signatures don't match and you can't anything about it here, I'll just take the check back and deposit it in my own bank," I tell him.
He tells me again that they are checking on a few things.
I smile as politely as I can while reaching across the desk to swipe my check, my license and my credit card. "I think we're done here. I will take this to my bank and thank you for reminding me WHY I bank with them." Fuckers.
I know it's a good title when typing it makes me giggle. And it does. I am giggling right now.
Really, they can. I will even attach a fake hairy ball sack for them to nibble on. Because I'm considerate like that.
I went to a Bank of Assholes branch this morning to cash a client check. As I was standing in line with the other 47 people in need of a little ching-ching, this pissy looking lady with a clipboard paces around the group like a hungry tiger and asks if there are any non-account holders in line. I raise my hand and she says "M'am, I need you to step out of line and sign in."
As I slink over to her feeling like I'm about to get my knuckles rapped with a ruler, she explains to me that "from now on" (which was apparently at 9:02 a..m to-fucking-day) non-account holders have to "sign in with the lobby leader and sit in the waiting area until your name is called."
A lobby leader? Are you kidding me? Fuck me with a chainsaw if I ever have the job title of lobby leader. Sweet relief with a staple puller seems like a better alternative.
And so I am relegated to the waiting area reserved for maybe-customers. The line continues to grow and I realize that after I am "helped" (which I am assuming will amount to a sales pitch to open an account and annoying condescension about why I'm not cashing my checks at my own bank) I will probably have to wait in the godforsaken line which is starting to look like the soup kitchen line on Thanksgiving.
"Robert" aka Fucktard aka Lobby Leader Bitch calls me back in his office and asks me how I'm doing. "Fine," I say through pursed lips. He looks at me quizically with fake concern and says that I seem upset. I tell him that this seems like an awful lot of trouble just to cash a simple check.
Robert kindly explains to me that pulling non-account-holders aside and handling things this way doesn't bog down the line of account holders who have swank fast food jobs waiting for them. He then brightly says that they'd love to have me as a customer as well but seems to ignore me when I tell him that the customer service thus far is unconvincing.
As he's accessing the account information of my client, I ask him if I'm going to have to wait in the soup kitchen line after he's finished with me.
"I'm just checking on a few things."
Hey! Robert! I'm sorry your life sucks but that's not a fucking answer.
He then tells me that the signature on the account does not match the signature on the check. He calls my client at home but they apparently have an invalid number for her. He refuses to take any phone numbers from me because I apparently look unprofessional in my Batman t-shirt with purple and blue highlights in my hair. (Yes, I know. There's a valid reason for this. Still annoying.)
It is becoming exceedingly clear that there will be no check-cashing on this good morn and I need to get out of there before I paper-cut him to death with a check that is fabulously useless.
I am reaching across the desk to retrieve my license when I discover that he has called someone else into the room to "look at this" and further suck up my morning.
"If the signatures don't match and you can't anything about it here, I'll just take the check back and deposit it in my own bank," I tell him.
He tells me again that they are checking on a few things.
I smile as politely as I can while reaching across the desk to swipe my check, my license and my credit card. "I think we're done here. I will take this to my bank and thank you for reminding me WHY I bank with them." Fuckers.
Tongue Depression
<Originally posted elsewhere on October 22nd, 2009>
"What brings you in today?"
As I opened my mouth to answer, I suddenly realized that I could not. The words that were supposed to effortlessly fall from my lips had been lost somewhere in my throat and stowaway tears came out instead.
In that moment, I realized that I truly needed to be there.
I've been fighting depression for much of my life. It runs in my family. My mom has been on nearly every anti-depressant known to man and my grandma probably should have been. I'm stubborn and have been determined to fight it on my own and thus far, I would say I've done a decent job.
Until now.
I haven't missed work, social engagements or anything else I regularly do. But really, what I WANT to do most of the time is snuggle up with a blanket and watch HGTV all day. I don't know how it's possible to watch 5 hours of real estate television and not go apeshit but I've done it. I really want to know how much a house in Minneapolis costs, what real estate intervention will be necessary to get the DC couple out of their house, and whether Single Mom decided on the cute homey cottage or the ulra modern condo. It sounds hideously boring (and probably is) but it's been my comfort as of late.
Lately, it's been hard to genuinely smile. The downs have been worse than usual and I find myself wanting to cry for absolutely no reason. The ups have been just "up-enough" to make me think I'm okay. I'm better. I don't need help. And actually, for a teeny tiny second, I thought that might be the reality.
Until I realized that I couldn't even talk about it without welling up in tears. So, I surrender. I acknowledge that I'm not Wonder Woman and maybe I can't do this by myself. Despite going to therapy for years and learning all sorts of wonderful life skills, I am admitting that all the the counseling in the world cannot fix a chemical imbalance. I am agreeing with my beloved mental health professional that Wonder Woman needs a little something-something that does not come with the magic wrist bands.
My therapist contends that you let a doctor give you medicine if you're sick and that this is no different. My German heritage screams "Yes it is and if you work harder, you don't need it" while my Italian heritage encourages me to pass the vino and not worry about it. So, I'm settling for somewhere in the middle.
Hello, Welbutrin. Hopefully, it will be nice to meet you.
"What brings you in today?"
As I opened my mouth to answer, I suddenly realized that I could not. The words that were supposed to effortlessly fall from my lips had been lost somewhere in my throat and stowaway tears came out instead.
In that moment, I realized that I truly needed to be there.
I've been fighting depression for much of my life. It runs in my family. My mom has been on nearly every anti-depressant known to man and my grandma probably should have been. I'm stubborn and have been determined to fight it on my own and thus far, I would say I've done a decent job.
Until now.
I haven't missed work, social engagements or anything else I regularly do. But really, what I WANT to do most of the time is snuggle up with a blanket and watch HGTV all day. I don't know how it's possible to watch 5 hours of real estate television and not go apeshit but I've done it. I really want to know how much a house in Minneapolis costs, what real estate intervention will be necessary to get the DC couple out of their house, and whether Single Mom decided on the cute homey cottage or the ulra modern condo. It sounds hideously boring (and probably is) but it's been my comfort as of late.
Lately, it's been hard to genuinely smile. The downs have been worse than usual and I find myself wanting to cry for absolutely no reason. The ups have been just "up-enough" to make me think I'm okay. I'm better. I don't need help. And actually, for a teeny tiny second, I thought that might be the reality.
Until I realized that I couldn't even talk about it without welling up in tears. So, I surrender. I acknowledge that I'm not Wonder Woman and maybe I can't do this by myself. Despite going to therapy for years and learning all sorts of wonderful life skills, I am admitting that all the the counseling in the world cannot fix a chemical imbalance. I am agreeing with my beloved mental health professional that Wonder Woman needs a little something-something that does not come with the magic wrist bands.
My therapist contends that you let a doctor give you medicine if you're sick and that this is no different. My German heritage screams "Yes it is and if you work harder, you don't need it" while my Italian heritage encourages me to pass the vino and not worry about it. So, I'm settling for somewhere in the middle.
Hello, Welbutrin. Hopefully, it will be nice to meet you.
It's Poly, Dammit!
My mother, to her credit, has more or less readily accepted the poly part of my life. She met previous girlfriends and currently considers Stuart another son-in-law (as does my stepfather). When they come to town, they demand to see all of three of us. If Stuart elects not to go, I am questioned thoroughly as to where he is. She's been trying to get me to bring him "home" for Christmas (which we are finally doing this year). Our Sunday phone calls almost always include questions are how both Edward and Stuart are doing followed by an update on the animals. My mother is in her 60's and for her to accept all of this is pretty fucking cool. I know that. But...
She still thinks I'm a swinger.
I have explained to her countless times the difference between polyamory and swinging. Yet she refuses to believe that I'm not having sex with my friends.
At my 30th birthday party which was held at a very nice Mexican restaurant with people from all parts of my life, she leaned over and whispered "Who else are you having sex with here?"
Most recently, as I was telling her about some folks we camped with this year at Burning Man who happened to be swingers, she asked "Did you swing with them?" (Even more stunning was that she asked this after I had already told her that they were "her age." But, my mother has very selective hearing so I suspect she didn't hear that part.) OY.
(As an aside, I feel compelled to note that I was rather impressed with our swinger campmates. They have been swingers for years and there was absolutely NO drama. That is a rarity with anyone who chooses to have some type of open relationship.)
They say good fences make good neighbors. And good boundaries make good poly relationships. This is precisely WHY I have very firm boundaries and do not step outside them without lots of discussion and forethought. Sure, there are times when it would be nice not to have to get signed permission slips from both husbands.... but this works. And it's honest and ethical.
I think swinging is my mother's deviant "baseline". She understands swinging which is probably why she always goes back to that. I try to keep this in mind but it's still frustrating. I have explained to her over and over again that this whole situation is really rather wholesome - it's very much Little House on The Prairie with an extra Charles and animals instead of children.
It's interesting to think that in spite of the sense of family the three of us have, my mother has just assumed that The Lady Garden is open for business.
Eh, not so much. New gardeners don't get hired very often. And there's a LOT of paperwork...
She still thinks I'm a swinger.
I have explained to her countless times the difference between polyamory and swinging. Yet she refuses to believe that I'm not having sex with my friends.
At my 30th birthday party which was held at a very nice Mexican restaurant with people from all parts of my life, she leaned over and whispered "Who else are you having sex with here?"
Most recently, as I was telling her about some folks we camped with this year at Burning Man who happened to be swingers, she asked "Did you swing with them?" (Even more stunning was that she asked this after I had already told her that they were "her age." But, my mother has very selective hearing so I suspect she didn't hear that part.) OY.
(As an aside, I feel compelled to note that I was rather impressed with our swinger campmates. They have been swingers for years and there was absolutely NO drama. That is a rarity with anyone who chooses to have some type of open relationship.)
They say good fences make good neighbors. And good boundaries make good poly relationships. This is precisely WHY I have very firm boundaries and do not step outside them without lots of discussion and forethought. Sure, there are times when it would be nice not to have to get signed permission slips from both husbands.... but this works. And it's honest and ethical.
I think swinging is my mother's deviant "baseline". She understands swinging which is probably why she always goes back to that. I try to keep this in mind but it's still frustrating. I have explained to her over and over again that this whole situation is really rather wholesome - it's very much Little House on The Prairie with an extra Charles and animals instead of children.
It's interesting to think that in spite of the sense of family the three of us have, my mother has just assumed that The Lady Garden is open for business.
Eh, not so much. New gardeners don't get hired very often. And there's a LOT of paperwork...
Monday, August 8, 2011
I Know, Right?
I hate being wrong. Or more accurately, I love being right. You'd think, as an adult with many "adult experiences" under my belt, I'd be a little more lax with the whole being right thing. But, no. This is one of those areas where the five year old continues to thrive inside of me.
Perhaps I fear not being taken seriously. I remember acutely how it feels not to be taken seriously. So maybe, the more tally marks I can accumulate under being right, the higher my You-Should-Take-Me-Seriously score will be.
I find it the most difficult to control myself with my partners and this is not a good thing. I've read the therapy books about "letting go of being right" and I TOTALLY AGREE. It just causes problems. If adult-brain could just put child-brain down for a nap during those times, it would be smooth sailing. But it becomes almost a compulsion. That last bit of information that proves I was right sticks like a thorn in my side until I pull it out in a fairly embarrassingly triumphant way to claim my last bit of rightful victory.
Do I really win anything? No. Cognitively, intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get a tick mark on the I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. Except, there is no I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. So even beyond the evidence, I still recognize that there's no real prize at the bottom of the box. What the fuck?
During a somewhat emotional conversation, a friend recently said "I'd be willing to scrap with you but I'm not sure I'd come out alive. You have a very strong do-not-fuck-with-me aura about you." While statements like these always surprise me a little bit, I am aware that I can come off as a pretty strong person. I have been described as intimidating and while I have a hard time seeing that in myself, I accept that others do. You'd think someone who apparently wields as much psychic power as I do would not worry so much about which specific childhood acting role made Jason Bateman famous.
I suspect it has something to do with marrying a very strong person. He's louder than I am, quicker than I am, and could successfully cross examine the pope into admitting that he fudged a miracle. In short, he's a tough opponent. While I mostly consider the two of us a team, we do go head-to-head fairly often in both The Mundane and The Important. Disagreeing with him is a stressful venture because I am nowhere near as good at making my case as he is and also because my emotions often go into cruise control and take the nearest exit known as Oh Great, She's Crying Now. So perhaps I try to gain leverage wherever I can in order to boost myself up a little bit the next time
Which, really, is illogical. There is no carryover. There is no video game score floating above my head to announce that I have more Validation Points for the next argument. (Although, I would kind of like that. Measuring and organization of points appeals to my OCD.) I know this. Somewhere, in my adult brain that pays bills and owns property, I know this.
However, Jason Bateman's first significant role was Little House On The Prairie. I knew it.
Perhaps I fear not being taken seriously. I remember acutely how it feels not to be taken seriously. So maybe, the more tally marks I can accumulate under being right, the higher my You-Should-Take-Me-Seriously score will be.
I find it the most difficult to control myself with my partners and this is not a good thing. I've read the therapy books about "letting go of being right" and I TOTALLY AGREE. It just causes problems. If adult-brain could just put child-brain down for a nap during those times, it would be smooth sailing. But it becomes almost a compulsion. That last bit of information that proves I was right sticks like a thorn in my side until I pull it out in a fairly embarrassingly triumphant way to claim my last bit of rightful victory.
Do I really win anything? No. Cognitively, intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get a tick mark on the I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. Except, there is no I'm-A-Valid-Human-Being scoreboard. So even beyond the evidence, I still recognize that there's no real prize at the bottom of the box. What the fuck?
During a somewhat emotional conversation, a friend recently said "I'd be willing to scrap with you but I'm not sure I'd come out alive. You have a very strong do-not-fuck-with-me aura about you." While statements like these always surprise me a little bit, I am aware that I can come off as a pretty strong person. I have been described as intimidating and while I have a hard time seeing that in myself, I accept that others do. You'd think someone who apparently wields as much psychic power as I do would not worry so much about which specific childhood acting role made Jason Bateman famous.
I suspect it has something to do with marrying a very strong person. He's louder than I am, quicker than I am, and could successfully cross examine the pope into admitting that he fudged a miracle. In short, he's a tough opponent. While I mostly consider the two of us a team, we do go head-to-head fairly often in both The Mundane and The Important. Disagreeing with him is a stressful venture because I am nowhere near as good at making my case as he is and also because my emotions often go into cruise control and take the nearest exit known as Oh Great, She's Crying Now. So perhaps I try to gain leverage wherever I can in order to boost myself up a little bit the next time
Which, really, is illogical. There is no carryover. There is no video game score floating above my head to announce that I have more Validation Points for the next argument. (Although, I would kind of like that. Measuring and organization of points appeals to my OCD.) I know this. Somewhere, in my adult brain that pays bills and owns property, I know this.
However, Jason Bateman's first significant role was Little House On The Prairie. I knew it.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Burning Me
For many, Burning Man is an opportunity to let loose and let the proverbial hair down (or for some, let the junk air out for a week). For me, it's something of a test to prove that I can in fact do this. I can survive in the desert for a week and remain nourished, hydrated and marginally sane. Mostly. This may not sound like an accomplishment for those that run screaming to the playa with their Red Bulls in one hand and a handful of ecstasy in the other. I get that others see it as an escape, a grown-up playground, and chance for reinvention. I just have difficulty applying that to myself.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Perhaps if I could take a new set of neuroses, hang-ups, and quirks with me, it would feel more like a reinvention. But I take me. And regardless of whether I'm snuggled safely in my bed or forcibly removing playa from my body with a baby wipe, I'm still me. At Burning Man, I'm still the person who gets cranky when people move my cheese, bitchy when I'm not sleeping enough, and stabby when I get too hungry. I do my best to prevent these things *all* the time. Which means that on the playa, I try to hide my cheese so that others cannot touch it, I go to bed before the party has ended, and I make myself eat even when I don't feel like it. In other words, at what some call "the greatest party on earth" I'm still a fucking square. (Incidentally, I will punch the first person who suggests I take a bite out of my dusty cheese.)
In real life, these things work for me. They help me tolerate the jackassery in the world and I'm able to function in a mostly productive manner. And there lies my conundrum... how in the world does one go about reinvention when you've already got they keys to the castle? Do I experiment with sleep deprivation? Snack on mushrooms instead of hummus? Decide that a small container of greek yogurt will TOTALLY get me through until dinner? Make an intentional bad decision? Deliberately step on a relationship boundary? What's a stable mostly well adjusted girl to do? And why does reinvention have to be so expensive?
Every year, I step foot on the playa with a resolution to simply do more. See more. Experience more. But, the reality of my time there is that I find myself fighting dehydration, sleep deprivation, sensory overload, dustiness to an incomprehensible level, and depression. Keeping all of that in check makes pushing additional boundaries rather out of the question because I already feel my boundaries are pushed. My boundaries feel pushed to the point of having my underwear pulled up over my head and sitting uncomfortably in Super Mega Wedgie Land. And I'm not a masochist (usually) so to further flick the envelope seems just cruel.
A friend recently posted something about managing Burning Man expectations. I find that I never have as much fun as I think I'm going to have. But after it's all over, I realize I had more fun than I thought. This doesn't really parse cognitively but it's what I experience.
I'm open to suggestions about reinvention or new ways to do Burning Man. But if you touch my cheese, I will cut you.
Monday, August 1, 2011
High Times
Some people duck into bathrooms to snort lines of coke. Other people "borrow" an Oxy from Grandma's medicine cabinet. And yet some hoard Percoset from their own surgeries (or even the surgeries of others) for that special floaty magically delicious high.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
What do I do? I throw things away. I adore cleaning out closets and pantries in order to throw away things. The ultimate goal is, of course, organizational perfection which brings me little snippets of high beyond the immediate orgasmic moment of The Purge. When I walk by and notice my recent handiwork, I get a little burst of pride along with a tiny dollop of shame.
I can't really explain it. Perhaps it's a small but manageable manifestation of OCD. I haven't browsed through the DSM to determine if this is a diagnosable disorder. If we're going to get psychobabble-logical here, I suspect it has to do with my deep-seated desire for order and neatness. Because even if life takes a nosedive, I still have an orderly closet and there is something weirdly comforting about that. When Armageddon comes, I know exactly where my el-wire kitty ears are. If I had my way, the world would be organized Bat Cave style - neatly printed labels on absolutely everything.
Edward (with Stuart chiming in right behind him) claims that I buy things for the sole purpose of throwing them away. This is not true. There is the retail thrill of getting something new. Then there is the settling-in process of said new item. The item is used, worn or otherwise violated. Finally, there is the moment where no-longer-new-item lands in the donation pile thus releasing many happy chemicals in my brain. The space where donated-item used to live is currently vacant and ready for new and untold retail goodness. It's all quite simple. And it brings me immeasurable pleasure.
I don't think there's any real danger to my... "addiction." (Now it sounds all trendy.) I rarely regret tossing an item and I haven't let it get out of hand. Although, I suppose there could be the day when Edward comes home to find me sitting in the middle of the empty living room with just my toothbrush. That would be a reasonable justification for an intervention although I WILL NOT go into a hoarder's home. I can't even watch the hoarding shows without getting twitchy and can barely contain my urge to yell "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO EVER NEED 65 PRECIOUS MOMENTS FIGURINES. EVER. THEY WOULDN'T EVEN ALL FIT IN YOUR CASKET." (But then, I am a terrible person and have low tolerance for clutter and excessive shit. And I think there's a special place in hell or Arkansas for figurine collectors. Because where else would they live?)
Next time I clean out my medicine cabinet, I will think sympathetically about those people with "real" problems. I do not have a problem, I do not have a problem, I do not have a.... wait. Give me that. It needs to go.
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