We lost a family member last night and I'm still sort of in shock. Like, I know it happened and she's gone but I keep thinking that this can't be right. When she became part of my family I was a brat. I was mad because she was selling the house I'd grown up in and I had loved that house. Then she stole my brother away who I adored. He was the last one at home with me and she took him and I didn't like that one little bit.
When they first got together, she went out of her way to be kind to me, to get to know me. She didn't chide me for being rude, she just went about her way of trying to get us to be friends. Although she won me over pretty soon after they got together, it wasn't until later in life I realized how she had helped my brother. He had some loud and nasty demons that he managed to conquer and she helped him keep them at bay. I didn't always understand what they had together but I think that's the way relationships are; you can't ever really understand one when you're looking from the outside. I always knew that they loved each other and loved all of us.
The thing is, I think she was like me in that she was afraid of a lot of things. She worried so much about things within her control and beyond. Unfortunately, her fears and worries overwhelmed her to where she started to withdraw a bit. She didn't do enough for herself to deal with those worries, put them into perspective, and take care of her health. You wouldn't see her much outside the house and she was always ill. Although we didn't know it, I think that was when her heart troubles started.
I'm sure that there are all sorts of scientific reasons why she became so ill and passed away but I keep coming back to this idea that her worries gnawed at her and her poor heart couldn't deal with all of the fears that consumed her. So now she is in a better place, a place where she'll know no fear; a place where she'll be at peace. I picture her reunited with her parents and the dogs she loved and lost. Although I miss her and wish she hadn't left us so soon, I like to think that my family up in heaven has made room for in that Great Bingo Hall in the sky and now she will look out for us and try to keep us safe. That may be a childish sort of thing to believe but I don't care; that's just how I see it.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
Keep On Running
There is no way to make sense of what happened today in Boston. It seems impossible to believe that someone could want to kill and injure so many people, from toddlers to senior citizens, but that is the way with each senseless, violent crime that takes our breath away with its terrible cruelty.
The first instinct of many seems to be to find someone to blame. Of course someone (or several some ones) is responsible but this thing just happened hours ago. Have we been so conditioned by the 24 hour "noose" cycle that we expect/demand answers instantly and when we don't have them, we let our basest prejudices convince us that whoever did this must be foreign, different, not like us? Or is it the 24 hour "noose" cycle itself that perpetuates these prejudices? Salacious and extreme headlines designed to garner attention not to help uncover the truth.
Here's what I know: this was a tragedy and my thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. What gives me hope though is the amount of people rushing toward the blast to do whatever they could to help whoever needed it. I firmly believe that while there is surely evil in this world, it is far outweighed by the good.
With that, I must turn off the news and the Interwebz as seeing another conspiracy theory or more hate-filled insanity designed to inflame tensions will not right this terrible wrong. Heartfelt prayers and acts of kindness are far better ways to show that though there are some twisted souls who want to cause destruction and death, there are more brave, steadfast and caring people who will help rebuild.
Here's one inspiring story before bedtime: “After you've run 26 miles you're not going to stop." 78-yr old, knocked down by blast, finished race.
P.S. A few orgs are already posting ways to help: NBC blog, Huffington Post.
The first instinct of many seems to be to find someone to blame. Of course someone (or several some ones) is responsible but this thing just happened hours ago. Have we been so conditioned by the 24 hour "noose" cycle that we expect/demand answers instantly and when we don't have them, we let our basest prejudices convince us that whoever did this must be foreign, different, not like us? Or is it the 24 hour "noose" cycle itself that perpetuates these prejudices? Salacious and extreme headlines designed to garner attention not to help uncover the truth.
Here's what I know: this was a tragedy and my thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. What gives me hope though is the amount of people rushing toward the blast to do whatever they could to help whoever needed it. I firmly believe that while there is surely evil in this world, it is far outweighed by the good.
With that, I must turn off the news and the Interwebz as seeing another conspiracy theory or more hate-filled insanity designed to inflame tensions will not right this terrible wrong. Heartfelt prayers and acts of kindness are far better ways to show that though there are some twisted souls who want to cause destruction and death, there are more brave, steadfast and caring people who will help rebuild.
Here's one inspiring story before bedtime: “After you've run 26 miles you're not going to stop." 78-yr old, knocked down by blast, finished race.
P.S. A few orgs are already posting ways to help: NBC blog, Huffington Post.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Do One Thing Every Day that Scares You
I'm sort of afraid of everything. I mean, I'm not like terrified of everything but I'm afraid of way too many things. These aren't crippling fears (like my date that was afraid of electricity) but they make me way too nervous.
I'm afraid of the normal things, like elevators, sharks, choking on something in my house with no one to do the Heimlich, needles, my dog getting sick or dying, me turning into a cranky and notorious spinster, and birds. Alright, I know that the bird thing is weird but I fear birds in captivity, like at the zoo in the aviary where you can walk through and birds fly right over your head. I fear that they'll decide they need their freedom and will peck my eyes out to enable an escape. And truthfully, I'm afraid of geese in and out of captivity. When I briefly lived in Bethesda, I had to walk past this mother goose and her babies on my way to the metro. Even though I didn't even look at them and certainly made no threatening gestures towards her or her babies, the mother goose would go berserk on me. That thing chased me to the metro every morning, hissing and flapping her wings.
But I'm also afraid of going anywhere new. I get extremely nervous when I have to go to a meeting or conference somewhere that I'm not familiar with; I would rather stay at home and stare at the walls than go somewhere new. I think that fear probably boils down to my overwhelming fear of embarrassing myself. I have a very distinct memory of being in some shop with my sister in England and seeing these little cards that say things about people born on certain days. It said that people with my birthday are easily embarrassed at almost anything. I even got embarrassed reading that.
I am terrified of what people think about me. I over-analyze what people say to me and how they say it, worrying that they think I'm crazy or stupid or annoying. I know that sounds nuts but I'm afraid of making a fool of myself or making people angry or frustrated with me like all the time.
Perhaps most of all, I'm afraid of people finding out how nervous and uncertain I am, how much I worry about their opinion of me. That's why I'm writing this. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." This is my thing for today.
I'm afraid of the normal things, like elevators, sharks, choking on something in my house with no one to do the Heimlich, needles, my dog getting sick or dying, me turning into a cranky and notorious spinster, and birds. Alright, I know that the bird thing is weird but I fear birds in captivity, like at the zoo in the aviary where you can walk through and birds fly right over your head. I fear that they'll decide they need their freedom and will peck my eyes out to enable an escape. And truthfully, I'm afraid of geese in and out of captivity. When I briefly lived in Bethesda, I had to walk past this mother goose and her babies on my way to the metro. Even though I didn't even look at them and certainly made no threatening gestures towards her or her babies, the mother goose would go berserk on me. That thing chased me to the metro every morning, hissing and flapping her wings.
But I'm also afraid of going anywhere new. I get extremely nervous when I have to go to a meeting or conference somewhere that I'm not familiar with; I would rather stay at home and stare at the walls than go somewhere new. I think that fear probably boils down to my overwhelming fear of embarrassing myself. I have a very distinct memory of being in some shop with my sister in England and seeing these little cards that say things about people born on certain days. It said that people with my birthday are easily embarrassed at almost anything. I even got embarrassed reading that.
I am terrified of what people think about me. I over-analyze what people say to me and how they say it, worrying that they think I'm crazy or stupid or annoying. I know that sounds nuts but I'm afraid of making a fool of myself or making people angry or frustrated with me like all the time.
Perhaps most of all, I'm afraid of people finding out how nervous and uncertain I am, how much I worry about their opinion of me. That's why I'm writing this. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." This is my thing for today.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Warning Signs: Time for Action, Avoidance and/or Alcohol
Here are some signs that mean you better get your damn house in order:
- Your therapist/stylist/coworker tells you that you look tired.
- When people ask you about your love life, they don't even wait for the answer before they get their sympathetic face going.
- Laundry doesn't make it out of a wad in the laundry basket for days/weeks at a time.
- You can't remember what you wanted to do when you grow up.
- Everyone around you seems to have accomplished a major life goal: marriage, children, graduate degrees, dream career
- Even your dog/cat looks annoyed at being the constant attendee to your pity party.
So when all those things happen in the space of a week or two, that's when you may be tempted to have a full-blown nervous breakdown. When you really need to worry is when you're too exhausted to get worked up over your ability to put a check mark next to all of those things.
I've been feeling pretty meh lately. Like I'm stuck in some sort of cosmic waiting room with really old magazines, awful lighting and hateful earworm inducing music. Or like I'm trapped in the less exciting parts of the movie Groundhog Day. You know, the one with Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell? Where even though you are extremely annoyed by how she pronounces the word "poetry" and her general aura, you are still a sucker for watching the movie every time it appears on cable TV? Well that's where I'm at lately.
So what's the answer? More dating websites? Actually going to a function organized by a Meetup group rather than just receiving and deleting emails about said groups and their events? Tossing everything aside to really crank my book (at least one of them) out?
I honestly don't know. It's as if I'm in a sequester-fester. All the indecision in Washington and how it impacts my life and the lives of those around me seems to have permeated my views on life and ability to do something of substance.
For now I think the temporary answer is to go to bed, catch up on some sleep, hope that my dog has forgiven me for going away this past weekend and that when I wake up tomorrow, Sonny and Cher won't be singing in the background while annoying DJ's talk about Punxsatawney Phil.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Trainwrecks and Cake for Dinner
It is a very strange thing to watch a loved one about to crash very, very hard and be unable to stop it. You try to do what you can, say the things you think need to be said, holding on so tight, throw her every lifesaver you know of to keep her afloat, but you know it won't work. You can see the fall coming and are wincing and cringing your way through the day. Maybe if you're extra nice to everyone and do some unspecified acts of kindness for strangers, maybe you can arrest the fall. Maybe if you pray extra hard it won't happen.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a parent and see your kid doing things that you know are so stupid that you feel like you must stop them but you know you can't. If you keep cushioning them on the falls, they won't be able to survive if you're not around to smooth things over.
In this case though I know that there's nothing I can do to make this situation different. You can't shake someone into sanity or tell a depressed person to be happy. I mean, of course you could try it but it won't do any good. So what do you do? Do you play along and pretend that everything is just grand? Do you rant and scream and rage as she starts to slip? Do you sit this one out and look the other way?
I don't know the answer so I ate some cake for dinner and am going to bed early. Then in the morning I will get up, force myself to get out of bed and face the day head on, balls to the wall. It's not that much of a plan but it's something.
This trainwreck is going to happen whether I want it to or not and at this point, I will not stick my fingers in my ears and scrunch my eyes shut. I want to look that batshit crazy conductor in the eye as the train hurtles toward me. For I am slowly but surely learning that I can't control the ups and the seemingly endless downs that come my way, but I can control how I face these things.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a parent and see your kid doing things that you know are so stupid that you feel like you must stop them but you know you can't. If you keep cushioning them on the falls, they won't be able to survive if you're not around to smooth things over.
In this case though I know that there's nothing I can do to make this situation different. You can't shake someone into sanity or tell a depressed person to be happy. I mean, of course you could try it but it won't do any good. So what do you do? Do you play along and pretend that everything is just grand? Do you rant and scream and rage as she starts to slip? Do you sit this one out and look the other way?
I don't know the answer so I ate some cake for dinner and am going to bed early. Then in the morning I will get up, force myself to get out of bed and face the day head on, balls to the wall. It's not that much of a plan but it's something.
This trainwreck is going to happen whether I want it to or not and at this point, I will not stick my fingers in my ears and scrunch my eyes shut. I want to look that batshit crazy conductor in the eye as the train hurtles toward me. For I am slowly but surely learning that I can't control the ups and the seemingly endless downs that come my way, but I can control how I face these things.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Dog Poo and Probably Way Too Much Introspection
You know when you have one of those days? The kind where you realize too late that there is a hole in your dog's poo bag and that kind of sets the stage for the rest of the day? The kind where you almost put salsa on your English muffin and peanut butter rather than strawberry jam? The kind where they shut off the water to your office building so that a trip to the bathroom involves a coat, a brisk sprint across the parking lot and two badges? The kind where you look out into the great abyss and see everyone that you know is moving forward with their lives whilst you are standing in the freezing cold, staring stupidly at the dog poo on your hand?
Yep, it's that kind of a Monday. Or rather I guess it technically is Tuesday. I always get mixed up with long weekends. Especially long weekends where I spend my day off writing articles, cleaning the house, trying to work on my resume, and glumly looking at more rejection notices from job applications where I never made it beyond the initial resume phase (hence the working on the resume).
And then you find out your oldest friend in the world, the one who agreed to marry you at the age of 5 if you were both really old (like 30) and weren't married, has a kid. Not just has a kid but has a daughter who is nearly 2 years old. And extremely adorable. For some reason, this knowledge has kind of struck me dumbfounded. I am literally sitting here, slack-jawed and incoherent. Not because I thought the now 30 year old contract (!!!) was still valid but because I had no idea that he had become a father.
It doesn't help that I have let my financial advisor (he is wonderfully competent and adorable when he tries to explain things to me and my eyes glaze over and I start to doodle) talk me out of quitting my job with no actual other job lined up. Then again, the sensible part of me--the one that tries to eat something more than pudding for dinner and go to bed early rather than watching old episodes of the West Wing--knew that this was what he was going to advise and that is probably why I went to see him before leaping off into the abyss.
He made some good points though and not just about how it's nice to be able to afford my mortgage and my dog's organic dog food. He said he can see that I'm serious about writing and that if that's what I want to do, that's what I should do. But that until I can convince someone to pay me a living wage doing that writing, that I should try to find a work environment that I enjoy and that will free me up for more time for the lovely writing. Although this makes sense, I'm kind of afraid that if I don't try it now, I'll never do it. Pull the band-aid off all in one fell swoop, jump without a safety net, etc.
The other thing that has me slightly bamboozled is that I was supposed to talk with my client tonight about the 2nd book I was going to write for him (whilst I'm still working on chapters for another book for him) and was nervous since when he and I spoke last, he asked if I was going to want to give him rights to all content. I was nervous because I didn't really want to do that but I do like working for him and didn't want things to be highly awkward.
Anyway, he started off the conversation by saying that he thinks I should write and publish the book myself. That it was my idea and he said it felt like he'd be taking my baby. He said he thought it would be a fun book and do well, then he gave me some advice and we chatted about his experiences in self-publishing and writing. Of course as soon as we hung up, self-doubt set in and I became convinced that he doesn't want to be involved in the book because he thinks it will be crap.
On that inspiring note, I better call it a night as it is a before-crack-o-dawn type day for me tomorrow. If you haven't gotten enough about me ranting about gender inequality (and how could that ever be possible), check out my latest article on The Snap Download and learn of my plans for making men wear more complicated outfits (cravats, hats and more!) so that we can hear reporters reduce them to their wardrobes and hairstyles rather than just hearing ad nauseum about the First Lady's bangs. You can also read an article where one of my fellow bloggers will teach you a fun new phrase in French.
So bonne nuit, mes amis. I'm feeling not so sensible and there's plenty of West Wing season 3 for me to still get thru.
Yep, it's that kind of a Monday. Or rather I guess it technically is Tuesday. I always get mixed up with long weekends. Especially long weekends where I spend my day off writing articles, cleaning the house, trying to work on my resume, and glumly looking at more rejection notices from job applications where I never made it beyond the initial resume phase (hence the working on the resume).
And then you find out your oldest friend in the world, the one who agreed to marry you at the age of 5 if you were both really old (like 30) and weren't married, has a kid. Not just has a kid but has a daughter who is nearly 2 years old. And extremely adorable. For some reason, this knowledge has kind of struck me dumbfounded. I am literally sitting here, slack-jawed and incoherent. Not because I thought the now 30 year old contract (!!!) was still valid but because I had no idea that he had become a father.
It doesn't help that I have let my financial advisor (he is wonderfully competent and adorable when he tries to explain things to me and my eyes glaze over and I start to doodle) talk me out of quitting my job with no actual other job lined up. Then again, the sensible part of me--the one that tries to eat something more than pudding for dinner and go to bed early rather than watching old episodes of the West Wing--knew that this was what he was going to advise and that is probably why I went to see him before leaping off into the abyss.
He made some good points though and not just about how it's nice to be able to afford my mortgage and my dog's organic dog food. He said he can see that I'm serious about writing and that if that's what I want to do, that's what I should do. But that until I can convince someone to pay me a living wage doing that writing, that I should try to find a work environment that I enjoy and that will free me up for more time for the lovely writing. Although this makes sense, I'm kind of afraid that if I don't try it now, I'll never do it. Pull the band-aid off all in one fell swoop, jump without a safety net, etc.
The other thing that has me slightly bamboozled is that I was supposed to talk with my client tonight about the 2nd book I was going to write for him (whilst I'm still working on chapters for another book for him) and was nervous since when he and I spoke last, he asked if I was going to want to give him rights to all content. I was nervous because I didn't really want to do that but I do like working for him and didn't want things to be highly awkward.
Anyway, he started off the conversation by saying that he thinks I should write and publish the book myself. That it was my idea and he said it felt like he'd be taking my baby. He said he thought it would be a fun book and do well, then he gave me some advice and we chatted about his experiences in self-publishing and writing. Of course as soon as we hung up, self-doubt set in and I became convinced that he doesn't want to be involved in the book because he thinks it will be crap.
On that inspiring note, I better call it a night as it is a before-crack-o-dawn type day for me tomorrow. If you haven't gotten enough about me ranting about gender inequality (and how could that ever be possible), check out my latest article on The Snap Download and learn of my plans for making men wear more complicated outfits (cravats, hats and more!) so that we can hear reporters reduce them to their wardrobes and hairstyles rather than just hearing ad nauseum about the First Lady's bangs. You can also read an article where one of my fellow bloggers will teach you a fun new phrase in French.
So bonne nuit, mes amis. I'm feeling not so sensible and there's plenty of West Wing season 3 for me to still get thru.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Weighty Matters
For those of you who enjoyed my post, You Are What You Eat?, where I talk about lifelong issues with weight and body issues, check out my latest article at The Snap Download, titled When I Am Queen of Everything. First of all, who wouldn't want to live in a world where I am Queen of Everything? I mean, seriously, people. Admit it, you're curious what it would be like. How many minions would I have, would running be a misdemeanor or a felony, would the rivers be filled with bourbon, would my dog Charlie be named Duke or maybe even Czar? Where was I?
Oh, yeah. So really the article is about my rage against people perpetuating negative body images, whether it's Howard Stern, discriminatory employers, or that darn liberal media (okay, not the real liberal media - the liberal-entertainment-for-news media). It seemed timely what with some of us having already fallen off the Resolution bandwagon and maybe feeling a little bad about it. Don't feel bad or guilty. Do what you can to lead a healthy life and if other people don't like the way you look, then they are clearly supporters of jackassery who would be boring as hell to hang out with anyway.
Oh, yeah. So really the article is about my rage against people perpetuating negative body images, whether it's Howard Stern, discriminatory employers, or that darn liberal media (okay, not the real liberal media - the liberal-entertainment-for-news media). It seemed timely what with some of us having already fallen off the Resolution bandwagon and maybe feeling a little bad about it. Don't feel bad or guilty. Do what you can to lead a healthy life and if other people don't like the way you look, then they are clearly supporters of jackassery who would be boring as hell to hang out with anyway.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
I Wish I Was More of a Jackass
Dearest blog,
I'm mightily sorry for abandoning you. You were always there for me to ponder why fate had injected so many psychopaths into my dating life. When I wanted to record what I felt to be genius advice on how to throw and attend weddings, travel as a singelton, and have actual political conversations that didn't result in bloodshed, you were there. The reasons for my abandonment are both good and bad.
Because I've decided on a post-New Year's resolution to accentuate the positive, let's start with the good. I'm writing my brains out. Literally, I come home after a full day of work that leaves me wanting to weep in despair and I sit in my squishy rocking chair and write and write and write. I'm exhausted and have headaches and my eyes hurt. And I love it although it leaves me with less time to spend with you, dear blog.
Obviously, I'm not referring to loving my various aches and pains (or the increasing size of my ass as I have yet to figure out how to write whilst lunging). No, I'm referring to the insane amount of writing I've taken on. I'm now allowed to rant twice a week for The Snap Download indefinitely. I'm not sure who all is reading it but it is way cool. I take forever to research my articles, probably way longer than I should. And I've realized that I was even way more of a granola, hippie, leftwing, pinko liberal than I ever thought I was. And I really really dig it.
Then there's the other freelance work I've been doing. I finally finished writing on the passions and proclivities of the presidents and am now working on an e-book for that same client, and possibly now a new assignment of short stories/articles. That work is actually a ton of fun. And I've finished ghost writing ridiculously concise travel articles attempting to smush in way too much info on Latin American cities, most of which I've never visited. Also no more architectural pieces for crappy clients who don't pay or provide feedback.
Now, for the bad reasons. I really should have been focusing on finishing my own book. I mean I am so close--or at least I hope I'm so close--to finishing that it's insane how I keep procrastinating finishing. I honestly do have a lot of other stuff that I am contractually obligated to finish (and enjoy doing, too) but I fear part of the reason I haven't dedicated to my book based off of you, dearest blog, is that I fear it is complete crap.
And this is why I think I need to be more of a jackass. Not like the movies or anything. I need to be more of a jackass in that I need some damn self-confidence. My first instinct is to think that what I do is crap, that no one reads it, and that the reason the few people I've given draft of my book to have largely gone radio silent is because it is sooooooo bad that they are afraid to tell me and crush all my girlish hopes and dreams.
If I was more of a jackass, I'd be so firmly convinced of my own awesomeness that I'd have none of these doubts. I think we all need that really. Well, except the actual jackasses of course. Most of my wildly talented and gifted friends have such low self-esteem in their own wonderfulness that it makes me want to hold a parade with floats designed to honor them. Seriously, why is it that we have the hardest time believing in our own good and self-worth? Why must there always be this much doubt? What could we accomplish if we weren't so afraid that we sucked?
Anyway, so these are my pitiful reasons for ignoring you, dearest blog, for newer and shinier writing assignments. I'll promise to be better or at least promise to try. To quote one of my newer musical crushes, The Milk Carton Kids, you feel like a long hot shower, like getting in your bed when the sheets are warm. Thanks for listening to me before all the others did.
S/N,
Adrienne
I'm mightily sorry for abandoning you. You were always there for me to ponder why fate had injected so many psychopaths into my dating life. When I wanted to record what I felt to be genius advice on how to throw and attend weddings, travel as a singelton, and have actual political conversations that didn't result in bloodshed, you were there. The reasons for my abandonment are both good and bad.
Because I've decided on a post-New Year's resolution to accentuate the positive, let's start with the good. I'm writing my brains out. Literally, I come home after a full day of work that leaves me wanting to weep in despair and I sit in my squishy rocking chair and write and write and write. I'm exhausted and have headaches and my eyes hurt. And I love it although it leaves me with less time to spend with you, dear blog.
Obviously, I'm not referring to loving my various aches and pains (or the increasing size of my ass as I have yet to figure out how to write whilst lunging). No, I'm referring to the insane amount of writing I've taken on. I'm now allowed to rant twice a week for The Snap Download indefinitely. I'm not sure who all is reading it but it is way cool. I take forever to research my articles, probably way longer than I should. And I've realized that I was even way more of a granola, hippie, leftwing, pinko liberal than I ever thought I was. And I really really dig it.
Then there's the other freelance work I've been doing. I finally finished writing on the passions and proclivities of the presidents and am now working on an e-book for that same client, and possibly now a new assignment of short stories/articles. That work is actually a ton of fun. And I've finished ghost writing ridiculously concise travel articles attempting to smush in way too much info on Latin American cities, most of which I've never visited. Also no more architectural pieces for crappy clients who don't pay or provide feedback.
Now, for the bad reasons. I really should have been focusing on finishing my own book. I mean I am so close--or at least I hope I'm so close--to finishing that it's insane how I keep procrastinating finishing. I honestly do have a lot of other stuff that I am contractually obligated to finish (and enjoy doing, too) but I fear part of the reason I haven't dedicated to my book based off of you, dearest blog, is that I fear it is complete crap.
And this is why I think I need to be more of a jackass. Not like the movies or anything. I need to be more of a jackass in that I need some damn self-confidence. My first instinct is to think that what I do is crap, that no one reads it, and that the reason the few people I've given draft of my book to have largely gone radio silent is because it is sooooooo bad that they are afraid to tell me and crush all my girlish hopes and dreams.
If I was more of a jackass, I'd be so firmly convinced of my own awesomeness that I'd have none of these doubts. I think we all need that really. Well, except the actual jackasses of course. Most of my wildly talented and gifted friends have such low self-esteem in their own wonderfulness that it makes me want to hold a parade with floats designed to honor them. Seriously, why is it that we have the hardest time believing in our own good and self-worth? Why must there always be this much doubt? What could we accomplish if we weren't so afraid that we sucked?
Anyway, so these are my pitiful reasons for ignoring you, dearest blog, for newer and shinier writing assignments. I'll promise to be better or at least promise to try. To quote one of my newer musical crushes, The Milk Carton Kids, you feel like a long hot shower, like getting in your bed when the sheets are warm. Thanks for listening to me before all the others did.
S/N,
Adrienne
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Holiday Detente
I have to admit that I am not chock full of holiday spirit yet. Mainly I'm prepping for the epic bouts of road rage that will be consuming me after Tuesday as my commute increases exponentially. This was definitely not what I had in mind for an early Christmas present.
I'm also sick and tired of hearing about some nonexistent war on Christmas. No one has declared war on Christmas. When people say Happy Holidays, they're not telling you to stuff your hand in a meat grinder; they're telling you that they wish you happiness. When did that become a bad thing? Yes, I personally celebrate Christmas. Even though more often than not I'm at a Unitarian Universalist service or spending time with extended family and canines, I still pray and I still return to the holiday traditions I was reared with, although fortunately not the continued consumption of my mother's inedible Tuna Tree that she served one hellish Christmas eve.
But I don't get upset if other people don't celebrate Christmas. I certainly don't get upset if they're not celebrating it because it's not a part of their faith or even if they just don't like Christmas. I can't understand how you would not like Christmas--the amount of crap you get to eat and drink PLUS really cheesy movies PLUS I actually like some of the music PLUS I usually get to see family and friends I haven't seen in a long time PLUS I get to ride in a Honda with Santa (played by my brother), driven by a clown (my sister), and crammed into the back with fellow elves (niece and nephew and friend). However, just because I can't understand why you wouldn't love Christmas doesn't mean I don't support someone's decision to believe or not believe what they choose.
That's what this country was founded on - not the idea that we all had to believe the same things, like the same things, do the same things. That would be craptastically boring. And authoritarian. You can have strong faith, express that faith, and still be respectful of others' rights to live their lives in accordance with their beliefs. It is only the weak who need to bring someone else down, to attack someone else to make themselves feel stronger, more justified, more righteous.
As part of the freelance ghost writing I've been doing I've been learning a lot about the presidents for this historical humor project. I learned last night that John Quincy Adams (himself a devout Unitarian minister) refused to be sworn in as president using a Bible. Not because he didn't believe or because he thought the Bible was wrong. He didn't use it because this country had been recently founded (he was only our 6th President) and he very well understood the importance of religious freedom in the U.S. He chose to be sworn in using a copy of the U.S. Constitution. To remind himself of audacious goals this country had, "to form a more perfect union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity."
So throughout this wonderful time of year, I'll keep in mind the real "reason for the season." Not to exclude others, become angry when they don't think or talk like me, and not to judge how other people live their lives. Jesus said "Love one another as I have loved you." I missed the part where that meant fly off into a spittle-spraying rage if someone doesn't say Merry Christmas.
For those of you who are still reading and haven't given up in disgust at my lack of holiday cheer, do not fear. All the decorations are coming out today - including the 2 foot tall doll of Bing Crosby, dressed as Santa, holding a pipe and microphone, and crooning his little plastic heart out. And yes my nativity scene too. Because today I will kick off the Christmas season with one of the people responsible for the awesomesauce Bing doll as we watch crappy Christmas movies to our hearts' content (see Hapless Holidays for more of my obsession with shmaltzy holiday flicks), drink Fall Classic Cocktails (mmmmmmmm) and snuggle with Charlie.
I'm also sick and tired of hearing about some nonexistent war on Christmas. No one has declared war on Christmas. When people say Happy Holidays, they're not telling you to stuff your hand in a meat grinder; they're telling you that they wish you happiness. When did that become a bad thing? Yes, I personally celebrate Christmas. Even though more often than not I'm at a Unitarian Universalist service or spending time with extended family and canines, I still pray and I still return to the holiday traditions I was reared with, although fortunately not the continued consumption of my mother's inedible Tuna Tree that she served one hellish Christmas eve.
But I don't get upset if other people don't celebrate Christmas. I certainly don't get upset if they're not celebrating it because it's not a part of their faith or even if they just don't like Christmas. I can't understand how you would not like Christmas--the amount of crap you get to eat and drink PLUS really cheesy movies PLUS I actually like some of the music PLUS I usually get to see family and friends I haven't seen in a long time PLUS I get to ride in a Honda with Santa (played by my brother), driven by a clown (my sister), and crammed into the back with fellow elves (niece and nephew and friend). However, just because I can't understand why you wouldn't love Christmas doesn't mean I don't support someone's decision to believe or not believe what they choose.
That's what this country was founded on - not the idea that we all had to believe the same things, like the same things, do the same things. That would be craptastically boring. And authoritarian. You can have strong faith, express that faith, and still be respectful of others' rights to live their lives in accordance with their beliefs. It is only the weak who need to bring someone else down, to attack someone else to make themselves feel stronger, more justified, more righteous.
As part of the freelance ghost writing I've been doing I've been learning a lot about the presidents for this historical humor project. I learned last night that John Quincy Adams (himself a devout Unitarian minister) refused to be sworn in as president using a Bible. Not because he didn't believe or because he thought the Bible was wrong. He didn't use it because this country had been recently founded (he was only our 6th President) and he very well understood the importance of religious freedom in the U.S. He chose to be sworn in using a copy of the U.S. Constitution. To remind himself of audacious goals this country had, "to form a more perfect union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity."
So throughout this wonderful time of year, I'll keep in mind the real "reason for the season." Not to exclude others, become angry when they don't think or talk like me, and not to judge how other people live their lives. Jesus said "Love one another as I have loved you." I missed the part where that meant fly off into a spittle-spraying rage if someone doesn't say Merry Christmas.
For those of you who are still reading and haven't given up in disgust at my lack of holiday cheer, do not fear. All the decorations are coming out today - including the 2 foot tall doll of Bing Crosby, dressed as Santa, holding a pipe and microphone, and crooning his little plastic heart out. And yes my nativity scene too. Because today I will kick off the Christmas season with one of the people responsible for the awesomesauce Bing doll as we watch crappy Christmas movies to our hearts' content (see Hapless Holidays for more of my obsession with shmaltzy holiday flicks), drink Fall Classic Cocktails (mmmmmmmm) and snuggle with Charlie.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Seeing the (Cocktail) Glass as Half-Full This Thanksgiving
As we draw near the consumption of massive amounts of food, oversharing of personal problems, imbibing copious bevvies, and festival of emotional scars that is known as Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for having my email hacked.
Don't get me wrong, it was a massive pain in the butt and really what I didn't need at the end of an 11 hr workday on Friday before being doomed to work all day on Saturday, but having my email hacked actually turned out to be one of those "It's a Wonderful Life" moments. Now before you think I've enjoyed way too much bourbon this evening, hear me out.
Let me set the scene. It is important to know that I have been having a massive self pity party and freakout over employment issues. With an imminent hellish commute looming over my head and what appears to be my complete inability to get anyone to actually consider me for employment that I think I would enjoy, I've been very woe-is-me-ish, not sleeping, anxiety ridden, and generally being a big whiny baby. And of course, eating my feelings and having my waistline and circumference of my ass pay the price. Then two things happened at the end of last week that reminded me of some of the many things I have to be thankful for: the retirement party for the best boss I've ever had and my email was hacked.
First, the retirement. Although I still find it difficult that he actually retired, my former boss actually ended what has been a spectacularly dedicated career. I'm really a bit of a dork about this man and drove myself to the brink of insanity and exhaustion to try to be worthy of his respect and trust. And this is despite the fact that he is the only man I've worked for or with who actually made me cry in his presence. I've never wanted to be "that girl" but somehow my lacrimal glands are tied to my emotions of anger and massive embarrassment. Thus, when he had me working like 11 days in a row and wanted me to try to call a meeting of people way more important than me the day before Thanksgiving to tell them that he was throwing out everything they had written and doing the damn project himself and I meekly said that this would be next to impossible and probably not the best course of action, and he let loose, I got all weepy. Then, massively embarrassed, I turned bright red. That's the other "charming" thing I do - blush hideously red for prolonged amounts of time for what appear to be no reason whatsoever.
But that was one incident and the fact that I not only survived it but I'd like to think I managed to make him never think twice about hiring me, makes me so happy that I was able to work for him not just once but twice. He taught me more than any other boss, mentor, or colleague and always took time to ask about my family and remember details of little stuff that you'd think someone that busy wouldn't have time for--all of these things make me very devoted to him. So when he retired, to see him recognized, to chat with him and his family again, and to get to see so many wonderful old colleagues and friends, this was a very moving experience. People I hadn't seen in ages were all in one room, gathered to honor the same man and take time out of busy days to recognize what he's given to his job and to his country. Plus there was free wine.
And that brings me to the hacking. So yeah, Friday totally sucked. I worked forever and it was doing stuff I didn't want to do, all with the knowledge I'd be back there again on Saturday and all for a job that is going to force me back into a commute that I sworn to give up. Then I find out my email had been hacked. Moment of truth, yes I had clicked on the link when I got an email from a friend that looked slightly suspicious but advertised itself as a news article on where to find the best jobs. I thought this was one of those moments where I'd read this article and suddenly figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Or at least the next year or so.
I'm one of those people who never cleans out her closets, never throws away old theater programs or tickets from events, and certainly never cleans out her email contact list. Which means that when I clicked on that email and my email was hacked, a few hundred people --some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years and some of whom I never wanted to speak to again--all got the same fakeass article from "me." It was massively humiliating as when I looked at my contact list I did in fact find several insane men I dated (like the guy that I think was satanic and talked about poop, DJ 3-Way, and the cutest boy with the weirdest name - see Deal With the Devil, A Brief Period of Normalcy with a Side of Squeamishness, and They Don't Make Phone Booths Anymore for more details).
The thing is that it actually ended up being kinda cool. I talked to people I hadn't talked to in ages - like my first real boss (as in post-college first grown-up job) who moved south after retirement a few years ago. He always bought the best birthday cakes, laughed hysterically at those annoying hamster toys that danced when you squeezed their foot, and was just generally a really, really good guy. My college advisor also got in touch; she is the one who gave me the medieval helmet/incense burner that I still have and who inspired me to think about the lives and needs of peoples far beyond America's borders. Old colleagues and teammates who've moved far and wide and still call me by silly nicknames. Plus, the nicest guy who I dated ages ago--the one who gave me an Easter basket on our 2nd date and let me massacre his transmission trying to teach me to drive stick.
I highly recommend the experience. I mean, yeah of course it freaks me out and I'm still a little worried about my accounts and stuff, but it made me realize how rich my life has actually been. How many lives I've been blessed to be a part of, to share in their stories and have them share in mine.
It can be so easy to get wrapped up in our problems, to only see all the things we "have" to do, and wish that our lives were different. If this were an Olympic sport I'd have at least a silver medal. However, there are times where we get these little windows into our lives. Where we can see how all of the decisions and moments--good and not so good--how those make us who we are. Where we can step back and remember all the people who've wandered into and out of our lives--whether by choice or by fate--and be truly thankful for each and every one of them.
As you gather with family, friends, or however you choose to spend this Day of Thanks, please know that you are among the blessings that I count. Those of you who I get to see frequently, those I haven't seen in years, and those precious, precious ones who I won't see again my journey has come to an end--it is for you that I give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving to my dear, sweet friends and family. Even as we drive each other crazy, let's always bee grateful that at least we have company on the ride.
Now let's put on our eating pants and get down to business.
Don't get me wrong, it was a massive pain in the butt and really what I didn't need at the end of an 11 hr workday on Friday before being doomed to work all day on Saturday, but having my email hacked actually turned out to be one of those "It's a Wonderful Life" moments. Now before you think I've enjoyed way too much bourbon this evening, hear me out.
Let me set the scene. It is important to know that I have been having a massive self pity party and freakout over employment issues. With an imminent hellish commute looming over my head and what appears to be my complete inability to get anyone to actually consider me for employment that I think I would enjoy, I've been very woe-is-me-ish, not sleeping, anxiety ridden, and generally being a big whiny baby. And of course, eating my feelings and having my waistline and circumference of my ass pay the price. Then two things happened at the end of last week that reminded me of some of the many things I have to be thankful for: the retirement party for the best boss I've ever had and my email was hacked.
First, the retirement. Although I still find it difficult that he actually retired, my former boss actually ended what has been a spectacularly dedicated career. I'm really a bit of a dork about this man and drove myself to the brink of insanity and exhaustion to try to be worthy of his respect and trust. And this is despite the fact that he is the only man I've worked for or with who actually made me cry in his presence. I've never wanted to be "that girl" but somehow my lacrimal glands are tied to my emotions of anger and massive embarrassment. Thus, when he had me working like 11 days in a row and wanted me to try to call a meeting of people way more important than me the day before Thanksgiving to tell them that he was throwing out everything they had written and doing the damn project himself and I meekly said that this would be next to impossible and probably not the best course of action, and he let loose, I got all weepy. Then, massively embarrassed, I turned bright red. That's the other "charming" thing I do - blush hideously red for prolonged amounts of time for what appear to be no reason whatsoever.
But that was one incident and the fact that I not only survived it but I'd like to think I managed to make him never think twice about hiring me, makes me so happy that I was able to work for him not just once but twice. He taught me more than any other boss, mentor, or colleague and always took time to ask about my family and remember details of little stuff that you'd think someone that busy wouldn't have time for--all of these things make me very devoted to him. So when he retired, to see him recognized, to chat with him and his family again, and to get to see so many wonderful old colleagues and friends, this was a very moving experience. People I hadn't seen in ages were all in one room, gathered to honor the same man and take time out of busy days to recognize what he's given to his job and to his country. Plus there was free wine.
And that brings me to the hacking. So yeah, Friday totally sucked. I worked forever and it was doing stuff I didn't want to do, all with the knowledge I'd be back there again on Saturday and all for a job that is going to force me back into a commute that I sworn to give up. Then I find out my email had been hacked. Moment of truth, yes I had clicked on the link when I got an email from a friend that looked slightly suspicious but advertised itself as a news article on where to find the best jobs. I thought this was one of those moments where I'd read this article and suddenly figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Or at least the next year or so.
I'm one of those people who never cleans out her closets, never throws away old theater programs or tickets from events, and certainly never cleans out her email contact list. Which means that when I clicked on that email and my email was hacked, a few hundred people --some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years and some of whom I never wanted to speak to again--all got the same fakeass article from "me." It was massively humiliating as when I looked at my contact list I did in fact find several insane men I dated (like the guy that I think was satanic and talked about poop, DJ 3-Way, and the cutest boy with the weirdest name - see Deal With the Devil, A Brief Period of Normalcy with a Side of Squeamishness, and They Don't Make Phone Booths Anymore for more details).
The thing is that it actually ended up being kinda cool. I talked to people I hadn't talked to in ages - like my first real boss (as in post-college first grown-up job) who moved south after retirement a few years ago. He always bought the best birthday cakes, laughed hysterically at those annoying hamster toys that danced when you squeezed their foot, and was just generally a really, really good guy. My college advisor also got in touch; she is the one who gave me the medieval helmet/incense burner that I still have and who inspired me to think about the lives and needs of peoples far beyond America's borders. Old colleagues and teammates who've moved far and wide and still call me by silly nicknames. Plus, the nicest guy who I dated ages ago--the one who gave me an Easter basket on our 2nd date and let me massacre his transmission trying to teach me to drive stick.
I highly recommend the experience. I mean, yeah of course it freaks me out and I'm still a little worried about my accounts and stuff, but it made me realize how rich my life has actually been. How many lives I've been blessed to be a part of, to share in their stories and have them share in mine.
It can be so easy to get wrapped up in our problems, to only see all the things we "have" to do, and wish that our lives were different. If this were an Olympic sport I'd have at least a silver medal. However, there are times where we get these little windows into our lives. Where we can see how all of the decisions and moments--good and not so good--how those make us who we are. Where we can step back and remember all the people who've wandered into and out of our lives--whether by choice or by fate--and be truly thankful for each and every one of them.
As you gather with family, friends, or however you choose to spend this Day of Thanks, please know that you are among the blessings that I count. Those of you who I get to see frequently, those I haven't seen in years, and those precious, precious ones who I won't see again my journey has come to an end--it is for you that I give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving to my dear, sweet friends and family. Even as we drive each other crazy, let's always bee grateful that at least we have company on the ride.
Now let's put on our eating pants and get down to business.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Are We There Yet?!?
If you're like me, you are unable to watch anything on TV other than old episodes of Alias (yes, I still have a crush on Michael Vartan) or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (yes, I not-so-secretly hope that they will reunite, make over my wardrobe, house, and life and become my new best friends) because you are avoiding seeing ads and smear campaigns from political super PACs and are just fed up with the whole election. I mean seriously, we've had eleventy billion Republican primary debates, presidential and VP debates, town halls, and stump speeches galore, and now these ads.
The majority of the ads seem designed by people who believe that Americans are too wrapped up in their own lives to actually read about what a candidate stands for, the legislation and positions for which the candidate has advocated, or what a proposition actually says. These ads prey upon people's worst fears, promising doom and gloom if the opposition wins, and hoping that those same people won't do the slightest bit of research to see that the bulk of these ads are complete crap. Even the background music is cheesily ominous while the soundbites and slogans make it appear that the people disagreeing with the ads and positions aren't actual people at all. Instead, anyone who thinks differently is to be mocked and dismissed as ignorant.
I dearly hope they are wrong and that people actually take the time to read about all the various candidates and ballot measures before they head to the polls.
But here's the thing, the fact that I can even write about being fed up with the election makes me disappointed in myself. For how can I be fed up with democracy? Sure, it's messy and it doesn't always work out like I think it should but men and women fought and died for me to have the right to sit here in my living room, ignoring robo-calls, whining about TV ads and complaining about lines at the polls. I need to remind myself that it wasn't that long ago that tenacious and driven women were imprisoned, disowned by their families, degraded and denigrated, and physically assaulted all to earn this right to vote that so many of us--myself included--take for granted.
So although I really want the people who have the same positions I do to be the ones that show up in larger numbers tomorrow, I really just want everyone who is able to vote to get off their butts and do so. Vote for the places where people aren't allowed to vote at all --whether it's because they have no electricity at their polling stations or they live in a country where their rights are ignored or repressed by their own governments. Vote because you can.
Voting is a right that comes with responsibilities. There are the responsibilities to educate yourself about the issues at hand and make the decision for yourself rather than letting someone make that decision for you. But what is less expressed is the responsibility to recognize that your fellow citizens have the right to vote as they choose and that their choices don't make them inherently bad people; they just have different preferences and priorities. They have as much right to their voice and their decision as you do. America is a richer nation because of the fact that we can express different opinions and believe different things. And although I may disagree vehemently with the political decisions of my neighbors, friends, or family, I would defend with my last breath their right to believe what they want and express that at the polls.
I was reminded of the dangers of demonizing people with different political convictions at service yesterday. The minister talked for a while about democracy, about the choices that were laid out before us, and about the need to respect our fellow citizens and not label them as "the other side." She quoted Alice Walker, saying "if you want to show your love for America, love Americans... Love us. We are the Flag."
She reminded us of the principles that we hold dear: the worth and dignity of every person; equality, justice, and compassion; accepting one another and encouraging each other in spiritual growth; freely and responsibly searching for truth and meaning in this life; the right of conscience and democratic processes; peace, liberty, and justice for our neighbors and beyond; and respect for the interdependence of this world.
I will do my best to remember these things as I watch the returns come in tomorrow night, biting my nails and probably sipping some very fine American bourbon whilst I tweet the night away and become alternately entertained or incensed by what I see on this fascinating thing called the Internet. I will be glad that it is finally over and so profoundly grateful that I was able to go into that booth and make my choices.
The majority of the ads seem designed by people who believe that Americans are too wrapped up in their own lives to actually read about what a candidate stands for, the legislation and positions for which the candidate has advocated, or what a proposition actually says. These ads prey upon people's worst fears, promising doom and gloom if the opposition wins, and hoping that those same people won't do the slightest bit of research to see that the bulk of these ads are complete crap. Even the background music is cheesily ominous while the soundbites and slogans make it appear that the people disagreeing with the ads and positions aren't actual people at all. Instead, anyone who thinks differently is to be mocked and dismissed as ignorant.
I dearly hope they are wrong and that people actually take the time to read about all the various candidates and ballot measures before they head to the polls.
But here's the thing, the fact that I can even write about being fed up with the election makes me disappointed in myself. For how can I be fed up with democracy? Sure, it's messy and it doesn't always work out like I think it should but men and women fought and died for me to have the right to sit here in my living room, ignoring robo-calls, whining about TV ads and complaining about lines at the polls. I need to remind myself that it wasn't that long ago that tenacious and driven women were imprisoned, disowned by their families, degraded and denigrated, and physically assaulted all to earn this right to vote that so many of us--myself included--take for granted.
So although I really want the people who have the same positions I do to be the ones that show up in larger numbers tomorrow, I really just want everyone who is able to vote to get off their butts and do so. Vote for the places where people aren't allowed to vote at all --whether it's because they have no electricity at their polling stations or they live in a country where their rights are ignored or repressed by their own governments. Vote because you can.
Voting is a right that comes with responsibilities. There are the responsibilities to educate yourself about the issues at hand and make the decision for yourself rather than letting someone make that decision for you. But what is less expressed is the responsibility to recognize that your fellow citizens have the right to vote as they choose and that their choices don't make them inherently bad people; they just have different preferences and priorities. They have as much right to their voice and their decision as you do. America is a richer nation because of the fact that we can express different opinions and believe different things. And although I may disagree vehemently with the political decisions of my neighbors, friends, or family, I would defend with my last breath their right to believe what they want and express that at the polls.
I was reminded of the dangers of demonizing people with different political convictions at service yesterday. The minister talked for a while about democracy, about the choices that were laid out before us, and about the need to respect our fellow citizens and not label them as "the other side." She quoted Alice Walker, saying "if you want to show your love for America, love Americans... Love us. We are the Flag."
She reminded us of the principles that we hold dear: the worth and dignity of every person; equality, justice, and compassion; accepting one another and encouraging each other in spiritual growth; freely and responsibly searching for truth and meaning in this life; the right of conscience and democratic processes; peace, liberty, and justice for our neighbors and beyond; and respect for the interdependence of this world.
I will do my best to remember these things as I watch the returns come in tomorrow night, biting my nails and probably sipping some very fine American bourbon whilst I tweet the night away and become alternately entertained or incensed by what I see on this fascinating thing called the Internet. I will be glad that it is finally over and so profoundly grateful that I was able to go into that booth and make my choices.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Now is Most Definitely the Time to PANIC
I'm thinking of suing all local and national "news" organizations. I've long been appalled by the litigious nature of our society but I fear I need to get on board because I have developed Persistent Anxiety News Induced Condition (P.A.N.I.C.). This is a new disease that I made up but I think I can make a strong case for my worsening state of hysteria being totally the fault of our 24/7 news cycle.
It wasn't bad enough that we've been in the midst of breathless and idiot "news" reporting on the Presidential campaign for the past 11 gazillion months (or so it feels). That alone had me wanting to alternately vomit or punch people in the face. Now, those of us on the East Coast have been subjected to nonstop coverage of the impending hurricane/frankenstorm/most-catastrophic-weather-event-of-our-time since about Thursday night.
First for the Presidential campaign coverage. I don't help myself in this at all as I am semi-addicted to the debates but seriously, when did all news organizations based in this country--possibly with the exception of The Atlantic and NPR--when did they all lose their minds? Gone are the days of actual thoughtful, intelligent reporting in favor of sound bites, mudslinging, and obnoxiously biased opinion pieces instead of actually covering anything of substance. When did sound bites become more important than actual ideas, policy, or action? What's even more disturbing is that sound bites are becoming shorter and shorter. I can't tell which came first: our ridiculously short attention spans or "news" agencies acting as if people can't pay attention to something that takes more than 9 seconds to explain.
The best thing I can think of to explain this phenomenon was the recent, aptly phrased but mistaken close caption of a journalist bemoaning the horrors of the "24/7 noose cycle;" I had the good fortune to view this a few weeks ago at the gym and almost fell off the elliptical in bouts of hysterical laughter. Noose cycle in that actual reporters who want to do something other than hype nonsense hang themselves out to dry and noose cycle in that the lack of truthful, well thought out reporting leaves us high and dry when we actually try to understand what is happening in our world.
Why the relative absence of real journalists is especially dangerous now is the overabundance of insanely biased, untruthful, and nauseating political ads that we can all thank Citizens United v. FEC for being especially heinous of late. A person could get whiplash from the whimsy of the sadistic TV ad programmer who decides to put the panicked ads for a candidate/issue back-to-back with even more panicked ads against a candidate/issue. If it weren't for sites like Project Smart Vote, voters would be left wandering the morass of lies and half-truths bogging down our political processes and be prone to choosing via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-mo method.
This news reporting has me heartily annoyed and eschewing most TV viewing but what has really put me over the top and pushed me over the edge is the coverage of Hurricane Sandy. I would already be totally nervous about this storm without the apocalyptic reporting on it as 1) I am a highly anxious individual, 2) the structural integrity of my roof is questionable, and 3) I spent the last major hurricane bailing out my sump pump for 8 hours whilst wearing an air cast and a headlamp (see This Boot Ain't Made for Running for the harrowing tale of how I spent Hurricane Irene).
Combine those three things with the way that local and national news has been covering Sandy and you'll see why I'm suffering from a serious case of P.A.N.I.C. and should immediately sue all news organizations and use the funds to build a hurricane proof house with multiple backup sump pumps and a roof to stand the test of time. Symptoms of P.A.N.I.C. include but are not limited to:
It wasn't bad enough that we've been in the midst of breathless and idiot "news" reporting on the Presidential campaign for the past 11 gazillion months (or so it feels). That alone had me wanting to alternately vomit or punch people in the face. Now, those of us on the East Coast have been subjected to nonstop coverage of the impending hurricane/frankenstorm/most-catastrophic-weather-event-of-our-time since about Thursday night.
First for the Presidential campaign coverage. I don't help myself in this at all as I am semi-addicted to the debates but seriously, when did all news organizations based in this country--possibly with the exception of The Atlantic and NPR--when did they all lose their minds? Gone are the days of actual thoughtful, intelligent reporting in favor of sound bites, mudslinging, and obnoxiously biased opinion pieces instead of actually covering anything of substance. When did sound bites become more important than actual ideas, policy, or action? What's even more disturbing is that sound bites are becoming shorter and shorter. I can't tell which came first: our ridiculously short attention spans or "news" agencies acting as if people can't pay attention to something that takes more than 9 seconds to explain.
The best thing I can think of to explain this phenomenon was the recent, aptly phrased but mistaken close caption of a journalist bemoaning the horrors of the "24/7 noose cycle;" I had the good fortune to view this a few weeks ago at the gym and almost fell off the elliptical in bouts of hysterical laughter. Noose cycle in that actual reporters who want to do something other than hype nonsense hang themselves out to dry and noose cycle in that the lack of truthful, well thought out reporting leaves us high and dry when we actually try to understand what is happening in our world.
Why the relative absence of real journalists is especially dangerous now is the overabundance of insanely biased, untruthful, and nauseating political ads that we can all thank Citizens United v. FEC for being especially heinous of late. A person could get whiplash from the whimsy of the sadistic TV ad programmer who decides to put the panicked ads for a candidate/issue back-to-back with even more panicked ads against a candidate/issue. If it weren't for sites like Project Smart Vote, voters would be left wandering the morass of lies and half-truths bogging down our political processes and be prone to choosing via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-mo method.
This news reporting has me heartily annoyed and eschewing most TV viewing but what has really put me over the top and pushed me over the edge is the coverage of Hurricane Sandy. I would already be totally nervous about this storm without the apocalyptic reporting on it as 1) I am a highly anxious individual, 2) the structural integrity of my roof is questionable, and 3) I spent the last major hurricane bailing out my sump pump for 8 hours whilst wearing an air cast and a headlamp (see This Boot Ain't Made for Running for the harrowing tale of how I spent Hurricane Irene).
Combine those three things with the way that local and national news has been covering Sandy and you'll see why I'm suffering from a serious case of P.A.N.I.C. and should immediately sue all news organizations and use the funds to build a hurricane proof house with multiple backup sump pumps and a roof to stand the test of time. Symptoms of P.A.N.I.C. include but are not limited to:
- holding actual conversations with your sump pump begging it to keep working
- running from floor to floor of your house to check to see if roof leaking or basement flooding
- increasing bourbon consumption to make it through an entire news program
- trying to reason with your dog about the length of the storm and the necessity of his pooping
- contemplating teaching your dog to use a toilet
- staring nervously outside of your window with an increasing sense of doom
- hiding the remote controls so that you are not tempted to give into continuous news reporting on the storm
- thinking about building a house-sized tarp and/or ark
- planning on leaving all material objects behind, taking dog, and moving to place free of weather related drama (although you have no idea where that may be as where there's not hurricanes, there are tornadoes, earthquakes, blizzards, etc.)
Now that I've gotten this rant out, I better go check on my sump pump and roof and heat up some food before I lose all power for the next 80 days and have to defend my store of granola and bottled water with my trusty Red Rider. As my better angels tell me to Keep Calm and Carry On, I wish you all safety, strength, dry socks, a faithful and flatulent-free furry friend to cuddle with, and a well-stocked bar.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Senior Dropouts
My mom just pulled my dad out of day care. That is a sentence I never thought I'd write but it's true. Not because I didn't think she'd yank him out at some point but more just because it's totally weird to be talking matter-of-factly about my dad being in day care.
It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.
The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.
But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!
Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."
I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.
Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.
I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.
Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.
This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.
It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.
The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.
But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!
Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."
I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.
Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.
I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.
Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.
This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
There May Be Hope After All...At Least in Terms of Me Not Becoming Toothless in the Next Year
Admit it, you've had a hard time sleeping at nights because you're now worried about me grinding my teeth into nubs because of a thankless, demanding, bureaucratic job. Or at least you might have been mildly concerned about my dental health and stress levels if you read my post, Work Bites. Well, worry no more, my friends. Although my job is undoubtedly contributing to me aging before my time and sinking my health down the drain, my boss is admirably trying to reverse the ill effects of work on my teeth. What did I find on my desk today...
That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.
This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.
Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.
That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.
This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.
Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Write Stuff
I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.
The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!
Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)
I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.
There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).
Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).
This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.
Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.
The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!
Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)
I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.
There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).
Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).
This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.
Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Work Bites
I had the best time at the dentist's office today. Wait, stop. That can't be right...but it's true, I had the best time at the dentist's office. And not just because I got to leave work for the day to go to my appointment. But more on that later.
Why, you may ask, was it such a good visit? Well, I met the most fascinating dental hygienist ever. Before those of you who are my relatives get excited that this was a single man who will now sweep me off my feet (which would be easy because I was already off my feet, laying back in that reclining dental chair), think again. This hygienist was one of the funniest women I have ever met. She had me laughing almost the whole time which did make the cleaning a little tricky.
But she was mainly fascinating as she had only recently become a hygienist. Before then she worked building movie sets. She said it was super hectic and stressful and she was always traveling and wanted to be in one place for a while, so that's why she chose her new job. And before she built movie sets, she worked with Ringling Bros. Circus. Seriously.
Around the age of 30 she decided to go to school to become a dental hygienist. She said all the other students were like 19 years old, had never been outside of Western Maryland, and were planning on marrying immediately after dental school and pretty much staying in the same town forever. They were intrigued by her stories as she had been to so many places. On a trip to Pittsburgh, these youngsters were enthralled by "the big city" but said they just wanted to settle down and marry their boyfriends, most of whom they'd been dating since the 3rd grade and at least a few of whom were almost certainly making meth in their basements.
Although all the students got along, they just couldn't understand that Jean* had absolutely no intention of getting married and having kids. She wasn't anti-marriage or anti-kid, she just said she liked to sleep late and to travel and that she didn't want to be so-and-so's mom; she wanted to be herself. I admire her boldness. It's not that there still isn't some part of me that hopes that I'll still meet a guy who isn't a duke of douchebaggery and maybe have a kid or two. It's just that I'm becoming happier with my life as it is and not pining constantly over how I thought it should be. If I meet a decent guy, good. If I don't, that's still good.
Her career path sounded strange to me at first. How could someone go from working the circus to working movies to dental school?? I mean that just doesn't add up. But when I thought about it, it suddenly made so much sense. Jean* was hilarious, a natural storyteller/comedian, and in her new job she gets to come to work, meet lots of new people, and when those people are anxious or nervous about their visit--or even dreading the visit altogether--she gets to entertain them. How great is that? She makes them laugh when they expected to grimace. And that she had the audacity to so radically change her career, her life--that is incredibly impressive.
Now back to why I was so glad just to leave the office that I willingly ran to the dentist's office. It wasn't enough that today was the sort of day (or you could say it's been the same sort of day for like month after month) where I wanted to stab myself in the leg with a pen so I could leave the office and spend several weeks in a nice, relaxing hospital. Nooooo, I find out that work is literally destroying my health.
Alright, that may be a slight exaggeration. But as Jean* described it, I am apparently trying to eat my own head and have chewed off the porcelain on my crown from grinding my teeth constantly. She suggested that I might find a new career as someone who lifts weights by holding them between my teeth because I had an overdeveloped temporal muscle, particularly on my left side, from all the constant grinding.
Work probably isn't the only culprit in this marathon of stress that is running my teeth into the ground. I have to admit to those of you who haven't met me in real life that I have always been a tightly wound person who desperately wishes she was more laid back, so much so that she stresses out about how stressed she is. I had been trying to deal with these tendencies-o-mine through yoga, shortened commutes, exercise, volunteering and more fun time. Unfortunately, work has been insane with self-created problems, catastrophizing, and unreasonable expectations about what a human can actually accomplish in 8-11 hours a day. This means that I have missed all my yoga classes, am too tired to go to the gym more often than not, haven't volunteered at the nursing home since Charlie slipped a disc making Pets on Wheels a little trickier, oh and my commute is looking like it will soon return to a state of hellishness that I fear will drive me over the edge.
Hence, my teeth are now ground down to nubs. Ok, not nubs exactly but Jean* said I would starve if I were a vampire as I'd worn down my teeth so much.
How can I still be in a pretty decent mood and consider the dental visit a raging success? Well, because I almost peed myself laughing when I thought the dentist was referring to my vah-jay-jay when he asked "How are things downtown?" while looking at my lap. I'm pretty sure Jean* thought the same thing as we both looked horrified, surprised, and then snorted with laughter, particularly when we realized that he was referring to the Baltimore magazine resting on my knees.
And then to top off the visit, my "areas of concern" where the dentist thought they might need to do fillings on the last visit, well, this time he said that I was taking such good care of my teeth and gums that the cavities had kind of gone dormant or something and that we could hold off again and maybe even not need to do anything to them at all. I wanted some sort of award like "Best Dental Patient of the Year" and maybe a parade. Or at least a sticker. I did get the consolation prize of a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and a follow-up visit in six months.
And then the icing on the cake that was that during that one great hour today when I wasn't a stressed out maniac, I actually went to the gym and the loudspeaker played "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" when it usually plays crapass music that makes me want to vom.
It's the little things that make me happy. Meeting an interesting person, laughing so hard I almost bit off that dental pick thingy, being praised for my excellent oral hygiene, hearing They Might Be Giants when I expected club techno music. These things seem so small but they make me smile, albeit with award winning improved teeth that are ground down to nubs.
It's the little things that can make you miserable though too. The idiotic task with no guidance and unreasonable deadlines with no explanation of what the hell is happening. Computers freezing. Inbox overflowing. Realizing that even though you've been too busy to eat anything more for lunch than a quick yogurt at your desk that you've actually gained weight. In the scheme of life, those things are quite small but it can feel like drowning by inches in quicksand while mosquitoes bite you constantly.
What's the moral of this rambling post? Well, I think it's that I need to stop letting the bad little things that don't really matter stress me out to the point where I become a toothless migraine sufferer who has to put all her food in a blender. I need to put away the scale or at least decrease the amount of times I use it and the amount of control I give it over my feelings of self-worth. And I need to cherish all the little things that make me smile, appreciate them more, and enjoy them while they're happening instead of worrying what's ahead.
And of course that I need to make myself some sort of award (or maybe a tiara!!!) to proclaim myself as the Best Dental Patient of the Year. That is the moral of today's long-winded story. The end.
*Name has been changed.
Why, you may ask, was it such a good visit? Well, I met the most fascinating dental hygienist ever. Before those of you who are my relatives get excited that this was a single man who will now sweep me off my feet (which would be easy because I was already off my feet, laying back in that reclining dental chair), think again. This hygienist was one of the funniest women I have ever met. She had me laughing almost the whole time which did make the cleaning a little tricky.
But she was mainly fascinating as she had only recently become a hygienist. Before then she worked building movie sets. She said it was super hectic and stressful and she was always traveling and wanted to be in one place for a while, so that's why she chose her new job. And before she built movie sets, she worked with Ringling Bros. Circus. Seriously.
Around the age of 30 she decided to go to school to become a dental hygienist. She said all the other students were like 19 years old, had never been outside of Western Maryland, and were planning on marrying immediately after dental school and pretty much staying in the same town forever. They were intrigued by her stories as she had been to so many places. On a trip to Pittsburgh, these youngsters were enthralled by "the big city" but said they just wanted to settle down and marry their boyfriends, most of whom they'd been dating since the 3rd grade and at least a few of whom were almost certainly making meth in their basements.
Although all the students got along, they just couldn't understand that Jean* had absolutely no intention of getting married and having kids. She wasn't anti-marriage or anti-kid, she just said she liked to sleep late and to travel and that she didn't want to be so-and-so's mom; she wanted to be herself. I admire her boldness. It's not that there still isn't some part of me that hopes that I'll still meet a guy who isn't a duke of douchebaggery and maybe have a kid or two. It's just that I'm becoming happier with my life as it is and not pining constantly over how I thought it should be. If I meet a decent guy, good. If I don't, that's still good.
Her career path sounded strange to me at first. How could someone go from working the circus to working movies to dental school?? I mean that just doesn't add up. But when I thought about it, it suddenly made so much sense. Jean* was hilarious, a natural storyteller/comedian, and in her new job she gets to come to work, meet lots of new people, and when those people are anxious or nervous about their visit--or even dreading the visit altogether--she gets to entertain them. How great is that? She makes them laugh when they expected to grimace. And that she had the audacity to so radically change her career, her life--that is incredibly impressive.
Now back to why I was so glad just to leave the office that I willingly ran to the dentist's office. It wasn't enough that today was the sort of day (or you could say it's been the same sort of day for like month after month) where I wanted to stab myself in the leg with a pen so I could leave the office and spend several weeks in a nice, relaxing hospital. Nooooo, I find out that work is literally destroying my health.
Alright, that may be a slight exaggeration. But as Jean* described it, I am apparently trying to eat my own head and have chewed off the porcelain on my crown from grinding my teeth constantly. She suggested that I might find a new career as someone who lifts weights by holding them between my teeth because I had an overdeveloped temporal muscle, particularly on my left side, from all the constant grinding.
Work probably isn't the only culprit in this marathon of stress that is running my teeth into the ground. I have to admit to those of you who haven't met me in real life that I have always been a tightly wound person who desperately wishes she was more laid back, so much so that she stresses out about how stressed she is. I had been trying to deal with these tendencies-o-mine through yoga, shortened commutes, exercise, volunteering and more fun time. Unfortunately, work has been insane with self-created problems, catastrophizing, and unreasonable expectations about what a human can actually accomplish in 8-11 hours a day. This means that I have missed all my yoga classes, am too tired to go to the gym more often than not, haven't volunteered at the nursing home since Charlie slipped a disc making Pets on Wheels a little trickier, oh and my commute is looking like it will soon return to a state of hellishness that I fear will drive me over the edge.
Hence, my teeth are now ground down to nubs. Ok, not nubs exactly but Jean* said I would starve if I were a vampire as I'd worn down my teeth so much.
How can I still be in a pretty decent mood and consider the dental visit a raging success? Well, because I almost peed myself laughing when I thought the dentist was referring to my vah-jay-jay when he asked "How are things downtown?" while looking at my lap. I'm pretty sure Jean* thought the same thing as we both looked horrified, surprised, and then snorted with laughter, particularly when we realized that he was referring to the Baltimore magazine resting on my knees.
And then to top off the visit, my "areas of concern" where the dentist thought they might need to do fillings on the last visit, well, this time he said that I was taking such good care of my teeth and gums that the cavities had kind of gone dormant or something and that we could hold off again and maybe even not need to do anything to them at all. I wanted some sort of award like "Best Dental Patient of the Year" and maybe a parade. Or at least a sticker. I did get the consolation prize of a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and a follow-up visit in six months.
And then the icing on the cake that was that during that one great hour today when I wasn't a stressed out maniac, I actually went to the gym and the loudspeaker played "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" when it usually plays crapass music that makes me want to vom.
It's the little things that make me happy. Meeting an interesting person, laughing so hard I almost bit off that dental pick thingy, being praised for my excellent oral hygiene, hearing They Might Be Giants when I expected club techno music. These things seem so small but they make me smile, albeit with award winning improved teeth that are ground down to nubs.
It's the little things that can make you miserable though too. The idiotic task with no guidance and unreasonable deadlines with no explanation of what the hell is happening. Computers freezing. Inbox overflowing. Realizing that even though you've been too busy to eat anything more for lunch than a quick yogurt at your desk that you've actually gained weight. In the scheme of life, those things are quite small but it can feel like drowning by inches in quicksand while mosquitoes bite you constantly.
What's the moral of this rambling post? Well, I think it's that I need to stop letting the bad little things that don't really matter stress me out to the point where I become a toothless migraine sufferer who has to put all her food in a blender. I need to put away the scale or at least decrease the amount of times I use it and the amount of control I give it over my feelings of self-worth. And I need to cherish all the little things that make me smile, appreciate them more, and enjoy them while they're happening instead of worrying what's ahead.
And of course that I need to make myself some sort of award (or maybe a tiara!!!) to proclaim myself as the Best Dental Patient of the Year. That is the moral of today's long-winded story. The end.
*Name has been changed.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Memories and Tiaras
At work today, one of my very young coworkers was talking about how 10 weeks is "like forever." I laughed at first as the older I get, the quicker time runs away from me. Further solidifying that idea, when I got home tonight, instead of writing articles on emotional affairs or unlocking the inner goddess, I procrastinated by going through some old pictures. That's when it truly hit me how quickly things can change.
Tomorrow would have been my cousin Dave's birthday. It has been eight months since he passed away, so young and far too, too early. I don't know why but tonight I decided to procrastinate work by looking through the beautiful film that my sister compiled of pictures throughout David's life, set to music chosen by her professional sound styling coordinator (that's me).
There's a picture in there from my 30th birthday party, only five short years ago. The picture shows not only Dave who was taken from us too early, but his mom--my ineffable, highly organized and totally wonderful Aunt Maggie--who's been gone for more than two years. It also shows my spunky and original Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge of the enduring bun (when I was small, I was convinced she was born with her hair that way and that gale force winds could not ruffle or disturb it), the same woman who could do the breaststroke without disturbing her hair or her jewels, suffered a stroke and now words come so difficult, when they flowed so much easier before.
The one from the picture who remains and is mostly unchanged from that sunny and funny day is my crazy, adorable, and maddening uncle, aka Unk. In the pic, he is using Aunt Maggie's head for a coaster and I'm pretty sure the picture was snapped just before she jabbed him in the gut. My dear, complicated Unk who now alternates between sweetly calling to check up on me and to lay on the guilt about when I'm stopping by next.
Five years doesn't seem like long enough of a time for all these things to have happened but that is how life is. Rather than feeling the loss though, I'm left with a bittersweet feeling of wanting to be grateful that I am blessed with the presence of a large, loud, and loving family. I had thought by the time I was my age I'd be surrounded by a family of my own. You know, the traditional nuclear type family with 2.4 kids, a husband, and SUV filled with soccer equipment. The thing is, I am surrounded by a family of my own. True, it is different than I imagined but although I have no children of my own to emotionally scar with bizarre nicknames and crazy fairy tales, I feel lucky to live so close to and be in such close contact with my family. We are there for each other in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And death doesn't part us, it just makes it harder for those of us left behind to see the love coming down from the angels we have lost.
So, although I dearly miss those we have lost either from death or losing them slowly to thieving illnesses like Alzheimer's disease, I will look at those pictures and remember the good times. Remember the fact that I still have the tiara that I wore that day at my party, proclaiming my 30-ness (and that I still wear when I clean the house sometimes and once accidentally while walking Charlie). Remember the crazy amount of sangria that we had that day and how a lot of the other memories are happy but blurry. Remember all of the other times and more than remember, I'll be ready to make more memories as we go. For although there are plenty of times when I would love to staple things to various family members' heads, I have to admit that I love those crazy people and wouldn't trade them for all the world.
Tomorrow would have been my cousin Dave's birthday. It has been eight months since he passed away, so young and far too, too early. I don't know why but tonight I decided to procrastinate work by looking through the beautiful film that my sister compiled of pictures throughout David's life, set to music chosen by her professional sound styling coordinator (that's me).
There's a picture in there from my 30th birthday party, only five short years ago. The picture shows not only Dave who was taken from us too early, but his mom--my ineffable, highly organized and totally wonderful Aunt Maggie--who's been gone for more than two years. It also shows my spunky and original Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge of the enduring bun (when I was small, I was convinced she was born with her hair that way and that gale force winds could not ruffle or disturb it), the same woman who could do the breaststroke without disturbing her hair or her jewels, suffered a stroke and now words come so difficult, when they flowed so much easier before.
The one from the picture who remains and is mostly unchanged from that sunny and funny day is my crazy, adorable, and maddening uncle, aka Unk. In the pic, he is using Aunt Maggie's head for a coaster and I'm pretty sure the picture was snapped just before she jabbed him in the gut. My dear, complicated Unk who now alternates between sweetly calling to check up on me and to lay on the guilt about when I'm stopping by next.
Five years doesn't seem like long enough of a time for all these things to have happened but that is how life is. Rather than feeling the loss though, I'm left with a bittersweet feeling of wanting to be grateful that I am blessed with the presence of a large, loud, and loving family. I had thought by the time I was my age I'd be surrounded by a family of my own. You know, the traditional nuclear type family with 2.4 kids, a husband, and SUV filled with soccer equipment. The thing is, I am surrounded by a family of my own. True, it is different than I imagined but although I have no children of my own to emotionally scar with bizarre nicknames and crazy fairy tales, I feel lucky to live so close to and be in such close contact with my family. We are there for each other in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And death doesn't part us, it just makes it harder for those of us left behind to see the love coming down from the angels we have lost.
So, although I dearly miss those we have lost either from death or losing them slowly to thieving illnesses like Alzheimer's disease, I will look at those pictures and remember the good times. Remember the fact that I still have the tiara that I wore that day at my party, proclaiming my 30-ness (and that I still wear when I clean the house sometimes and once accidentally while walking Charlie). Remember the crazy amount of sangria that we had that day and how a lot of the other memories are happy but blurry. Remember all of the other times and more than remember, I'll be ready to make more memories as we go. For although there are plenty of times when I would love to staple things to various family members' heads, I have to admit that I love those crazy people and wouldn't trade them for all the world.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Pesto, Relationships and Happiness
I overslept this morning, waking up groggy, slightly headachy, and seemingly incapable of rushing to make it to the Unitarian church I've been attending this summer. Instead of making it to the service, after walking Charlie I've been pondering three things: pesto, relationships, and happiness.
The last shall be first so let's talk about my current musings on happiness. I started re-reading the book The Geography of Bliss this week for a critical thinking class where we had to take an article or book and examine the arguments in said work and how the author made or did not make his or her case. All the other people in the class picked articles on information technology, military decisions, or the economy but I decided I wanted to examine the arguments that Eric Weiner sets forth in The Geography of Bliss to see what makes some places happier than others. I could tell the rest of the students thought I was a hippie, trippy liberal type but since I kind of am I didn't take it as an insult.
If you haven't read the book, I'd recommend it. And if you're a freak like me and can't read a good book just once, pick it up again. Weiner travels to a variety of countries to figure out why some peoples are happier than others and the findings are surprising. Happy countries include places like the Netherlands, Switzerland, Iceland, and Bhutan. America may be the home of the brave but sadly we rank in the lower end of the mid-range of most sociological studies into happiness. At least we beat out Moldova, Tanzania, and Rwanda I guess, but it still seems like we should be happier than we are.
The study of happiness is one of contradictions. Republicans are happier than democrats (go figure). People who are more tolerant are happier than the intolerant, but homogeneous nations are among the happiest on earth. People who attend church are happier than those that don't but secular nations are happier than religious nations. There is no link between happiness and suicide rates; Switzerland is highly rated in both. Married people are happier than singles (I lose out again) but people without children are happier than those with children.
The strongest argument that the author makes is that a person's happiness is intertwined with those around them; people are happiest when they are part of a vibrant and active community and when they trust one another. By some accounts, trust is the most important factor to happiness. That alone could seem to make singles lose out again accept that recent studies show that single people are actually more likely to be an active part of their communities than their married counterparts; singletons tend more towards civic activism and volunteerism, at least according to Eric Klinenberg when discussing the trend of increasing amounts of people choosing to live alone in his book, Going Solo.
So now for the pesto and relationships. I know about the first but apparently not the latter. I've just started doing some freelance article writing in an attempt to build up my resume in terms of writing and editing and to improve my writing overall (with the hopeful goal of finishing my book sometime in my lifetime). I've mainly been writing for a "dating and relationship expert" who is very nice but has me write things like why do men lose interest after the first few dates and how to get your man to commit. The last one I sent her, I actually thought was good. So I have to admit my pride was damaged a bit when she told me she needed something more practical--a step-by-step guide to help intelligent, attractive women to find a man, date him, and make it into a relationship.
Those who know me can appreciate the irony of me writing such an article as I can't remember the last time I actually had a successful relationship in the form of a boyfriend who wasn't a complete lunatic. I felt a little like a hypocrite and also a little nauseated, but I sat down and wrote the article and thought I did a pretty good job.
After seeing my client's recommendations though, I'm not sure that I can fix it to be what she wants. Because meeting a guy and having a relationship isn't like making pesto, which I did fairly easily this morning. My little container garden out back has been prolifically producing basil so I decided that this morning I had to make and freeze copious amounts of pesto. The steps to doing so are pretty easy: 1. Pick and wash 4 cups of basil leaves 2. Put basil in food processor along with 4-6 cloves of garlic, one-half cup of pine nuts, and one cup of olive oil. 3. Blend until smells delicious and is somewhat liquidy green wonderfulness. 4. Pour into ice cube tray to freeze so you have nice individual servings of pesto. 5. When you want to use, thaw and add in grated Parmesan cheese. Done.
I don't really think getting and keeping a relationship can be broken down into the same, neat little steps. If it can, I don't know what they are. I don't own the rights to any of the articles she buys from me but since she didn't buy this one, here's what I came up with. I'll mess around with it later today to try to get it to be what she wants, but I actually think what I had was probably the most practical steps I could have come up with that could be genuinely useful.
The last shall be first so let's talk about my current musings on happiness. I started re-reading the book The Geography of Bliss this week for a critical thinking class where we had to take an article or book and examine the arguments in said work and how the author made or did not make his or her case. All the other people in the class picked articles on information technology, military decisions, or the economy but I decided I wanted to examine the arguments that Eric Weiner sets forth in The Geography of Bliss to see what makes some places happier than others. I could tell the rest of the students thought I was a hippie, trippy liberal type but since I kind of am I didn't take it as an insult.
If you haven't read the book, I'd recommend it. And if you're a freak like me and can't read a good book just once, pick it up again. Weiner travels to a variety of countries to figure out why some peoples are happier than others and the findings are surprising. Happy countries include places like the Netherlands, Switzerland, Iceland, and Bhutan. America may be the home of the brave but sadly we rank in the lower end of the mid-range of most sociological studies into happiness. At least we beat out Moldova, Tanzania, and Rwanda I guess, but it still seems like we should be happier than we are.
The study of happiness is one of contradictions. Republicans are happier than democrats (go figure). People who are more tolerant are happier than the intolerant, but homogeneous nations are among the happiest on earth. People who attend church are happier than those that don't but secular nations are happier than religious nations. There is no link between happiness and suicide rates; Switzerland is highly rated in both. Married people are happier than singles (I lose out again) but people without children are happier than those with children.
The strongest argument that the author makes is that a person's happiness is intertwined with those around them; people are happiest when they are part of a vibrant and active community and when they trust one another. By some accounts, trust is the most important factor to happiness. That alone could seem to make singles lose out again accept that recent studies show that single people are actually more likely to be an active part of their communities than their married counterparts; singletons tend more towards civic activism and volunteerism, at least according to Eric Klinenberg when discussing the trend of increasing amounts of people choosing to live alone in his book, Going Solo.
So now for the pesto and relationships. I know about the first but apparently not the latter. I've just started doing some freelance article writing in an attempt to build up my resume in terms of writing and editing and to improve my writing overall (with the hopeful goal of finishing my book sometime in my lifetime). I've mainly been writing for a "dating and relationship expert" who is very nice but has me write things like why do men lose interest after the first few dates and how to get your man to commit. The last one I sent her, I actually thought was good. So I have to admit my pride was damaged a bit when she told me she needed something more practical--a step-by-step guide to help intelligent, attractive women to find a man, date him, and make it into a relationship.
Those who know me can appreciate the irony of me writing such an article as I can't remember the last time I actually had a successful relationship in the form of a boyfriend who wasn't a complete lunatic. I felt a little like a hypocrite and also a little nauseated, but I sat down and wrote the article and thought I did a pretty good job.
After seeing my client's recommendations though, I'm not sure that I can fix it to be what she wants. Because meeting a guy and having a relationship isn't like making pesto, which I did fairly easily this morning. My little container garden out back has been prolifically producing basil so I decided that this morning I had to make and freeze copious amounts of pesto. The steps to doing so are pretty easy: 1. Pick and wash 4 cups of basil leaves 2. Put basil in food processor along with 4-6 cloves of garlic, one-half cup of pine nuts, and one cup of olive oil. 3. Blend until smells delicious and is somewhat liquidy green wonderfulness. 4. Pour into ice cube tray to freeze so you have nice individual servings of pesto. 5. When you want to use, thaw and add in grated Parmesan cheese. Done.
I don't really think getting and keeping a relationship can be broken down into the same, neat little steps. If it can, I don't know what they are. I don't own the rights to any of the articles she buys from me but since she didn't buy this one, here's what I came up with. I'll mess around with it later today to try to get it to be what she wants, but I actually think what I had was probably the most practical steps I could have come up with that could be genuinely useful.
How to Get a
Boyfriend
We like things totally spelled out these days: 8 ways to
lose 10 pounds, 6 new hairstyles, 14 steps to financial success and 5 steps to
building the perfect resume. It’s almost like following a recipe. Up front,
recipes tell you exactly what you will need for ingredients, each individual
step to get to the end result. Some even tell you the total amount of time that
will be required to bake that perfect cake: 25 minutes preparation, 60 minutes
baking time, 85 minutes overall.
If only things were that simple in getting a boyfriend. You
know, something that said to mix up 1 cup of patience, 2 gallons of
persistence, and a good dollop of a sense of humor; total time overall: 6 months.
Unfortunately, even though men claim to be more logical and less emotion-driven
than women, I haven’t found the perfect scientific method for getting that
great boyfriend.
That being said, my years of dating experience have helped
me develop a sort of formula to improve my chances for obtaining that
mysterious and highly desirable prize of a boyfriend. This isn’t foolproof but
I think that following some of these steps will improve your chances of ending
up with a boyfriend.
Step 1: Get Your Act
Together. This step is probably the most critical –if you don’t do this not
only will you probably not get a good boyfriend, you’ll also not have the
greatest time in your everyday life. You need to figure out who you are, what
you want, what you need, and how you prioritize all the various elements that
go into making up your life. If you don’t know who you are as an individual,
you won’t be happy as part of a couple. I know far too many women whose
identities are completely wrapped up in their husbands’ or boyfriends’
identities. These women end up being relationship chameleons, changing to
reflect the habits and preferences of their partners rather than reflecting who
they truly are.
Step 2: Put Your Best
Foot Forward. If the first step is about getting the inner you in shape,
step 2 deals with getting that outer you in shape too. No crash diets, plastic
surgeries, or exorbitantly costly wardrobe changes are in order. But it is
almost a universal truth that when you look better and are happier with your
appearance, you are more confident and confidence attracts other people to you.
I’m not talking about overconfidence or arrogance, but a decent amount of
self-confidence goes a long way. So make sure you’re doing some sort of
exercise you actually like, eating healthy, spend some time on your grooming,
and put on something that makes you feel hot—not slutty or overly glamorous,
but at least several notches up from sweats.
Step 3: Get Out There.
I wish it were as easy as ordering up a boyfriend through a high-end catalog
and having him delivered right to your door, but sadly if you don’t leave your
house and go somewhere where prospective boyfriends hang out you’re probably
going to stay single. Now you can try an online dating site—I have and as a
result have met some great (and some awful) guys—but you have to eventually
meet up in real life. If you haven’t gone the online route, I’d recommend
joining a group that does something you’re interested in. Volunteer with an
organization that helps build houses for the homeless and you might chat up a
tall, dark and handsome stranger while installing siding. If you like kayaking,
running, reading, cooking or whatever, there are tons of groups out there where
you can actually meet men who share the same interests as you. I’d recommend
something like that over heading out to your local bar.
Step 4: Listen More
than You Talk and Be Open. When you’ve met that guy that you think could
make good boyfriend material, ask him about himself and really listen to the
answers. Figure out early on if this is a guy that you actually could want to
spend time with in a relationship. Now you might find out something that at
first glance, seems different than how you prefer things or how you look at the
world. But before you kick him to the curb, be open to trying something new.
Don’t try to change who you are, but you never know—you may find out that you
get a boyfriend and a new hobby or interest in the process.
Step 5: Don’t
Overthink Things. I don’t know about you ladies but when I like a guy, my
tendency is to overanalyze everything he says and does. Not only does this make
me miserable but if I vocalize that overthinking of mine, it can drive him
away. Don’t call him multiple times a day and don’t text nonstop. If he wants
to spend time with his friends, don’t complain that you don’t get to see him
enough. You both need to be secure enough in your burgeoning relationship to
let each other do things independently. It will make the time you spend
together even sweeter.
Step 6: Appreciate
What You Have and Make Sure You Feel Appreciated. I have a disturbing
tendency of watching sappy, sickly sweet romantic comedies and build up a
fantasy idea of my future boyfriend. There is no way that any normal human guy
can live up to the qualities displayed in the perfect boyfriends and husbands
on display in the movies and television. You will not be able to change him
into a perfect specimen of hotness and chivalry. He is who he is and if you
can’t appreciate him the way he is, you need to get out now. And remember back
around step 2 when we talked about self-confidence? Well, you need to make sure
that he appreciates you for who you are and doesn’t try to change you. Feeling
unappreciated and like something is wrong with you will sabotage your
self-confidence and make you miserable.
If at the end of these six steps, you end up
with a great relationship, well, that is just fantastic. If you don’t or you
find that your guy doesn’t appreciate you or treats you poorly, don’t settle.
The woman who can follow the steps will be the happiest and healthiest version
of herself possible, with or without a boyfriend.Sunday, July 15, 2012
It's Like 10,000 Spoons When All You Need Is A Knife
Today I paid a long overdue visit to my Aunt Marge. I've been meaning to visit her for months and I finally hauled my lazy butt over there. I see my Uncle on my mom's side fairly frequently, about once a week or so. We share mutual interests in dogs, festive beverages, making sure that he and my cousin have an appropriate amount of homemade baked goods, and attempting to prevent WWIII from breaking out between said uncle and cousin. I sadly see uncles and aunt in Florida and England far less frequently than I'd like to. Since air fare is pretty steep right now, I decided to at least pick up the slack with my Aunt Marge. She's not as coherent as she used to be, but she still loves to sing and when she laughs you can catch glimpses of the sunny, funny side of her.
Isn't it ironic then that, on the weekend I decide to put a concerted effort into working on my book of the joys of singletonism, my dear Aunt turns to me in a moment of unexpected clarity to ask, "Didn't you ever think of getting married?"
I was momentarily stunned while she sat patiently waiting for my answer. I replied with something along the lines of yes, I did think of it but it just hasn't worked out that way. She looked confused for a minute, maybe thinking that I had meant to get married but somehow never got around to it; like how I mean to clean the basement but it remains a hot mess. Then she grabbed my face and told me I was beautiful. That was almost too much to take; I teared up a bit, seeing myself through her eyes, and decided that that was so much better than being told I'll meet the right guy soon--this being what far too many people say when asking why I'm not married.
My aunt could have written her own extreme dating diary if she had chosen to. Well, maybe not extreme but she was a hell of a lot more successful than her maiden niece. My aunt had been married fairly young but sadly her husband passed a long time ago. She never remarried, but man, did she have the fellas running in circles for her! There was one gentleman who bought her fine jewelry and other wonderful presents, another who sent her flowers fairly frequently. Lest you think there was anything untoward about their liaisons, she reassured my mother repeatedly in my presence that she didn't care what they bought her, none of them was putting his shoes under her bed.
After her proclamation of my beauty, she and I chatted a bit more, me trying to describe some of the more memorable men that I've dated and her responding that they sounded like a bunch of simpletons. She was in and out of it for the rest of the visit but snapped back to when I mentioned a recent morning with my father. I told her that taking a page from her book, I'd started having out-of-tune (on my part) sing-alongs with my dad since music seems to be one of the few things that still reaches him.
Anyway, that morning he really wasn't into it. I couldn't find any song that moved him. He just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed CD cases trying to find one that would break through when all of a sudden, he started singing "A You're Adorable," a song that he sang to me all the time as a little girl. He forgot some of the words, but I don't think I've heard anything more beautiful in a long time. He may not always know who I am and he is so disinterested in almost everything these days, but there is a part of my dad that is still in there.
When I told my aunt about this, she started singing the song right away. I joined in and we did our own little duet in the common family room area, surrounded by the other residents. Then I kissed her cheek and returned home.
For the past two hours I've been thinking about her question. A few years ago that question would have me curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and chain watching horribly cheesy romantic flicks. In fact it did when my very young nephew--I think he was 8 yrs old at the time-- ruefully shook his head, said to me, "I just can't understand why you're not married yet." I'm pretty sure he overheard that from either his parents or mine and it was supremely difficult to convince him that not everyone gets married and that it wasn't something to be sad about. Hell, at the time it was difficult to convince myself.
Maybe that's why I started writing my book, as a means of convincing myself that the life of the singleton is a great thing and nothing to pity. Maybe that's why I have taken a serious hiatus from Internet dating, as the dates were getting crazier and less fun. I know I haven't delivered on this site's promise of extreme dating and although I hate to disappoint anyone that is actually still reading this very infrequently updated blog, I have finally realized that I don't need to wait around for a better half. I'm whole myself.
Don't get me wrong, if a tall drink of water turns up, I won't send him packing. Especially if he is wildly wealthy and either travels frequently or believes in separate wings of the same mansion. I have just lost my tolerance for wading through the online crazies to find someone acceptable, let alone awesome. On that note, I'll stop procrastinating on coming up with an ending for my book and just start writing it.
Isn't it ironic then that, on the weekend I decide to put a concerted effort into working on my book of the joys of singletonism, my dear Aunt turns to me in a moment of unexpected clarity to ask, "Didn't you ever think of getting married?"
I was momentarily stunned while she sat patiently waiting for my answer. I replied with something along the lines of yes, I did think of it but it just hasn't worked out that way. She looked confused for a minute, maybe thinking that I had meant to get married but somehow never got around to it; like how I mean to clean the basement but it remains a hot mess. Then she grabbed my face and told me I was beautiful. That was almost too much to take; I teared up a bit, seeing myself through her eyes, and decided that that was so much better than being told I'll meet the right guy soon--this being what far too many people say when asking why I'm not married.
My aunt could have written her own extreme dating diary if she had chosen to. Well, maybe not extreme but she was a hell of a lot more successful than her maiden niece. My aunt had been married fairly young but sadly her husband passed a long time ago. She never remarried, but man, did she have the fellas running in circles for her! There was one gentleman who bought her fine jewelry and other wonderful presents, another who sent her flowers fairly frequently. Lest you think there was anything untoward about their liaisons, she reassured my mother repeatedly in my presence that she didn't care what they bought her, none of them was putting his shoes under her bed.
After her proclamation of my beauty, she and I chatted a bit more, me trying to describe some of the more memorable men that I've dated and her responding that they sounded like a bunch of simpletons. She was in and out of it for the rest of the visit but snapped back to when I mentioned a recent morning with my father. I told her that taking a page from her book, I'd started having out-of-tune (on my part) sing-alongs with my dad since music seems to be one of the few things that still reaches him.
Anyway, that morning he really wasn't into it. I couldn't find any song that moved him. He just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed CD cases trying to find one that would break through when all of a sudden, he started singing "A You're Adorable," a song that he sang to me all the time as a little girl. He forgot some of the words, but I don't think I've heard anything more beautiful in a long time. He may not always know who I am and he is so disinterested in almost everything these days, but there is a part of my dad that is still in there.
When I told my aunt about this, she started singing the song right away. I joined in and we did our own little duet in the common family room area, surrounded by the other residents. Then I kissed her cheek and returned home.
For the past two hours I've been thinking about her question. A few years ago that question would have me curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and chain watching horribly cheesy romantic flicks. In fact it did when my very young nephew--I think he was 8 yrs old at the time-- ruefully shook his head, said to me, "I just can't understand why you're not married yet." I'm pretty sure he overheard that from either his parents or mine and it was supremely difficult to convince him that not everyone gets married and that it wasn't something to be sad about. Hell, at the time it was difficult to convince myself.
Maybe that's why I started writing my book, as a means of convincing myself that the life of the singleton is a great thing and nothing to pity. Maybe that's why I have taken a serious hiatus from Internet dating, as the dates were getting crazier and less fun. I know I haven't delivered on this site's promise of extreme dating and although I hate to disappoint anyone that is actually still reading this very infrequently updated blog, I have finally realized that I don't need to wait around for a better half. I'm whole myself.
Don't get me wrong, if a tall drink of water turns up, I won't send him packing. Especially if he is wildly wealthy and either travels frequently or believes in separate wings of the same mansion. I have just lost my tolerance for wading through the online crazies to find someone acceptable, let alone awesome. On that note, I'll stop procrastinating on coming up with an ending for my book and just start writing it.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Sad Sick Singleton
No, I haven't suddenly become sick of being a singleton. Rather, I wanted to bring up one thing about singletonism that truly sucks, namely being sick. I recently developed a disturbing and disgusting allergy to my contact lenses. I didn't know this at the time, I thought I just had torn a lens and had a bad pair. Let me set the scene for you: I'm still at the office about 90 minutes after I was supposed to have left and my eyes are killing me. I determine that one lens does seem to have some type of tear and couldn't figure out what the hell was up with the other one. The result is that my eyes are irritated and itchy, I'm becoming increasingly cross-eyed from not being able to look out of both eyes successfully at the same time, and this cross-eyedness has me feeling like I'm going to vom.
So of course this is when my boss decides that we need to have a meeting about how we can overachieve on a task that we haven't been officially assigned yet, despite the fact that my eyes are red and twitchy and I increase the amount of mentions of being about to vom. I finally get enough done to the point where I am set free into the balmy night although on the way at least two people try to stop me for another meeting. GAH!
As soon as I get to my car, I realize that all is not well as I have got to drive myself home. I can only credit a fleet of guardian angels, some seriously undeserved good karma, or nearly blind luck that I made it home with myself and my car all in tact. When I get home, Charlie is at the door waiting for a long walk and some entertaining. I look around for my butler to walk him, take out my eyeballs, and give me a Manhattan, but sadly I have not achieved independent wealth yet. So I pry the lenses from my eyeballs, hurriedly put on my glasses, and head out the door for a highly squinty walk. After the walk, I'm pretty much done for the day except that as Charlie has not learned how to cook me dinner or take out the recycling, there is no rest for the weary.
The next day I had fully planned to take the whole day off but as my work to do list had not become my to done list, that dream was shattered, leaving me with the hope that I could at least take a half day. My eyes are actually worse despite opting for glasses over the hateful lenses and prodigiously using eye drops. I make it an hour or so when a colleague sends me into a near panic by wondering if I have scratched my cornea and developed an infection. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I manage to make an appointment with the one ophthalmologist who works in the state of Maryland on a Friday and get out the door only slightly late for the appointment.
But there's that pesky part of being a singleton again, I have to drive myself to the doctor's where I learn that somehow in the past year I have developed a serious allergy to my lenses and have some awful infection. This is when I would have loved to have someone to drive me around and make everything better, but Charlie can't reach the gas pedal so I motor to 3 pharmacies to find the expensive and elusive eye drops I require and then return home.
There have been worse times when I've been sick and filled with angst at my solitary state. During those times I will whine mightily until my sister arrives to bring me juice, walk Charlie, pick up my meds, or generally be angelic. But although I know that I can call her whenever (and hope that she knows the same goes if she needs me), that good ole fashioned Catholic guilt makes me feel bad for bothering anyone. This is when it would be ideal if in/near my house there were someone with two legs, a driver's license, and the ability to make tea and soup who would come unbidden to deal with me in my sick and sad state.
Now I know that having a husband or boyfriend does not mean that all my woes would be made wonderful. I've seen plenty of friends whose spouses are miraculously unavailable or unwilling when my friends don't feel well. But if I had some sort of manservant or minion, he would have to tend to me and bring me saltines, eyedrops, fixed ankle walkers, or whatever my little heart desired. Just the thought of having a minion has made me feel a little better.
So of course this is when my boss decides that we need to have a meeting about how we can overachieve on a task that we haven't been officially assigned yet, despite the fact that my eyes are red and twitchy and I increase the amount of mentions of being about to vom. I finally get enough done to the point where I am set free into the balmy night although on the way at least two people try to stop me for another meeting. GAH!
As soon as I get to my car, I realize that all is not well as I have got to drive myself home. I can only credit a fleet of guardian angels, some seriously undeserved good karma, or nearly blind luck that I made it home with myself and my car all in tact. When I get home, Charlie is at the door waiting for a long walk and some entertaining. I look around for my butler to walk him, take out my eyeballs, and give me a Manhattan, but sadly I have not achieved independent wealth yet. So I pry the lenses from my eyeballs, hurriedly put on my glasses, and head out the door for a highly squinty walk. After the walk, I'm pretty much done for the day except that as Charlie has not learned how to cook me dinner or take out the recycling, there is no rest for the weary.
The next day I had fully planned to take the whole day off but as my work to do list had not become my to done list, that dream was shattered, leaving me with the hope that I could at least take a half day. My eyes are actually worse despite opting for glasses over the hateful lenses and prodigiously using eye drops. I make it an hour or so when a colleague sends me into a near panic by wondering if I have scratched my cornea and developed an infection. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I manage to make an appointment with the one ophthalmologist who works in the state of Maryland on a Friday and get out the door only slightly late for the appointment.
But there's that pesky part of being a singleton again, I have to drive myself to the doctor's where I learn that somehow in the past year I have developed a serious allergy to my lenses and have some awful infection. This is when I would have loved to have someone to drive me around and make everything better, but Charlie can't reach the gas pedal so I motor to 3 pharmacies to find the expensive and elusive eye drops I require and then return home.
There have been worse times when I've been sick and filled with angst at my solitary state. During those times I will whine mightily until my sister arrives to bring me juice, walk Charlie, pick up my meds, or generally be angelic. But although I know that I can call her whenever (and hope that she knows the same goes if she needs me), that good ole fashioned Catholic guilt makes me feel bad for bothering anyone. This is when it would be ideal if in/near my house there were someone with two legs, a driver's license, and the ability to make tea and soup who would come unbidden to deal with me in my sick and sad state.
Now I know that having a husband or boyfriend does not mean that all my woes would be made wonderful. I've seen plenty of friends whose spouses are miraculously unavailable or unwilling when my friends don't feel well. But if I had some sort of manservant or minion, he would have to tend to me and bring me saltines, eyedrops, fixed ankle walkers, or whatever my little heart desired. Just the thought of having a minion has made me feel a little better.
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