Just got a phone call from Bearer to let me know that another of our aunts has passed away, this time in England. Sadly I'm not torn up about this one, since I never spoke to her and haven't seen her since we visited when I was 5. I feel bad for my cousins, though, since it was unexpected... but since they're overseas how I feel doesn't mean dick to them. So some other family members will go and represent us in the U.K., and for once I get to miss out on a funeral with a woman weeping over a casket clutching a set of rosary beads like a lifeline while wailing over the corpse. By the way, we call those the "professional mourners". It's like the only occupation available to Italian women after retirement. The health plan is amazing, except maybe for the dental.
Bearer tells me that recently she had another relative commit suicide, and she said "Suicide is just a selfish act." Which I agree with, but in a world where everyone is out for themselves, to get whatever they can with no regard for anyone else, what can we expect of people who are desperate and sad? That these people will be the ones to scoff in the face of selfishness and consider the consequences?
We've all been talking lately about the young people who have committed suicide because they've been bullied. Tyler Clementi and Phoebe Prince could not have been more different than one another, and yet met pretty much the same end. It proves to me that kids just don't understand consequences, that what you say or do to someone has a repurcussion. That taking your own life will bring so much pain to others. That it lets the bullies win. That's right -- in the game of life, when you bow out, you forfeit. You lose. They win. If nothing else, that should be your reason to live. IT WAS FOR ME.
I've been there. I've been teased and bullied, both at school and at home. My classmates called me Miss Piggy, my father's nickname of choice was Bubble Butt. Plus, I was smart and that didn't help me in any way to escape ridicule from my peers. Once I had skipped a grade, even the other smart kids teased me, called me a baby. I did have friends here and there, but for the most part I was a pariah -- and like so many other kids, the only way for me to feel powerful was to find other kids to pick on. There weren't many beneath me, but you only need one. I wish I could say I rose above it. I didn't. We are all flawed creatures.
But you can learn. You can find strength. You can look at yourself in the mirror and decide that you will not give any of these people the fucking satisfaction of knowing that they beat you. That was my fire. That's what kept me going. I remember seeing Pretty in Pink as a teenager and hearing Andie say "I just want them to know they didn't break me." I remember saying that to myself so many times, like when a boy said "Do you want to dance?" and I said "Yes" only to hear "How's it feel to want?" I lay in bed at night and thought of every horrible thing anyone might say to me, and thought about how I would respond to them. I started to jump the gun for people who wanted to tease me. I would laugh in the face of their taunts. It made me funny. That earned me respect. My life changed. It wasn't easy, I don't want to make it seem that way; but it was possible, and it happened, and I'm living proof that IT GETS BETTER. That the portion of your life that will suck is a small percentage of all that you can do. That no one -- not your peers, not your parents -- will be making your life hell forever. I used to think I couldn't go through with suicide because I was a coward. I WAS WRONG. Dying is easy. Anybody can do easy. Just ask Staples.
There's not enough selflessness in the world anymore; people have to know what's in it for them before they'll do something. If you read my previous post about my other aunt who passed, you'll know that small things can have such a huge impact. A gesture, a word, a gift. I know in my life I've had the opportunity to give those things to people and didn't take it; I don't do that anymore.
There was a girl in my Women's Studies class one year. She was pretty, but a little strange. I would see her around the campus sometimes, but I never made the effort to get to know her. She, however, made an attempt to befriend me one day in the student center. I blew her off, and I wasn't shy about it. I felt kind of bad about it, too, but I couldn't think of a reason not to be rude. Why should I be nice to her? She was nobody to me.
She committed suicide not long after that. We found out in class. I didn't want to know her when she was alive, and now I can't forget her. Her name was Shoshanna. I wish I had a live friend, instead of a sad memory of a dead girl. Maybe all she needed was kindness. Now I'll never know.
Instead I smile at everyone I meet. I say hello. I'm free with compliments and praise, and if I tease people I make sure they know I'm not serious. I listen and try to give advice. I love people, and I tell them so. This is what Shoshanna taught me. What life taught me is that it is never OK for people to treat you as less. To smother you with disrespect. That there comes a point when you can put those people behind you and live your life as yourself -- but do it kindly. Lead by example. Show kindness and love, and if you can't bow out and move on. Don't turn into a bully. Don't turn into a statistic. Live.
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You can tell your story there if you like. I did, when I submitted most of this blog post.
Please also visit To Write Love on Her Arms at http://www.twloha.com/
10.22.2010
10.13.2010
"Relax, would you? We have seventy dollars and a pair of girls underpants. We're safe as kittens."
You know what I wonder about sometimes? I wonder why we can donate organs, but I can't donate my excess fat to people who really, really need it. I mean, honestly: no one needs this much breast. I could donate one of my breasts to TWO really needy flat chested women and they could each have a decent B cup rack to go home with. I could divide my remaining breast into a solid D cup and move on with my life. How is it possible that in this day and age we can take a male penis, stuff it into the body cavity and make a vagina but I can't donate breasts to the needy? There are women injecting fat from a total stranger into their lips. Do you have any idea how many sets of full lips you could get from my ass? All of Beverly Hills, at least. I don't know why there are all these commercials asking me to send my money to needy cultures, when it's obvious to me that what these undernourished kids need is some body fat. Easiest way to accomplish this is certainly by fat transplant; it's going to take WAY too long to fatten them up by food alone. Those kids look cold!
Um, so anyway... yeah. Just this place my brain went to for a sec. Now... *shuffles papers around on the desk* where are my damn notes? *shuffle shuffle* Crap, I have no idea. Damn, I was gonna talk about something profound, too, I think. Oh well.
Um, so anyway... yeah. Just this place my brain went to for a sec. Now... *shuffles papers around on the desk* where are my damn notes? *shuffle shuffle* Crap, I have no idea. Damn, I was gonna talk about something profound, too, I think. Oh well.
9.02.2010
"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal."
Almost 20 years ago, some distant family of mine came to the states to visit from Australia. As with most of my relatives on the Italian side of things, I couldn't really describe to you exactly how we're related, only that we are. Things are kind of complicated on that side; the cousins closest to me in age are actually my second cousins, for example. Anyway, I was still living at home and so was there the day that these distant relatives stopped by to visit with us: an Italian uncle, his Irish wife, and two of their children who, having grown up in Australia, had accents of their own. Watching all of these people converse with my dad, with his heavy Philly patois, was certainly an entertaining afternoon, one that never left me.
The aunt introduced to me that day was a lovely and kind woman. She gave me a beautiful bracelet, gorgeous green stones in a gold setting. I wore it for years, until it finally went, literally, to pieces. She had made such an impression on me; I was a girl who had not known much sweetness, and had certainly not known a love like she gave her children. I have never forgotten the lilt of her voice, though I never saw her again. Now I never will, for she has passed away.
Her passing says so much to me about how impressions can be made in such a short time. How just being nice to someone can touch them in ways that last a lifetime. How family means not how closely tied you are, but how you affect one another. I wish now that I had cared better for that bracelet in my youth, so I would have something to remember her by now -- but then I realize that I still remember it vividly, just as I remember her. So if I could go back and tell her anything that I never said then, it would be this: I will never forget you, though we shall never meet again.
Death is inevitable. Everything dies. But not everything is remembered. I remember you. I remember.
The aunt introduced to me that day was a lovely and kind woman. She gave me a beautiful bracelet, gorgeous green stones in a gold setting. I wore it for years, until it finally went, literally, to pieces. She had made such an impression on me; I was a girl who had not known much sweetness, and had certainly not known a love like she gave her children. I have never forgotten the lilt of her voice, though I never saw her again. Now I never will, for she has passed away.
Her passing says so much to me about how impressions can be made in such a short time. How just being nice to someone can touch them in ways that last a lifetime. How family means not how closely tied you are, but how you affect one another. I wish now that I had cared better for that bracelet in my youth, so I would have something to remember her by now -- but then I realize that I still remember it vividly, just as I remember her. So if I could go back and tell her anything that I never said then, it would be this: I will never forget you, though we shall never meet again.
Death is inevitable. Everything dies. But not everything is remembered. I remember you. I remember.
8.24.2010
"We're sorta like 7-11. We're not always doing business, but we're always open."
Well, hot damn! It has been a LONG fucking time since I posted anything. See earlier entry about not having the urge to write when I'm happy.
You're probably wondering what's been going on in my life in the 16 months since I last posted. Or you're not, and you're only reading this because there's nothing on TV and you've run out of new porn to look at. It makes no difference to me. I've been in both situations, myself. Although I'm always willing to revisit old porn if it's a particular favorite, and that's not actually what I was planning to blog about but sometimes I just never know where this damn brain is gonna take me. It's like a maze!
I was rereading my entry from April and thinking "wow, kind of an angry place, that." It actually took me a minute to remember what the hell it was about, but then I remembered the Smaug Spawn and I just had to laugh all over again. Sometimes I look at the things that happen in my life and wonder if it was actually a movie and I just watched it so many times that I THINK it's happening to me. That's how weird some of my shit is!
So I last wrote in April of 2009. Two. Thousand. And. NINE. Crazy! Since then I bought the condo I was renting (November), adopted a new dog (December), did my first big home improvement (February), my first minor one (May) and another major reno a couple of weeks ago. I have been so busy spending my fucking money that the past 16 months are a blur.
The latest thing I did was replace all the carpet in my house with brand new flooring. Aside from the bedrooms and the stairs, I put laminate throughout the house. I'd been wanting to do it for some time, and it is GORGEOUS. However, if I had known just how goddamn funny it would be watching my dogs walking on it, I would have done it WAY sooner.
First of all, Puppy seems to be completely unaffected by the slippery surface. Well, maybe not unaffected as much as ignorant. He still runs laps around the furniture like a cat on a nip bender, except that now he has trouble taking the corners and so his ass slides way out of his controlled loop and he's scrabbling for purchase with his tongue hanging out looking for all the world like an extra on Ren and Stimpy. Occasionally he will try to get air from the slippery surface and it's just a miserable failure of epic proportions. Baby Girl is not much of a crazy runner, so you would think I'd find nothing amusing about her transition to laminate flooring -- except that every so often she slips and looses her footing going from the couch to the food bowl for no good reason. Seriously. Step step step FUMBLE. It's HILARIOUS.
I've started to realize that Baby Girl, though she's been with me less than a year, is the blood of my blood. Puppy is awake every morning 15 minutes before the alarm goes off at 6, because he wants to be ready for it. Baby Girl is not going to move from that fucking bed until ABSOLUTELY necessary. Puppy is active and can never have enough exercise. Baby Girl loves her walk, but can't wait until it's over so she can lay down, preferably on a cool surface, and not move for the rest of the night. Tripping over her own feet while walking? Yeah, she TOTALLY gets that from me, because I am a klutz of epic proportions. Which is how I dropped a sectional sofa on my own foot, but only managed to severely sprain one of my toes. Klutzy, but lucky as hell!
These days my passion is Zumba. Zumba, zumba, zumba. I never thought I would be crazy in love with an activity that spends an entire hour kicking the shit out of me until I'm dripping sweat like a priest at a choir boy convention. I even bought special sneakers just for Zumba, hot pink Nike crosstrainers. Yeah, baby. Yeah. I think most of the reason I love it is because my instructor is AWESOME. In the early days Short Stack and I went to check out a class in another facility, and it was like Dancing with the Oldies. Nice people, but sheesh. What a drag. It's just not a good class unless the next day I dread going up the steps and have to hold on to the half wall as I gingerly lower myself onto the toilet in the middle of the night. THAT'S when you know that you are burning it up. No more boring hours on the treadmill watching Law & Order for me, wishing my time at the gym was up. Dance, baby. Dance.
You're probably wondering what's been going on in my life in the 16 months since I last posted. Or you're not, and you're only reading this because there's nothing on TV and you've run out of new porn to look at. It makes no difference to me. I've been in both situations, myself. Although I'm always willing to revisit old porn if it's a particular favorite, and that's not actually what I was planning to blog about but sometimes I just never know where this damn brain is gonna take me. It's like a maze!
I was rereading my entry from April and thinking "wow, kind of an angry place, that." It actually took me a minute to remember what the hell it was about, but then I remembered the Smaug Spawn and I just had to laugh all over again. Sometimes I look at the things that happen in my life and wonder if it was actually a movie and I just watched it so many times that I THINK it's happening to me. That's how weird some of my shit is!
So I last wrote in April of 2009. Two. Thousand. And. NINE. Crazy! Since then I bought the condo I was renting (November), adopted a new dog (December), did my first big home improvement (February), my first minor one (May) and another major reno a couple of weeks ago. I have been so busy spending my fucking money that the past 16 months are a blur.
The latest thing I did was replace all the carpet in my house with brand new flooring. Aside from the bedrooms and the stairs, I put laminate throughout the house. I'd been wanting to do it for some time, and it is GORGEOUS. However, if I had known just how goddamn funny it would be watching my dogs walking on it, I would have done it WAY sooner.
First of all, Puppy seems to be completely unaffected by the slippery surface. Well, maybe not unaffected as much as ignorant. He still runs laps around the furniture like a cat on a nip bender, except that now he has trouble taking the corners and so his ass slides way out of his controlled loop and he's scrabbling for purchase with his tongue hanging out looking for all the world like an extra on Ren and Stimpy. Occasionally he will try to get air from the slippery surface and it's just a miserable failure of epic proportions. Baby Girl is not much of a crazy runner, so you would think I'd find nothing amusing about her transition to laminate flooring -- except that every so often she slips and looses her footing going from the couch to the food bowl for no good reason. Seriously. Step step step FUMBLE. It's HILARIOUS.
I've started to realize that Baby Girl, though she's been with me less than a year, is the blood of my blood. Puppy is awake every morning 15 minutes before the alarm goes off at 6, because he wants to be ready for it. Baby Girl is not going to move from that fucking bed until ABSOLUTELY necessary. Puppy is active and can never have enough exercise. Baby Girl loves her walk, but can't wait until it's over so she can lay down, preferably on a cool surface, and not move for the rest of the night. Tripping over her own feet while walking? Yeah, she TOTALLY gets that from me, because I am a klutz of epic proportions. Which is how I dropped a sectional sofa on my own foot, but only managed to severely sprain one of my toes. Klutzy, but lucky as hell!
These days my passion is Zumba. Zumba, zumba, zumba. I never thought I would be crazy in love with an activity that spends an entire hour kicking the shit out of me until I'm dripping sweat like a priest at a choir boy convention. I even bought special sneakers just for Zumba, hot pink Nike crosstrainers. Yeah, baby. Yeah. I think most of the reason I love it is because my instructor is AWESOME. In the early days Short Stack and I went to check out a class in another facility, and it was like Dancing with the Oldies. Nice people, but sheesh. What a drag. It's just not a good class unless the next day I dread going up the steps and have to hold on to the half wall as I gingerly lower myself onto the toilet in the middle of the night. THAT'S when you know that you are burning it up. No more boring hours on the treadmill watching Law & Order for me, wishing my time at the gym was up. Dance, baby. Dance.
5.20.2009
"You are a realist masquerading as a cynic who is secretly an optimist."
So... absent for a while. Yeah. Well, you know. Busy. Busy being really pissed off about a whole bunch of shit that is beyond my power to control so I just decided not to let it get to me anymore. And yeah -- it's that easy.
So, today it has been two months since my grandfather passed away just shy of 85, and he was my last living grandfather. My dad's stepfather passed away a few years ago; I never knew my maternal grandfather either because he died before I was born or my mom wasn't speaking to him up until he died. I'm a little sketchy on that part. In any case -- dead, never knew him, and my dad's stepfather used to scare the living shit out of me. He was just a big, BIG dude. He was, like, eight feet tall. Okay, I probably made that up, but as a kid that's how he seemed, and even as an adult he was way taller than me; and when he stood up his hands hung to his knees. I think he may have been part gorilla. My point is that we weren't close. Fear is kind of an inhibitor to intimacy, if you're me.
I was close to my pop-pop though, and I never stopped calling him that, even in my thirties; even now, in my head, with him gone. The other day I was cleaning the living room, and as I was dusting the coffee table (handmade by Gorilla Granddad, no less) I knocked out a couple decks of cards that I have in there. One of them is a well-worn Bicycle deck, and I held it for a moment, took out the cards and flipped through them. Pop-pop loved his cards, he loved the casino -- he was a gambling man. I think that's one of those things that will always stay with me, as the years fall away and my life moves in whatever inevitable directions it takes. That and raisin bread.
I heard you just go "what?" in your head. Stop thinking so loud.
When I was a girl Pop-pop worked for Pepperidge Farm, and we always had loads of freebies around: Milano cookies, Goldfish galore; but raisin bread was always my favorite -- toasted, with butter. It's one of those comfort things for me, when I'm down or I feel lost a couple pieces of toasted raisin bread brings back that childhood feeling of simplicity. Of home.
Some people choose to remember the dead with memorials, with flowers, with some god-awful bullshit display that's really about the living putting on a pity show than celebrating the life of a loved one who's died... but not me. Instead, I'm going to go have some raisin bread.
I know you're all thinking about the other elephant in the room. Like I said, you're all thinking too LOUD.
What I will say is this: the universe has a sense of humor and irony. I, like the universe, am laughing my ASS off. And planning a very nice vacation for myself (maybe Mexico, which is pretty crazy cheap right now). I can do that, you know, since I haven't "tied" anyone "down" with "marriage and kids." Shame, that. Good thing that poor guy got away from me and found that "adventurous" chick who was going to travel around the world with him.
Tee hee hee.
Good luck to Smaug and Smaug Accessory -- you will need it, because I know for a FACT that one of you couldn't even handle a dog. A dog! A little furry thing that you can put in a kennel when you travel and let someone else take care of. A dog that doesn't need anything out of life except a couple of walks a day, some affection (preferably in the form of fetch), water, and food (which you don't even have to cook). A sweet little dog who wants nothing more out of life than to please me. A dog who is right now asleep at my feet because being near me makes him happy. A dog that I'm taking on a walk in a minute, because being with me while being outside is like having all the greatest things in his universe converge. So in case you didn't figure it out yet, sweetheart: I GOT THE BETTER END OF THE DEAL.
So, today it has been two months since my grandfather passed away just shy of 85, and he was my last living grandfather. My dad's stepfather passed away a few years ago; I never knew my maternal grandfather either because he died before I was born or my mom wasn't speaking to him up until he died. I'm a little sketchy on that part. In any case -- dead, never knew him, and my dad's stepfather used to scare the living shit out of me. He was just a big, BIG dude. He was, like, eight feet tall. Okay, I probably made that up, but as a kid that's how he seemed, and even as an adult he was way taller than me; and when he stood up his hands hung to his knees. I think he may have been part gorilla. My point is that we weren't close. Fear is kind of an inhibitor to intimacy, if you're me.
I was close to my pop-pop though, and I never stopped calling him that, even in my thirties; even now, in my head, with him gone. The other day I was cleaning the living room, and as I was dusting the coffee table (handmade by Gorilla Granddad, no less) I knocked out a couple decks of cards that I have in there. One of them is a well-worn Bicycle deck, and I held it for a moment, took out the cards and flipped through them. Pop-pop loved his cards, he loved the casino -- he was a gambling man. I think that's one of those things that will always stay with me, as the years fall away and my life moves in whatever inevitable directions it takes. That and raisin bread.
I heard you just go "what?" in your head. Stop thinking so loud.
When I was a girl Pop-pop worked for Pepperidge Farm, and we always had loads of freebies around: Milano cookies, Goldfish galore; but raisin bread was always my favorite -- toasted, with butter. It's one of those comfort things for me, when I'm down or I feel lost a couple pieces of toasted raisin bread brings back that childhood feeling of simplicity. Of home.
Some people choose to remember the dead with memorials, with flowers, with some god-awful bullshit display that's really about the living putting on a pity show than celebrating the life of a loved one who's died... but not me. Instead, I'm going to go have some raisin bread.
I know you're all thinking about the other elephant in the room. Like I said, you're all thinking too LOUD.
What I will say is this: the universe has a sense of humor and irony. I, like the universe, am laughing my ASS off. And planning a very nice vacation for myself (maybe Mexico, which is pretty crazy cheap right now). I can do that, you know, since I haven't "tied" anyone "down" with "marriage and kids." Shame, that. Good thing that poor guy got away from me and found that "adventurous" chick who was going to travel around the world with him.
Tee hee hee.
Good luck to Smaug and Smaug Accessory -- you will need it, because I know for a FACT that one of you couldn't even handle a dog. A dog! A little furry thing that you can put in a kennel when you travel and let someone else take care of. A dog that doesn't need anything out of life except a couple of walks a day, some affection (preferably in the form of fetch), water, and food (which you don't even have to cook). A sweet little dog who wants nothing more out of life than to please me. A dog who is right now asleep at my feet because being near me makes him happy. A dog that I'm taking on a walk in a minute, because being with me while being outside is like having all the greatest things in his universe converge. So in case you didn't figure it out yet, sweetheart: I GOT THE BETTER END OF THE DEAL.
2.08.2009
"Poor Buffy. Your life resists all things average."
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2.01.2009
Cleanse Wars Part II: Attack of the Colon
Boston is one of my favorite places on earth. I absolutely love this city and need to go and spend more time there, since I’ve only ever been on business and your free time is limited. Maybe I love it because when I’m there on the company tab I get to go to all the best places, but so what? Like you wouldn’t?
It’s an old city, but amazingly clean. My first time there I actually saw someone vacuuming the sidewalk on Boylston Street. No kidding. I gave a bum some change outside of Starbucks, and he called me back because I accidentally threw in a ring that was in my pocket, and he gave it back to me. It’s the kind of city Philly wishes it could be. That being said, it’s too fucking cold there and it snows too much for me to consider making it my permanent home. But I still love ya, Boston!
While I was last there I got to go to a great restaurant, Stephanie’s on Newbury Street. If you are ever in Boston, you have to go and order the macaroni and cheese. Get it with the prosciutto and the truffle oil. You will thank me, but I warn you: you will be ruined for any other macaroni and cheese for all time. I can never be satisfied by the blue box again (I mean Kraft, not the Tardis). Oh, get the onion rings, too. Bring an appetite. Listen to the fat girl when she points you towards the food – I’ve eaten plenty, so I know when something's really good.
So I know you all want me to shut up and tell you if I pooped my pants; well, I didn’t even have the urge to relieve myself while I was there. Probably because I put a mojito on it. It’s amazing how much shit can be fixed with a liberal application of alcohol (you thought I was done with the puns, didn’t you?). I even managed to get through the worst customer visit of all time the next day without incident. I think it's safe to say that colon cleansing has done nothing more than make shit easy on me (AND I'm done. *rimshot* Okay, I had one left.)
Moving on... so I discovered the most incredible place, and it's only forty minutes from here. There's a town in WV called Berkeley Springs, the site of a natural hot springs that was once frequented by George Washington and other historical figures of note (but now is only visited by hysterical figures like myself, ha ha ha). Mame came in for the weekend and we took a day trip there. The area has four different spas that use the springs, one of which is state run and therefore cheap as hell. If you can live without a lot of ambience, you can get a relaxing soak in the spring water followed by a half hour massage for the bargain price of $45.
Now, when you think spa you probably think: scented candles, fluffy pink bathrobes, soothing tantric music softly playing in the background... ahhhhh. Soothing. Well, I'm too cheap for that crap. That kind of mood lighting costs money. The state spa at the springs has this kind of atmosphere: you walk into the locker area, where they direct you to a little stall with a curtain and direct you to strip, wrap yourself in the sheet provided, place your belongings in the battered locker, and then take the key on the handy rubber cord and place it around your wrist. By the way, if you're in the end stall and happen to be visiting on the COLDEST EFFING DAY OF ALL TIME, it might be wise not to lean your naked ass against the stone wall. It will be extraordinarily cold and clammy. Just a tip.
Now that you are toga'd out in a giant sheet a little old lady will march all of you to your next destination. Mame got the roman bath; I turned down their offer to put us in the same one and chose the relaxing bath. I mean, I'll sleep next to Mame when she visits, but I'm not getting naked with her in a steaming bath.
This is where it helps to not be bashful. Once you get to the bath, your "attendant" will hold the sheet while you step bare-assed into the tub. Let's face it, this sheet is the thickness of tissue paper. They put me into this GINORMOUS bathtub filled with steaming spring water. It was so huge that I could completely submerge myself. I'm a big girl, so in a normal bathtub the top half of me will be completely dry while my back and ass are submerged. I have to flip over and let my butt dry to soak the front of me. Plus, there's always the possibility that I might drown in this position. Well, you get the picture. So huge bathtub with a little inflatable pillow for my head = niiiice. For the sake of propriety the attendant covers the front of me with a little towel that's just big enough to hide your boobs and bush. My boobs, however, are so large that they just flop to either side of the towel anyway, so that part was pretty useless.
After an undetermined amount of time (hey, I'm naked, it's not like I brought my watch), the attendant comes back to take me to my massage. Seriously, she could have left me in the tub for hours. But I stand up while she "hides" me behind the sheet, wrap it around my wet ass (now you DEFINITELY are going to see through this sucker) and pad after her to the massage area.
If you're the type of person who doesn't like to be touched, this is not for you. Despite the decorous way your masseuse tucks the sheet around you and only exposes the part she is massaging, let's face it: you are buck naked under there, and a total stranger is rubbing your exposed flesh. For me however, it was GLORIOUS. Touch-a touch-a touch-a tooooouch me... ahem, sorry, where was I before I burst into song? Oh yeah. Touched By A Stranger. I especially love when they work on my hands. I don't know why, but that relaxes me SO much.
So now that you've been soaked and rubbed like a prize turkey, you can go get dressed and spend your day walking around this adorable little town with its antique shops and galleries. All I can tell you is that I did my part for the American Economy that day. I bought paintings from a local artist. Mame and I ate in this adorable cafe that's also a gallery. I found something for my brother in an antique store, and then Mame and I both fell in love with these abstract prints with phrases on them by another local artist. I bought one mounted under glass that just spoke to me. The abstract is blue and purple, and it says "she built her cathedral from the splinters of her shattering."
And so I have. Welcome to my church.
It’s an old city, but amazingly clean. My first time there I actually saw someone vacuuming the sidewalk on Boylston Street. No kidding. I gave a bum some change outside of Starbucks, and he called me back because I accidentally threw in a ring that was in my pocket, and he gave it back to me. It’s the kind of city Philly wishes it could be. That being said, it’s too fucking cold there and it snows too much for me to consider making it my permanent home. But I still love ya, Boston!
While I was last there I got to go to a great restaurant, Stephanie’s on Newbury Street. If you are ever in Boston, you have to go and order the macaroni and cheese. Get it with the prosciutto and the truffle oil. You will thank me, but I warn you: you will be ruined for any other macaroni and cheese for all time. I can never be satisfied by the blue box again (I mean Kraft, not the Tardis). Oh, get the onion rings, too. Bring an appetite. Listen to the fat girl when she points you towards the food – I’ve eaten plenty, so I know when something's really good.
So I know you all want me to shut up and tell you if I pooped my pants; well, I didn’t even have the urge to relieve myself while I was there. Probably because I put a mojito on it. It’s amazing how much shit can be fixed with a liberal application of alcohol (you thought I was done with the puns, didn’t you?). I even managed to get through the worst customer visit of all time the next day without incident. I think it's safe to say that colon cleansing has done nothing more than make shit easy on me (AND I'm done. *rimshot* Okay, I had one left.)
Moving on... so I discovered the most incredible place, and it's only forty minutes from here. There's a town in WV called Berkeley Springs, the site of a natural hot springs that was once frequented by George Washington and other historical figures of note (but now is only visited by hysterical figures like myself, ha ha ha). Mame came in for the weekend and we took a day trip there. The area has four different spas that use the springs, one of which is state run and therefore cheap as hell. If you can live without a lot of ambience, you can get a relaxing soak in the spring water followed by a half hour massage for the bargain price of $45.
Now, when you think spa you probably think: scented candles, fluffy pink bathrobes, soothing tantric music softly playing in the background... ahhhhh. Soothing. Well, I'm too cheap for that crap. That kind of mood lighting costs money. The state spa at the springs has this kind of atmosphere: you walk into the locker area, where they direct you to a little stall with a curtain and direct you to strip, wrap yourself in the sheet provided, place your belongings in the battered locker, and then take the key on the handy rubber cord and place it around your wrist. By the way, if you're in the end stall and happen to be visiting on the COLDEST EFFING DAY OF ALL TIME, it might be wise not to lean your naked ass against the stone wall. It will be extraordinarily cold and clammy. Just a tip.
Now that you are toga'd out in a giant sheet a little old lady will march all of you to your next destination. Mame got the roman bath; I turned down their offer to put us in the same one and chose the relaxing bath. I mean, I'll sleep next to Mame when she visits, but I'm not getting naked with her in a steaming bath.
This is where it helps to not be bashful. Once you get to the bath, your "attendant" will hold the sheet while you step bare-assed into the tub. Let's face it, this sheet is the thickness of tissue paper. They put me into this GINORMOUS bathtub filled with steaming spring water. It was so huge that I could completely submerge myself. I'm a big girl, so in a normal bathtub the top half of me will be completely dry while my back and ass are submerged. I have to flip over and let my butt dry to soak the front of me. Plus, there's always the possibility that I might drown in this position. Well, you get the picture. So huge bathtub with a little inflatable pillow for my head = niiiice. For the sake of propriety the attendant covers the front of me with a little towel that's just big enough to hide your boobs and bush. My boobs, however, are so large that they just flop to either side of the towel anyway, so that part was pretty useless.
After an undetermined amount of time (hey, I'm naked, it's not like I brought my watch), the attendant comes back to take me to my massage. Seriously, she could have left me in the tub for hours. But I stand up while she "hides" me behind the sheet, wrap it around my wet ass (now you DEFINITELY are going to see through this sucker) and pad after her to the massage area.
If you're the type of person who doesn't like to be touched, this is not for you. Despite the decorous way your masseuse tucks the sheet around you and only exposes the part she is massaging, let's face it: you are buck naked under there, and a total stranger is rubbing your exposed flesh. For me however, it was GLORIOUS. Touch-a touch-a touch-a tooooouch me... ahem, sorry, where was I before I burst into song? Oh yeah. Touched By A Stranger. I especially love when they work on my hands. I don't know why, but that relaxes me SO much.
So now that you've been soaked and rubbed like a prize turkey, you can go get dressed and spend your day walking around this adorable little town with its antique shops and galleries. All I can tell you is that I did my part for the American Economy that day. I bought paintings from a local artist. Mame and I ate in this adorable cafe that's also a gallery. I found something for my brother in an antique store, and then Mame and I both fell in love with these abstract prints with phrases on them by another local artist. I bought one mounted under glass that just spoke to me. The abstract is blue and purple, and it says "she built her cathedral from the splinters of her shattering."
And so I have. Welcome to my church.
1.18.2009
"You have the voice of an angel. Your voice is like a combination of Fergie and Jesus. "
I can’t believe it’s more than three weeks into the new year! I’m pretty sure most of you have blown your resolutions to hell already; you might as well get that over with now so you can move past the guilt and proceed to have fun with your life again.
I’ve been having a blast with life these days myself. I am now officially 35 years of age (do NOT listen to Motu when he tries to tell you how good I look for 40. He’s evil and he must be destroyed.) It’s true that I’m a crazy, wild and fun-loving gal, but you might all be surprised to learn that I didn’t do a damn thing for my birthday. I had just returned from Texas less than a week before, drove 185 miles on New Year’s Eve to hang with Magic Man and Feisty, drove 185 miles back on New Year’s Day, AND was sick with the worst sinus infection/cold/black plague I have had in years. Because I was so sick, I had opted not to go into work on Monday, which meant I had to work my birthday on Friday (and I was still sick anyway). Suffice it to say, I was mother-effing TIRED on my birthday. Plus, I missed Puppy, who had been kennelized for two weeks at this point (yes, I just coined the word “kennelized.” Tell your friends.) Mame had planned to come out that weekend, but she was sick, too, so we postponed.
So for the big three-five I got out of work at one, went to the mall, bought myself some slippers and a George Carlin day-by-day calendar (both at half price, of course) and then took myself out for a fabulous steak lunch and warm chocolate cake with a scoop of ice cream. Then I picked up Puppy and curled up with him in my favorite chair with a mug of hot tea and a movie. If any of you think that’s sad, believe me when I tell you: it was the BEST birthday I’ve had in years, even with chapped nostrils and an end table littered with tissues.
Last year I had Smaug get indignant at having to take me out to dinner (he was very annoyed that I didn’t make other plans and now he had to spend his own money on me), then get irritated at some completely innocuous comment at dinner, which turned into him screaming at me in the car on the ride home and then him freaking out and leaving the house for several hours. This was pretty much SOP for him anyway, but for my birthday it was just so special (the birthdays prior to that were similar, but that was the worst one thus far). If you’re wondering what he freaked out about, it was this: he commented that he could take bigger risks at his job because he had no family to support, and I kidded him that he’d never have that problem to worry about. Which made him blow up at me for suggesting that he was never going to propose to me. Which is really funny, considering that I ended up being RIGHT about that. My point is, for any of you who were thinking “oh, that’s so sad how she spent her birthday” – don’t. I loved every single drama-free/watch whatever the fuck I want on TV/listening to Puppy snore while I rubbed his belly minute, believe you me. Then I spent the entire weekend and the week following doing a 1000 piece puzzle of Times Square in New York. After books, puzzles are my bliss. I hope this lovely, peaceful birthday has set the tone for my entire year. Four years in a row of stupid bullshit that leads to me crying by myself on my birthday is OVAH.
In the interests of starting fresh, I thought it would be a good idea to do something that my doctor and some other people suggested to me but that I couldn’t bring myself to try before. I’m warning all of you now: the following content may make you uncomfortable. I am planning to talk about my pooper, so if you don’t want to hear it then skip the rest of this post. There will also be a lot of puns. You have been warned.
So… I decided that I would do one of those colon cleanse things. This is something that had always struck me as kind of gross. In my head I pictured it would be like that scene in Dumb and Dumber, and I would spend an entire week glued to the toilet as though I’d drunk a gallon of Mexican tap water. But, since I’ve cleaned a bunch of other shit out of my life, why not do it literally?
I started by researching online, which I do for everything (I love you, Wikipedia. You are my bible. Not for this research, but still). First I looked at the remedies that promised the fastest results, but in all honesty it didn’t take me long to disregard them. I mean, I spent 30+ years polluting my body, and the idea of cleaning it in seven days or less sounded… a little bit uncomfortable. Imagine that you spent the last 30 years throwing all of your garbage into the basement, and now you’ve sold the house and you have exactly 7 days to clear all that shit out… and the punning begins.
So I started looking at more natural remedies, and settled on the one that was most highly recommended. It also had a free trial, and I live to get shit for free (ha ha, there’s another one!) A week later my all natural, Acai Berry based cleanser was there in my mailbox. Instructions: take three pills daily in the evening. Day One, take one pill; Day Two, take two pills, Day Three, take three pills from then on. That seems logical. It is going to be so easy to do this shit! (That’s number 3, if you’re counting. It’s just too simple.)
I decided to start on Monday night. One pill, no problem. Can’t say I really noticed any difference the next day, but I was out having fun at the Hibachi grill with a bunch of coworkers from the old Pennsauken plant and didn’t really think about it. Got home, took two pills, packed for Boston…
A word now about proper planning. Even if you’re going to use the most mild, gentle cleanser on the planet, you probably shouldn’t start it the Monday before you take a business trip to Boston. You just never know. I mean, here it is, on Wednesday, the day I’m flying out, I only took two pills the night before, I’m taking my third dump and it’s not even noon yet, and I can’t help thinking “when is this shit going to stop?” (#4)
I have to pause for a second to mention that, aside from the new concern about pooping opportunity, I felt great. In fact, that third movement I had was so amazing that I actually turned around and gave it a salute before I flushed it on it’s merry way. Seriously, I was positive that I could whistle with my sphincter after that, and I can't whistle with any of my other lips.
So now I’m thinking ahead, and I realized that I could get stuck in traffic on the way to the airport. Or I might have to go again on the plane. What if the urge hits while I’m on the plane and there’s a really cute guy sitting in the last row next to the tiny little airplane bathroom that I am about to defile? It’ll certainly rule out any invitation to the Mile-High Club. Hmmm.
By the way, you can all thank my cousin Dancer for this entry. She had to listen to me talk about all this while I drove to the airport, and the only feedback she gave me when she finally managed to take a breath was “you have to write about this on your blog.” So all this shit is her fault (ding, #5).
Anyway, I managed to fly all the way to Boston and get to my hotel without incident. Now, a dilemma. I’m in the hotel, on the top floor, gazing out at my incredible view of Boston Harbor at night (I love my job), juggling three pills in my hand. I am about to head out for a night of food and drink and debauchery with a couple of customers I’m really friendly with, and I have a very important design meeting at a different customer site the next day, followed by lunch. I’m not so much worried about the folks I’m going to dinner with (let’s face it, these are people I would hang out with in the normal realm, which is why I asked them to go out with me. They are, therefore, completely unfazed by anything I say or do and would just laugh their asses off if I left the table in the nice restaurant to go blow up the bathroom). It’s more that I have a schedule the next day, and don’t know when I’ll have bathroom opportunity. Did I want to abandon my quest for a cleaner me in the face of professional obstacles and start over some other time? Hmmm.
I took the pills. Fuck that shit (#6)
(to be continued... I just LOVE cliffhangers!)
I’ve been having a blast with life these days myself. I am now officially 35 years of age (do NOT listen to Motu when he tries to tell you how good I look for 40. He’s evil and he must be destroyed.) It’s true that I’m a crazy, wild and fun-loving gal, but you might all be surprised to learn that I didn’t do a damn thing for my birthday. I had just returned from Texas less than a week before, drove 185 miles on New Year’s Eve to hang with Magic Man and Feisty, drove 185 miles back on New Year’s Day, AND was sick with the worst sinus infection/cold/black plague I have had in years. Because I was so sick, I had opted not to go into work on Monday, which meant I had to work my birthday on Friday (and I was still sick anyway). Suffice it to say, I was mother-effing TIRED on my birthday. Plus, I missed Puppy, who had been kennelized for two weeks at this point (yes, I just coined the word “kennelized.” Tell your friends.) Mame had planned to come out that weekend, but she was sick, too, so we postponed.
So for the big three-five I got out of work at one, went to the mall, bought myself some slippers and a George Carlin day-by-day calendar (both at half price, of course) and then took myself out for a fabulous steak lunch and warm chocolate cake with a scoop of ice cream. Then I picked up Puppy and curled up with him in my favorite chair with a mug of hot tea and a movie. If any of you think that’s sad, believe me when I tell you: it was the BEST birthday I’ve had in years, even with chapped nostrils and an end table littered with tissues.
Last year I had Smaug get indignant at having to take me out to dinner (he was very annoyed that I didn’t make other plans and now he had to spend his own money on me), then get irritated at some completely innocuous comment at dinner, which turned into him screaming at me in the car on the ride home and then him freaking out and leaving the house for several hours. This was pretty much SOP for him anyway, but for my birthday it was just so special (the birthdays prior to that were similar, but that was the worst one thus far). If you’re wondering what he freaked out about, it was this: he commented that he could take bigger risks at his job because he had no family to support, and I kidded him that he’d never have that problem to worry about. Which made him blow up at me for suggesting that he was never going to propose to me. Which is really funny, considering that I ended up being RIGHT about that. My point is, for any of you who were thinking “oh, that’s so sad how she spent her birthday” – don’t. I loved every single drama-free/watch whatever the fuck I want on TV/listening to Puppy snore while I rubbed his belly minute, believe you me. Then I spent the entire weekend and the week following doing a 1000 piece puzzle of Times Square in New York. After books, puzzles are my bliss. I hope this lovely, peaceful birthday has set the tone for my entire year. Four years in a row of stupid bullshit that leads to me crying by myself on my birthday is OVAH.
In the interests of starting fresh, I thought it would be a good idea to do something that my doctor and some other people suggested to me but that I couldn’t bring myself to try before. I’m warning all of you now: the following content may make you uncomfortable. I am planning to talk about my pooper, so if you don’t want to hear it then skip the rest of this post. There will also be a lot of puns. You have been warned.
So… I decided that I would do one of those colon cleanse things. This is something that had always struck me as kind of gross. In my head I pictured it would be like that scene in Dumb and Dumber, and I would spend an entire week glued to the toilet as though I’d drunk a gallon of Mexican tap water. But, since I’ve cleaned a bunch of other shit out of my life, why not do it literally?
I started by researching online, which I do for everything (I love you, Wikipedia. You are my bible. Not for this research, but still). First I looked at the remedies that promised the fastest results, but in all honesty it didn’t take me long to disregard them. I mean, I spent 30+ years polluting my body, and the idea of cleaning it in seven days or less sounded… a little bit uncomfortable. Imagine that you spent the last 30 years throwing all of your garbage into the basement, and now you’ve sold the house and you have exactly 7 days to clear all that shit out… and the punning begins.
So I started looking at more natural remedies, and settled on the one that was most highly recommended. It also had a free trial, and I live to get shit for free (ha ha, there’s another one!) A week later my all natural, Acai Berry based cleanser was there in my mailbox. Instructions: take three pills daily in the evening. Day One, take one pill; Day Two, take two pills, Day Three, take three pills from then on. That seems logical. It is going to be so easy to do this shit! (That’s number 3, if you’re counting. It’s just too simple.)
I decided to start on Monday night. One pill, no problem. Can’t say I really noticed any difference the next day, but I was out having fun at the Hibachi grill with a bunch of coworkers from the old Pennsauken plant and didn’t really think about it. Got home, took two pills, packed for Boston…
A word now about proper planning. Even if you’re going to use the most mild, gentle cleanser on the planet, you probably shouldn’t start it the Monday before you take a business trip to Boston. You just never know. I mean, here it is, on Wednesday, the day I’m flying out, I only took two pills the night before, I’m taking my third dump and it’s not even noon yet, and I can’t help thinking “when is this shit going to stop?” (#4)
I have to pause for a second to mention that, aside from the new concern about pooping opportunity, I felt great. In fact, that third movement I had was so amazing that I actually turned around and gave it a salute before I flushed it on it’s merry way. Seriously, I was positive that I could whistle with my sphincter after that, and I can't whistle with any of my other lips.
So now I’m thinking ahead, and I realized that I could get stuck in traffic on the way to the airport. Or I might have to go again on the plane. What if the urge hits while I’m on the plane and there’s a really cute guy sitting in the last row next to the tiny little airplane bathroom that I am about to defile? It’ll certainly rule out any invitation to the Mile-High Club. Hmmm.
By the way, you can all thank my cousin Dancer for this entry. She had to listen to me talk about all this while I drove to the airport, and the only feedback she gave me when she finally managed to take a breath was “you have to write about this on your blog.” So all this shit is her fault (ding, #5).
Anyway, I managed to fly all the way to Boston and get to my hotel without incident. Now, a dilemma. I’m in the hotel, on the top floor, gazing out at my incredible view of Boston Harbor at night (I love my job), juggling three pills in my hand. I am about to head out for a night of food and drink and debauchery with a couple of customers I’m really friendly with, and I have a very important design meeting at a different customer site the next day, followed by lunch. I’m not so much worried about the folks I’m going to dinner with (let’s face it, these are people I would hang out with in the normal realm, which is why I asked them to go out with me. They are, therefore, completely unfazed by anything I say or do and would just laugh their asses off if I left the table in the nice restaurant to go blow up the bathroom). It’s more that I have a schedule the next day, and don’t know when I’ll have bathroom opportunity. Did I want to abandon my quest for a cleaner me in the face of professional obstacles and start over some other time? Hmmm.
I took the pills. Fuck that shit (#6)
(to be continued... I just LOVE cliffhangers!)
1.01.2009
"We accept the love we feel we deserve."
Finally, finally, FINALLY the new year is here and all I can say is that I look forward to it like a fat kid and cake. I have had some pretty bad years in my life, but 2008 had, for the most part, a degree of suckage unlike any other. So last night I rang in the new year with a very old friend who we'll call Magic Man, and a very new friend: his fiancee, Feisty. We spent six hours leading up to the ball drop talking about everything you can imagine, and a couple of hours after, too. Magic Man and I reminisced about the past, Feisty got to hear a lot of funny stories about things she hadn't been there for, we talked about our old lives and where we were going with the new. I thought about what an interesting thing it was to be at this turning point in my life and be spending this moment with the old and the new; and I hope the entire year to come is like this for me. I hope I spend quality time with all my old friends, and quality time making new ones.
A couple of months ago I had absolutely NO idea where my life was going to lead. I'd had a plan, and I liked it, and I had worked really hard to bring it to fruition. I loved someone so much that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and have his babies (I know, I know. Shut up). He was frustrating and miserable and had absolutely no idea how to enjoy life without enhancement of some sort -- but I loved him nonetheless, and to me love is something that you stick around for. You try to help get over the bad times, you try to be supportive, and sometimes it gets hard and even you get frustrated and take it out on the other person. I mean, nobody's perfect. But when two people love each other equally they can equally overlook and forgive and move on.
The problem is when people DON'T love each other equally. And sometimes what happens is that the person you love doesn't love themselves very much. There is nothing you can do for a person with self-loathing. It's been my experience that loving people like that does nothing but burn you -- the more you give them, the more you look like an idiot. They feel they don't deserve love, and because you're willing to give it, there must be something wrong with YOU. I remember, towards the end, that Smaug said to me "why do you want to marry ME anyway?" It occurred to me then that he thought I was crazy for loving him. And you know what? In that moment, I realized that I WAS.
Love, like any other emotion, is an uncontrollable thing with many faces. Anger can be slow and simmering, or boil over suddenly and be done in a flash. Sorrow can follow you for ages like a pale ghost hovering at the edges, or grab you by the throat and leave you shaking with violent sobs. Love is like a jungle cat: sleek and silent and creeping unseen through foliage most of the time, deceptively beautiful and powerful. But love has claws and teeth, and can attack in an instant and leave you in pieces. It acts of its own will and desire, it wants what it wants. Sometimes it wants to sleep in the sun and stretch its limbs, and curl up against another warm body for comfort. Sometimes it is cruel and dangerous, and it cannot be forced.
You cannot make someone angry about something that upsets you. You cannot force logic on people or make them see common sense. You cannot convince people that they are worth loving by loving them more. They will resent you for it, and they will never benefit from your affection by waking up whole someday and realizing that they love you that hard in return.
I joke with people all the time that I make the same resolution every year: I resolve nothing. But this year I think I will make a resolution. I resolve to accept nothing less than I deserve. I resolve not to give more of myself than what is given to me. I resolve to dream great dreams and see great sights. I realized that in this world I've been pretty high and pretty low, both figuratively and literally. I have visited caves hundreds of feet below the oceans surface filled with blue, blue water so clear that you could see how the caves went on and on as though they were infinite. I have climbed to the top of an ancient Mayan ruin and looked at the splendor of the world for miles in every direction and realized how very, very small I was in comparison. I have loved and lost, and loved and lost, and done it again, and maybe once more for good measure... and it didn't kill me. I think about people who are afraid to take that risk, or any risk to LIVE LIFE, and all I can say is that I'm so glad I'm not one of those people.
What I would wish for all of you is to do the same. Fear nothing that has the same chance to be as painful as it does extraordinary. If I had feared the rough-hewn and rain-slicked stone steps of a monument, I would have never stood atop the ruin. If I had feared dark and close places I would have never seen the caves (actually, I can be claustrophobic sometimes -- but I don't let it stop me). If I had feared heartbreak, I never would have loved, and if I hadn't I might not be as tough as I am now. That's the thing about scar tissue folks -- it's much stronger than the regular stuff. Let's all resolve to go get scarred. Let's all resolve next year to "drink to our legs" (if you don't get it, go watch Jaws. I'm tired of having to explain everything to you people).
See you next year!
A couple of months ago I had absolutely NO idea where my life was going to lead. I'd had a plan, and I liked it, and I had worked really hard to bring it to fruition. I loved someone so much that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and have his babies (I know, I know. Shut up). He was frustrating and miserable and had absolutely no idea how to enjoy life without enhancement of some sort -- but I loved him nonetheless, and to me love is something that you stick around for. You try to help get over the bad times, you try to be supportive, and sometimes it gets hard and even you get frustrated and take it out on the other person. I mean, nobody's perfect. But when two people love each other equally they can equally overlook and forgive and move on.
The problem is when people DON'T love each other equally. And sometimes what happens is that the person you love doesn't love themselves very much. There is nothing you can do for a person with self-loathing. It's been my experience that loving people like that does nothing but burn you -- the more you give them, the more you look like an idiot. They feel they don't deserve love, and because you're willing to give it, there must be something wrong with YOU. I remember, towards the end, that Smaug said to me "why do you want to marry ME anyway?" It occurred to me then that he thought I was crazy for loving him. And you know what? In that moment, I realized that I WAS.
Love, like any other emotion, is an uncontrollable thing with many faces. Anger can be slow and simmering, or boil over suddenly and be done in a flash. Sorrow can follow you for ages like a pale ghost hovering at the edges, or grab you by the throat and leave you shaking with violent sobs. Love is like a jungle cat: sleek and silent and creeping unseen through foliage most of the time, deceptively beautiful and powerful. But love has claws and teeth, and can attack in an instant and leave you in pieces. It acts of its own will and desire, it wants what it wants. Sometimes it wants to sleep in the sun and stretch its limbs, and curl up against another warm body for comfort. Sometimes it is cruel and dangerous, and it cannot be forced.
You cannot make someone angry about something that upsets you. You cannot force logic on people or make them see common sense. You cannot convince people that they are worth loving by loving them more. They will resent you for it, and they will never benefit from your affection by waking up whole someday and realizing that they love you that hard in return.
I joke with people all the time that I make the same resolution every year: I resolve nothing. But this year I think I will make a resolution. I resolve to accept nothing less than I deserve. I resolve not to give more of myself than what is given to me. I resolve to dream great dreams and see great sights. I realized that in this world I've been pretty high and pretty low, both figuratively and literally. I have visited caves hundreds of feet below the oceans surface filled with blue, blue water so clear that you could see how the caves went on and on as though they were infinite. I have climbed to the top of an ancient Mayan ruin and looked at the splendor of the world for miles in every direction and realized how very, very small I was in comparison. I have loved and lost, and loved and lost, and done it again, and maybe once more for good measure... and it didn't kill me. I think about people who are afraid to take that risk, or any risk to LIVE LIFE, and all I can say is that I'm so glad I'm not one of those people.
What I would wish for all of you is to do the same. Fear nothing that has the same chance to be as painful as it does extraordinary. If I had feared the rough-hewn and rain-slicked stone steps of a monument, I would have never stood atop the ruin. If I had feared dark and close places I would have never seen the caves (actually, I can be claustrophobic sometimes -- but I don't let it stop me). If I had feared heartbreak, I never would have loved, and if I hadn't I might not be as tough as I am now. That's the thing about scar tissue folks -- it's much stronger than the regular stuff. Let's all resolve to go get scarred. Let's all resolve next year to "drink to our legs" (if you don't get it, go watch Jaws. I'm tired of having to explain everything to you people).
See you next year!
11.17.2008
"I felt compelled to tell you something. You have an absolutely breath-taking... heiney. I mean, that thing's good. I wanna be friends with it. "
It's snowed here a couple weeks ago for the first time; just a light dusting but it's still so very pretty. I've been loving the inclement weather out here. Light rainy days make everything shine, and the fog that comes out of the mountains wraps the landscape like dewy cotton. The leaves are finally off all the trees, and Puppy loves to run through their variegated skeletons littering the pavement as we take our evening walks.
I just got back here yesterday after spending a week in Texas with my brother (Motu), his wife (Skinny) and my nephew (Boo Bear). As much as I love being with them, it feels good to be back in this place that I call home now. Being around them is great because they're so at ease and in love with each other, and that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Plus, Boo Bear is without a doubt the cutest effing kid, EVER.
So it's been a month since I posted and everybody says "where the hell have you been? Write more!" The truth is that I haven't posted because writing comes easier to me when I'm unhappy... and I'm not. It takes effort to write and I haven't been making it. Sorry. I'm doing so now because I feel that it's important for me say that earlier part again: I AM NOT UNHAPPY.
I am content with my life. I've lost 40 pounds and just bought a bunch of clothes two sizes smaller than what was previously in my closet. Work is really busy and it gives me a lot of satisfaction to do my job. I'm taking classes for something I'm passionate about and have always wanted to do (and you'll all just have to wonder about that for a while, because I'm not sharing yet). I've made friends at work and I have fun with a lot of the people there, and I flirt constantly, my favorite hobby.
Nobody panic! Life is good, and as long as I have books to read and people to flirt with and my dog to snuggle with I want for practically nothing. I'm free to be as lazy, as passionate, as joyful and full of verve as I like, and that is a life worth living!
I just got back here yesterday after spending a week in Texas with my brother (Motu), his wife (Skinny) and my nephew (Boo Bear). As much as I love being with them, it feels good to be back in this place that I call home now. Being around them is great because they're so at ease and in love with each other, and that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Plus, Boo Bear is without a doubt the cutest effing kid, EVER.
So it's been a month since I posted and everybody says "where the hell have you been? Write more!" The truth is that I haven't posted because writing comes easier to me when I'm unhappy... and I'm not. It takes effort to write and I haven't been making it. Sorry. I'm doing so now because I feel that it's important for me say that earlier part again: I AM NOT UNHAPPY.
I am content with my life. I've lost 40 pounds and just bought a bunch of clothes two sizes smaller than what was previously in my closet. Work is really busy and it gives me a lot of satisfaction to do my job. I'm taking classes for something I'm passionate about and have always wanted to do (and you'll all just have to wonder about that for a while, because I'm not sharing yet). I've made friends at work and I have fun with a lot of the people there, and I flirt constantly, my favorite hobby.
Nobody panic! Life is good, and as long as I have books to read and people to flirt with and my dog to snuggle with I want for practically nothing. I'm free to be as lazy, as passionate, as joyful and full of verve as I like, and that is a life worth living!
11.02.2008
"They sent me away to boarding school. Sent me away makes it sound like they sent me to an asylum. There were no straps involved."
Yesterday Mame and I got to do something that we'd only dreamed about for ten years. Mame went to college in WV, and when I would go visit her we would drive out to Weston so we could drive by what was then known as the Weston State Hospital, an insane asylum that was still operating up until 1994. Why were we so fascinated by a rundown insane asylum? Well, besides the obvious "neato, an asylum!" factor, the place is absolutely fucking GORGEOUS, and we often bemoaned the fact that it was left to the elements. It had been condemned and was not open to the public, patrolled only by two security guards, which considering the size of the place was not enough to keep vandals from breaking in to steal things or have paintball battles in the abandoned hallways.
So this weekend Mame and I met up in the area, and we were completely stunned to find out that the place was now open and conducting tours. We immediately drove over and forked out a pretty tidy sum to take the full four-floors tour of the entire grounds (though I must say that Mame, true to form, absolutely refused to entertain my desire to come back at night for a flashlight tour or to go through their "Haunted Hospital" tour).
First off, Mame and I could not BELIEVE that we were actually on the grounds, standing on the steps of this beautiful building that we had always admired. After five, count 'em, FIVE false starts to the tour (because they were shorthanded and people kept showing up, they kept stopping to wait for those people -- thus Mame and I had the entire first 10 minutes of the tour memorized by the third try), we finally started walking through the building.
Let me give you some history: construction on this building began in 1858 and took 20 years to complete, which means that parts of it are actually older than the state it occupies (WV became a state in 1863). The place is made mostly of hand-cut stone taken from the surrounding mountains. It is the oldest hand-cut stone building in all of North America, and in the entire world is second only to the Kremlin. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.
Also impressive was our tour guide Cathy, because she started working at the hospital in 1970, and in fact was still employed at the new facility that was built on the back of the property and which all the patients moved to in 1994. Taking a tour with someone who had actually worked in the place for 24 years was just amazing, not only because of her history with that location but her experience in the field of mental illness for such a long period of time, over which an amazing transformation towards treatment of those people has taken place.
The condition of the interior was appalling, with peeling paint and plaster everywhere, but Cathy assured us that when they left in 94 the place was in good shape; because the building is stone it absorbs moisture, which did quite a number on the interior in such a short span. Did I forget to mention how FUCKING COLD it was in the building? It was 65 degrees outside, but inside it was probably about 40 or so, and the tourguide advised everyone to wear heavy jackets before we left.
All I can say is that Mame and I were in a state of awe for most of the tour, simply because we started talking about getting inside this place a decade ago. To imagine something for so long, and then to have it come to fruition, is breathtaking. To walk through a place where so much happened, where so much pain and heartbreak and sometimes even murder occurred... there is just no way to convey such a profound experience to other people.
It's also disturbing to learn about how people with problems they couldn't control were treated. Our guide tried very hard to make us understand that until the 1950's there was NO SUCH THING as medication, and mental illness was not at all understood, and so they often treated the symptoms and not the disease. Nowadays we have Prozac, Lithium, Zoloft, Halcyon... but back then they had hydrotherapy, which could be anything from wrapping you in towels soaked in icewater to scalding baths. Extremely crude lobotomy existed using a tool that looks EXACTLY like in ice pick (I won't explain how it was used -- suffice it to say it was disturbing).
Our guide also pointed out to us that often people would get institutionalized for reasons that seem completely stupid today. Wives would get locked up by their husbands for reading novels and thinking for themselves (actually, right now I can hear my dad thinking that there's nothing wrong with that). People with problems we recognize today as legitimate diseases, like alcoholism or depression, coming to that place and living their entire lives there. So much sadness in such a beautiful place. I couldn't help but think how many people I know could have ended up there 100 years ago, myself included.
It speaks so much for the tolerance that exists today, and it saddens me that within that tolerance there is still so much INTOLERANCE for things like skin color and sexual preference.
Walking through one of the floors, I put my arm through Mame's and put my head on my shoulder. What would I do without the tolerance of just this one person, who has made such a difference in my life? I wish everyone in the world could have the blessings that I have, among them a friend who's known me forever, understands me implicitly, and thinks going on a tour of an old lunatic asylum is a great way to spend an afternoon.
If you wish to learn more about this incredible place, you can click here for their official website or here for the Wikipedia entry. Also, the TAPS gentlemen from the SciFi show Ghost Hunters explored the building and officially declared it haunted (Season 4, Episode 9), but unfortunately it is not available for viewing online. If you find it, send it to me!
10.21.2008
"There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet"
Today on the ride back to the sticks from home base I did what I usually do, which is sing off key and think too much. What I thought about was perception; how it's often not based on any kind of fact, but has a viscous fluidity about it like mercury in a thermometer. Your perception is your truth, your reality. Often nothing can shake you from it, neither logic nor fact can sway you from that which you perceive to be true.
The problem here is that most of the people who walk through the world have no sense of self awareness. They don't know what drives them, why they react, why they feel the way they feel. They cloak themselves in self-righteousness and arrogance to mask their fear and doubt and shame, because to look within themselves and face those things is so much more terrifying than living the lie. If they believe themselves to be prosecuted, then it must be true. If they believe themselves to be victims, then they are. If they feel that you are to blame for all that has befallen them, then you are. Such is the strength of perception.
I refuse to be defined by anyone else's perception of me, because I worked very hard to see myself in a brighter light than most people. I know the workings of my own machine, and it isn't always pretty but it feels more real to me than the fake face I used to wear growing up and through the early years of my adulthood. I am proud to be able to defend my self-perception with logical argument, and if I had a single wish for the world it would be that we could all enjoy that sense of inner peace.
It is this faith I have in myself that keeps me strong. It lets me know that I cannot be cowed by fate when I am true to myself.
The problem here is that most of the people who walk through the world have no sense of self awareness. They don't know what drives them, why they react, why they feel the way they feel. They cloak themselves in self-righteousness and arrogance to mask their fear and doubt and shame, because to look within themselves and face those things is so much more terrifying than living the lie. If they believe themselves to be prosecuted, then it must be true. If they believe themselves to be victims, then they are. If they feel that you are to blame for all that has befallen them, then you are. Such is the strength of perception.
I refuse to be defined by anyone else's perception of me, because I worked very hard to see myself in a brighter light than most people. I know the workings of my own machine, and it isn't always pretty but it feels more real to me than the fake face I used to wear growing up and through the early years of my adulthood. I am proud to be able to defend my self-perception with logical argument, and if I had a single wish for the world it would be that we could all enjoy that sense of inner peace.
It is this faith I have in myself that keeps me strong. It lets me know that I cannot be cowed by fate when I am true to myself.
10.14.2008
"You are black and I am white... life's an eskimo pie, let's take a bite."
Week three of my confinement begins with a little more hope than week two did. I couldn’t even write about it at the time, because I was just too pissed off. Suffice it to say, I had to confront the intellectually challenged a little sooner than I expected to. It just amazes me that in the year 2008 there are actually people walking around who think it’s acceptable to use the word “nigger,” especially to someone that they barely know. I’m not such an idealist that I think those people don’t exist – I know that stupidity is the true plague of the 21st century, after all – but I tend to believe that in this day and age people are a little more cautious about revealing their true beliefs to total strangers. Not here apparently. I’ve discovered that certain areas of the building are subject to this vortex of stupidity and narrow-mindedness that just cannot be dispelled. I’m working on the theory that this building is just like the one in Ghostbusters -- it was specifically designed to harness the power of ignorance in certain areas. I’m keeping my ears open for anyone referring to themselves as “the Keymaster.”
In other areas, however, there is a semblance of sanity; or at least what passes for sanity to me (which I’m sure differs incredibly from the textbook version). The people in these areas give me hope that this place is not entirely a lost cause, and for that I am grateful. I don’t need to make a huge amount of friends; I just need to find a little niche of good people with open minds.
I think it’s a shame that most of this country still cannot embrace what is different. This entire nation is made up of different people who came from somewhere else, usually fleeing ignorance in their own home. Walt Whitman called us “the nation of many nations,” and it’s something that demands respect. Without such a vibrant pallet of colors, races, religions and creeds, what would this nation be? It would be a gap-toothed, tobacco chewing, ass crack showing ignoramus sitting in the back of his pick-up truck talking about white supremacy while scratching his balls, that’s what it would be. I don’t think that’s the image I want representing me. I’d rather be a quilt, made up of different fabrics and colors, of different textures and stitch patterns. Something made by many different hands, a collaboration. When I’m cold I can wrap myself in its warmth, and when I am weary its vibrance will lift my spirit.
I am so often frustrated by those who define themselves by who they exclude. I choose to be someone defined instead by who I include, because I think I’ll lead a richer, fuller life that way. If the only people I exclude are those who are stupid, ignorant and can’t find a way to be open-minded, well… I’ll still make out better, because the people around me will be so varied in interest and scope. We might disagree or even fail to find compromise, but we will learn from each other. That’s the beauty of open-mindedness, to see your point of view from another’s perspective. Maybe their perspective will change your mind, or maybe it will only reinforce how you feel. The point is that you’ll know another avenue, another road, even if you choose not to take it. That’s the only way to really enjoy life’s journey – to know all your options, and take the path most exciting to you. To only know one route and follow it because that’s what everyone before you did without question… that sounds like one of the circles of hell to me.
In other areas, however, there is a semblance of sanity; or at least what passes for sanity to me (which I’m sure differs incredibly from the textbook version). The people in these areas give me hope that this place is not entirely a lost cause, and for that I am grateful. I don’t need to make a huge amount of friends; I just need to find a little niche of good people with open minds.
I think it’s a shame that most of this country still cannot embrace what is different. This entire nation is made up of different people who came from somewhere else, usually fleeing ignorance in their own home. Walt Whitman called us “the nation of many nations,” and it’s something that demands respect. Without such a vibrant pallet of colors, races, religions and creeds, what would this nation be? It would be a gap-toothed, tobacco chewing, ass crack showing ignoramus sitting in the back of his pick-up truck talking about white supremacy while scratching his balls, that’s what it would be. I don’t think that’s the image I want representing me. I’d rather be a quilt, made up of different fabrics and colors, of different textures and stitch patterns. Something made by many different hands, a collaboration. When I’m cold I can wrap myself in its warmth, and when I am weary its vibrance will lift my spirit.
I am so often frustrated by those who define themselves by who they exclude. I choose to be someone defined instead by who I include, because I think I’ll lead a richer, fuller life that way. If the only people I exclude are those who are stupid, ignorant and can’t find a way to be open-minded, well… I’ll still make out better, because the people around me will be so varied in interest and scope. We might disagree or even fail to find compromise, but we will learn from each other. That’s the beauty of open-mindedness, to see your point of view from another’s perspective. Maybe their perspective will change your mind, or maybe it will only reinforce how you feel. The point is that you’ll know another avenue, another road, even if you choose not to take it. That’s the only way to really enjoy life’s journey – to know all your options, and take the path most exciting to you. To only know one route and follow it because that’s what everyone before you did without question… that sounds like one of the circles of hell to me.
10.10.2008
"I'm stuck in this pit, working for less than slave wages."
Sometimes I miss the excitement of working in retail. Retail is kind of like the Grateful Dead – you can’t really appreciate it unless you’ve been there in person. The only time there’s ever a dull moment is when you’re working an overnight shift. Even those lulls are counterbalanced by the sheer magnitude of crazy that makes its way through the doors in the middle of the night.
Nowadays I have a nice little desk, with a chair and a lamp. It wasn’t always that way. Most recently I worked in a retail pharmacy, and I used to have to pace aisle after aisle of industrial grade, perpetually stained carpet, sniffing out shoplifters and opportunists. I always hated the carpet. Once it was a week old it looked like crap no matter how much you vacuumed it, and it was always the first thing your district manager would jump all over you for.
You got to know the type after a while. Packs of teenage girls were an automatic flag. For them, shoplifting is a girl group activity that ranks right up there with sleepovers and going to the bathroom. If they headed towards the makeup aisle you made sure to be there, too. In the early 2000’s you had to start stalking emo groups of teenage boys, too, who had no problem wearing eyeliner but were ashamed to buy it, much like condoms. You also had to keep an eye on old people in the vitamin aisle, because supplements are expensive and they are on fixed incomes. More than once I would find an empty economy size bottle of geriatric vitamins that someone had dumped in their purse as they kept moving.
The people you interacted with were actually the best part of the job. I never have the opportunity to call the cops on people like I used to. I’ve nailed people for bad checks, bad credit cards, bad scripts, shoplifting, harassment and assault – both customers and employees alike. There’s nothing so exciting as working in a retail environment, believe me. Where else can you have the cops arrest a 90-year-old man for assaulting employees with his cane? Those were good times.
You have to have a pretty thick skin to pull it off, though, because people will treat retail employees in ways they would be ashamed for their mother to see. I’ve had people scream at me and call me rather colorful names in the middle of the floor because their item didn’t ring up at the correct price and I’m robbing them of ten cents. I had a woman tell me to my face that I’d be so beautiful if I just lost some weight, and then go on about it for twenty minutes in the most nonchalant fashion, as though we were discussing the weather. I’ve been hit on by men older than my grandfather who would rather explicitly describe the good time they were going to show me.
I’ve been thinking about my most memorable moments from every retail job I’ve ever had, and I think this would have to be my list.
Fast Food Chain: There was a homeless man who frequented the place. Some nights he would be very polite, and he would collect trash and trays from the dining room area and clean it up for us, so we would hook him up with a free meal. Other nights he would haunt the drive-thru, picking up loose change and masturbating while unsuspecting people sat in their cars waiting for burgers and fries.
Bookstore Café: If you’ve been to any of these you know that they have an area with tables and chairs, and that throughout the store are usually other chairs scattered about. It gets really, really busy on the weekends, because you can sit as long as you want reading the paper and eating your scone at a snail’s pace. One Saturday I had a woman get indignant with me because the place was so crowded, and she demanded to know how to get to the “additional seating upstairs” because she couldn’t find the sign. Maybe that’s because this is a one story building, and what you see is what you get. Instead I told her that the Garden Veranda was closed for renovation. I often wonder if she’s still looking for it.
Sporting Goods Store: There are so many things about my tenure here that it’s hard to choose just one, but I think I would have to go with the Phantom Shitter. This person used to hit the bookstore, too, but I never had to deal with it as often because we had a daily cleaning crew there. This allegedly female person would come to the store, take a dump, and then smear feces all over the stalls and the fixtures. There weren’t many women working there, and those who were didn’t get paid much. They would refuse to clean it. Can’t say I blame them, really. I was the only female manager, so guess who got to do it (even though I was paid much less than all the other managers)? If I was off the day it happened, believe me: it was waiting for me when I got back.
Car Dealership: I had a kid show up with his parents and his girlfriend who wanted a Mustang. This kid had a car that was one of the most disgusting things I had ever seen. Not that the car itself was bad, but that inside it was utterly filthy and completely filled with trash. I could not believe how hard his parents were working to help him get a really nice car that would just end up looking like the dumpster he drove onto the lot.
Retail Pharmacy: I worked at several different locations during my tenure with this company, but the most interesting was a 24 hour store in this really nice, moderately wealthy area of suburbia. On my first night my job was to keep the overnight supervisor and the head cashier in the building at all times, because corporate loss prevention were coming at 5:00 a.m. with the police to arrest them both for theft. That’s not even my favorite moment. That would have to be the day I noticed a suspicious car in the parking lot. Out of state plates, car parked askew, motor running, blinker on, and middle aged shirtless white guy passed out behind the wheel. I called police to report it, because I thought he needed medical assistance but was wary about approaching the vehicle. It turned out that the car was loaded with crack-cocaine, and that was more excitement than the police force in this snoozy town had ever seen. They had off duty cops showing up just to watch the proceedings, and clap me on the back for making the phone call.
In light of all this excitement, can you see why sometimes I just miss it? Nowadays I sit and wait for things to happen at work. When they do, it's really great. When they don't... I can't help but be nostalgic for the days when I could have people arrested.
Nowadays I have a nice little desk, with a chair and a lamp. It wasn’t always that way. Most recently I worked in a retail pharmacy, and I used to have to pace aisle after aisle of industrial grade, perpetually stained carpet, sniffing out shoplifters and opportunists. I always hated the carpet. Once it was a week old it looked like crap no matter how much you vacuumed it, and it was always the first thing your district manager would jump all over you for.
You got to know the type after a while. Packs of teenage girls were an automatic flag. For them, shoplifting is a girl group activity that ranks right up there with sleepovers and going to the bathroom. If they headed towards the makeup aisle you made sure to be there, too. In the early 2000’s you had to start stalking emo groups of teenage boys, too, who had no problem wearing eyeliner but were ashamed to buy it, much like condoms. You also had to keep an eye on old people in the vitamin aisle, because supplements are expensive and they are on fixed incomes. More than once I would find an empty economy size bottle of geriatric vitamins that someone had dumped in their purse as they kept moving.
The people you interacted with were actually the best part of the job. I never have the opportunity to call the cops on people like I used to. I’ve nailed people for bad checks, bad credit cards, bad scripts, shoplifting, harassment and assault – both customers and employees alike. There’s nothing so exciting as working in a retail environment, believe me. Where else can you have the cops arrest a 90-year-old man for assaulting employees with his cane? Those were good times.
You have to have a pretty thick skin to pull it off, though, because people will treat retail employees in ways they would be ashamed for their mother to see. I’ve had people scream at me and call me rather colorful names in the middle of the floor because their item didn’t ring up at the correct price and I’m robbing them of ten cents. I had a woman tell me to my face that I’d be so beautiful if I just lost some weight, and then go on about it for twenty minutes in the most nonchalant fashion, as though we were discussing the weather. I’ve been hit on by men older than my grandfather who would rather explicitly describe the good time they were going to show me.
I’ve been thinking about my most memorable moments from every retail job I’ve ever had, and I think this would have to be my list.
Fast Food Chain: There was a homeless man who frequented the place. Some nights he would be very polite, and he would collect trash and trays from the dining room area and clean it up for us, so we would hook him up with a free meal. Other nights he would haunt the drive-thru, picking up loose change and masturbating while unsuspecting people sat in their cars waiting for burgers and fries.
Bookstore Café: If you’ve been to any of these you know that they have an area with tables and chairs, and that throughout the store are usually other chairs scattered about. It gets really, really busy on the weekends, because you can sit as long as you want reading the paper and eating your scone at a snail’s pace. One Saturday I had a woman get indignant with me because the place was so crowded, and she demanded to know how to get to the “additional seating upstairs” because she couldn’t find the sign. Maybe that’s because this is a one story building, and what you see is what you get. Instead I told her that the Garden Veranda was closed for renovation. I often wonder if she’s still looking for it.
Sporting Goods Store: There are so many things about my tenure here that it’s hard to choose just one, but I think I would have to go with the Phantom Shitter. This person used to hit the bookstore, too, but I never had to deal with it as often because we had a daily cleaning crew there. This allegedly female person would come to the store, take a dump, and then smear feces all over the stalls and the fixtures. There weren’t many women working there, and those who were didn’t get paid much. They would refuse to clean it. Can’t say I blame them, really. I was the only female manager, so guess who got to do it (even though I was paid much less than all the other managers)? If I was off the day it happened, believe me: it was waiting for me when I got back.
Car Dealership: I had a kid show up with his parents and his girlfriend who wanted a Mustang. This kid had a car that was one of the most disgusting things I had ever seen. Not that the car itself was bad, but that inside it was utterly filthy and completely filled with trash. I could not believe how hard his parents were working to help him get a really nice car that would just end up looking like the dumpster he drove onto the lot.
Retail Pharmacy: I worked at several different locations during my tenure with this company, but the most interesting was a 24 hour store in this really nice, moderately wealthy area of suburbia. On my first night my job was to keep the overnight supervisor and the head cashier in the building at all times, because corporate loss prevention were coming at 5:00 a.m. with the police to arrest them both for theft. That’s not even my favorite moment. That would have to be the day I noticed a suspicious car in the parking lot. Out of state plates, car parked askew, motor running, blinker on, and middle aged shirtless white guy passed out behind the wheel. I called police to report it, because I thought he needed medical assistance but was wary about approaching the vehicle. It turned out that the car was loaded with crack-cocaine, and that was more excitement than the police force in this snoozy town had ever seen. They had off duty cops showing up just to watch the proceedings, and clap me on the back for making the phone call.
In light of all this excitement, can you see why sometimes I just miss it? Nowadays I sit and wait for things to happen at work. When they do, it's really great. When they don't... I can't help but be nostalgic for the days when I could have people arrested.
10.06.2008
"They Say Goldfish Have No Memory... and the Little Plastic Castle is a Surprise Every Time."
The leaves are beginning to change here, and as I start to explore my new environment I find little things over and over that take my breath away. It doesn't take much to thrill me. I enjoy finding little winding roads that take me by interesting places, or finding out that this backstreet connects to that one and realizing that suddenly I know where I am. I've learned to enjoy the simplest things in life: the way autumn paints the trees with henna and saffron, the crest of mountains in the distance, the way my dog looks up at me after a long walk with so much adoration in his sweet face. I weave all these things together and blanket myself with their comfort.
The hardest part for me is that I keep thinking about the person I wanted to share all of this with. Every time I see something incredible my first instinct is still to tell him all about it, and I have to remind myself that the only reason I'm enjoying any of this is because he made it clear that he would never commit to me. Given the choice of loving me forever or losing me forever, he chose to lose me. No amount of beautiful landscape has made that knowledge easy.
I don't mind so much being alone. I enjoy my own company, and being alone has never really bothered me. It's the sudden absence that unsettles me, and I need time to get used to it again. When you've had someone in your life for four years who's been your lover and your best friend, it's hard to reprogram yourself so quickly. In so many ways, it feels as though someone has died. You can make comparisons to that without even trying very hard, because what has passed away is the person who used to love you. The person who looked at you in such a way, who fit to you like spoons in a drawer, who made you laugh, who held your hand... that person is gone. In it's place is someone else that you don't know, a stranger who wears your lover's face.
I know that time will take care of that, will smooth away that pattern in my life like waves on the sand, but it's amazing how slowly time moves when you're in pain. So I find distractions and try not to think about Smaug, as we'll call him in these pages. Why Smaug? Well, in The Hobbit, Smaug is a dragon who sits around hoarding his gold and smoking. It seems like a fitting moniker for the man who told me marrying me would lead to him losing all his "amassed personal wealth," and who instead opted to replace me with a girl who found the 420 lifestyle as awesome as he does.
Strangely, I'm not sorry for what has happened. I did the right thing breaking up with him after he told me that marrying me would ruin his life. I did the right thing taking this job and moving out here. I would do those things the same way, because I believe that we all get what we deserve. So I get to be coddled by my company and live for free for at least a year in a beautiful new place, and Smaug gets to revert to the life of a frat boy, getting stoned every day and letting his house fall apart around him. Somehow I think I'm making out better.
The hardest part for me is that I keep thinking about the person I wanted to share all of this with. Every time I see something incredible my first instinct is still to tell him all about it, and I have to remind myself that the only reason I'm enjoying any of this is because he made it clear that he would never commit to me. Given the choice of loving me forever or losing me forever, he chose to lose me. No amount of beautiful landscape has made that knowledge easy.
I don't mind so much being alone. I enjoy my own company, and being alone has never really bothered me. It's the sudden absence that unsettles me, and I need time to get used to it again. When you've had someone in your life for four years who's been your lover and your best friend, it's hard to reprogram yourself so quickly. In so many ways, it feels as though someone has died. You can make comparisons to that without even trying very hard, because what has passed away is the person who used to love you. The person who looked at you in such a way, who fit to you like spoons in a drawer, who made you laugh, who held your hand... that person is gone. In it's place is someone else that you don't know, a stranger who wears your lover's face.
I know that time will take care of that, will smooth away that pattern in my life like waves on the sand, but it's amazing how slowly time moves when you're in pain. So I find distractions and try not to think about Smaug, as we'll call him in these pages. Why Smaug? Well, in The Hobbit, Smaug is a dragon who sits around hoarding his gold and smoking. It seems like a fitting moniker for the man who told me marrying me would lead to him losing all his "amassed personal wealth," and who instead opted to replace me with a girl who found the 420 lifestyle as awesome as he does.
Strangely, I'm not sorry for what has happened. I did the right thing breaking up with him after he told me that marrying me would ruin his life. I did the right thing taking this job and moving out here. I would do those things the same way, because I believe that we all get what we deserve. So I get to be coddled by my company and live for free for at least a year in a beautiful new place, and Smaug gets to revert to the life of a frat boy, getting stoned every day and letting his house fall apart around him. Somehow I think I'm making out better.
10.01.2008
The Only Thing that Separates Us from the Animals is our Ability to Accessorize
I was pretty apprehensive before I came down here, not about the area but about my job. My job is essentially the same, but I worried about the new environment and whether or not I would like the people. Specifically, my new boss. Understand that except for a month here and there, I haven't even had a boss since April of 2007. Now I'm going to a new location where the supervisor is, well, a little more perky than I would like. I met her a couple of times on other visits, and she bothered me. Don't get me wrong, she is a very, very nice person; it's just that she's a little too... holy for my taste. Now imagine her being tall and thin, with enormous boobs and gigantic hair. I can't actually make this up folks.
In my head I think of her as Bible Accessory Barbie. We can just call her BAB for short. By the way, BAB does Holy Yoga, because regular yoga is, you know... Hindu. You know that part in St. Elmo's Fire where the people around the dinner table whisper bad things during conversation like "cancer," because saying it aloud might make you get it? It was kind of like that.
Now, I meant what I said about BAB being a nice person. She is very, very nice. She also seems to be very, very narrow-minded the way most overly religious people are -- she automatically assumes that everyone she talks to has the exact same beliefs and doesn't think anything about talking freely to them about how much she loves the Lord. I mean, I loved the Lord once, too, but he wanted a commitment and I was just way too young for that; then he couldn't accept that it was just a fling and oh, the phone calls just wouldn't stop... where was I? Oh yeah. Narrow-minded.
Now, I'm not exactly in the deep south here, but I'm south enough to be able to get sweet tea wherever I go, and that means that we are in the Bible Belt. So no one here thinks that it's at all strange to have a company mission statement hanging up on several walls that contains the language "With God's Help." No one finds it at all unsettling that our boss forwards religious blog posts to the entire department with the message "God will help us on our way for he is Good and Great" or some drivel of that nature. Seriously, I'm not making this up.
I have many friends of many different religions. Religious people don't really bother me. It's people that are in your face with their religion ALL THE TIME that get on my nerves. Is that honestly the only dimension you have? It's like homosexuals that are ALL ABOUT their homosexuality 24/7: guys in assless chaps walking down the street wearing a rainbow vest with a big triangle on the back screaming "You go girl!" in some lispy high-pitched voice at every person with an ounce of fashion sense who crosses their path. They are the ones who give normal gay people a bad name. (Enrique especially will know what I'm talking about, because we ran into these people every Friday night at Woody's, and yes I am specifically talking about the twins, among others. I know you remember the twins.) I absolutely love gay people, they are the best people I know. I just don't need them to remind me every 10 minutes that they are, because I like them to relax and be themselves.
What I mean is, have some depth and think about your surroundings. I am not even a Christian, and this fact has not even occured to BAB. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I might believe differently about things, and that it would be respectful for her to consider that. Her automatic assumption that I am a bible thumping hymn singer is actually more offensive to me than the fact that she seems to have a stranglehold on the Good Book. It also bothers me that she is my supervisor and thinks absolutely nothing about bringing this into the workplace as though it were appropriate. It's actually a pretty severe violation of human resources guidelines, and I just have to shake my head.
All things considered, I'm enjoying my time there so far. It's kind of slow but there's certainly more work to do than there was the past couple of months in Jersey. The slow period allows me to learn their data entry system at a pretty decent pace. There is, however, a severe lack of individual expression permitted as far as my computer goes: I cannot change my desktop background, and am forced to look at the company logo and screen saver ALL DAY LONG. Internet access does not exist except to visit three company approved websites. Web surfing is just something people talk about in whispers over by the water cooler. I'm forced to use Internet Explorer for those three approved sites because they won't permit me to have Firefox. Basically, I am DYING because the boss can abuse company policy by sending me religious emails and I CAN'T CHANGE MY FRIGGING BACKGROUND to my Bioshock wallpaper. Is nothing sacred???
In my head I think of her as Bible Accessory Barbie. We can just call her BAB for short. By the way, BAB does Holy Yoga, because regular yoga is, you know... Hindu. You know that part in St. Elmo's Fire where the people around the dinner table whisper bad things during conversation like "cancer," because saying it aloud might make you get it? It was kind of like that.
Now, I meant what I said about BAB being a nice person. She is very, very nice. She also seems to be very, very narrow-minded the way most overly religious people are -- she automatically assumes that everyone she talks to has the exact same beliefs and doesn't think anything about talking freely to them about how much she loves the Lord. I mean, I loved the Lord once, too, but he wanted a commitment and I was just way too young for that; then he couldn't accept that it was just a fling and oh, the phone calls just wouldn't stop... where was I? Oh yeah. Narrow-minded.
Now, I'm not exactly in the deep south here, but I'm south enough to be able to get sweet tea wherever I go, and that means that we are in the Bible Belt. So no one here thinks that it's at all strange to have a company mission statement hanging up on several walls that contains the language "With God's Help." No one finds it at all unsettling that our boss forwards religious blog posts to the entire department with the message "God will help us on our way for he is Good and Great" or some drivel of that nature. Seriously, I'm not making this up.
I have many friends of many different religions. Religious people don't really bother me. It's people that are in your face with their religion ALL THE TIME that get on my nerves. Is that honestly the only dimension you have? It's like homosexuals that are ALL ABOUT their homosexuality 24/7: guys in assless chaps walking down the street wearing a rainbow vest with a big triangle on the back screaming "You go girl!" in some lispy high-pitched voice at every person with an ounce of fashion sense who crosses their path. They are the ones who give normal gay people a bad name. (Enrique especially will know what I'm talking about, because we ran into these people every Friday night at Woody's, and yes I am specifically talking about the twins, among others. I know you remember the twins.) I absolutely love gay people, they are the best people I know. I just don't need them to remind me every 10 minutes that they are, because I like them to relax and be themselves.
What I mean is, have some depth and think about your surroundings. I am not even a Christian, and this fact has not even occured to BAB. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I might believe differently about things, and that it would be respectful for her to consider that. Her automatic assumption that I am a bible thumping hymn singer is actually more offensive to me than the fact that she seems to have a stranglehold on the Good Book. It also bothers me that she is my supervisor and thinks absolutely nothing about bringing this into the workplace as though it were appropriate. It's actually a pretty severe violation of human resources guidelines, and I just have to shake my head.
All things considered, I'm enjoying my time there so far. It's kind of slow but there's certainly more work to do than there was the past couple of months in Jersey. The slow period allows me to learn their data entry system at a pretty decent pace. There is, however, a severe lack of individual expression permitted as far as my computer goes: I cannot change my desktop background, and am forced to look at the company logo and screen saver ALL DAY LONG. Internet access does not exist except to visit three company approved websites. Web surfing is just something people talk about in whispers over by the water cooler. I'm forced to use Internet Explorer for those three approved sites because they won't permit me to have Firefox. Basically, I am DYING because the boss can abuse company policy by sending me religious emails and I CAN'T CHANGE MY FRIGGING BACKGROUND to my Bioshock wallpaper. Is nothing sacred???
9.28.2008
Journey to the New World
Friday morning I made the journey from the old life to the new. I said goodbye to my mom before I got in the shower, and when I finished packing up my car I said goodbye to my dad. I gave him a peck on the cheek and a clap on the back, the way a son would. I did not get upset or weepy, because Pop considers that a sign of weakness, and he hates weakness. I managed to keep that up for about an hour into the trip, and then my cousin Gwyneth got to me.
She made me a road CD that was the first thing I played once I got in the car. Abba to Bon Jovi to Counting Crows to Disturbed and then the Cranberries… well, it actually sounded a lot like a couple of mix CD’s I’ve made for myself over the years. Everything was pretty carefree until I got to Track 12, and it caught me off guard as though I’d reached the bottom of the staircase but thought I had one more step to go. We watched a movie together Saturday, and my favorite Joni Mitchell song is on the soundtrack. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear it, but when the first notes from “Case of You” came on that was it, and I cried through the whole song.
I don’t think it was weakness. I think it was mourning for all the things I’d dreamed that did not come to pass. Mourning is a necessary act if you want to start moving forward, and I’m moving on with my life in the most literal way possible.
On my way out of Philadelphia I noticed the way the Comcast building disappeared into the morning fog; the windows melting into the mist like a painting, incomplete on the canvas and longing to have its whole form. It was like that all day on the journey from old to new, and I saw some of the most incredible things on the way. I shed the places I knew like an old skin, leaving the Schuykill for the Turnpike and heading to points west.
I took the scenic route, and savored the things along the way as though I was enjoying a new wine. Without warning I came upon fields and fields of sunflowers, lining both sides of the highway, golden and unexpected like beacons of sunshine along the asphalt for over a mile. Mountains rose in the distance, a skyline new and unfamiliar, cloaked in fog and mysterious. As soon as I hit Maryland I could smell the most incredible barbeque, and Puppy woke up from his nap and started frantically sniffing the air looking for the heavenly source.
I turned onto this twisting highway that brings you down through the mountain, past a campsite and through the most breathtaking countryside rising up on either side of you. The foliage is so close to the road that it’s like an embrace, a caress of green and gray and brown with mist weaving its way through the leaves like a sentient thing, bright and shining off the headlamps like moonlight. This is how I came to be home. At that moment I felt that I would never leave this place.
It was the shower that sealed the deal though. The water pressure in my new apartment is so incredible that the act of cleansing is like a religious experience. I felt like the embodiment of “The Ecstasy of St. Theresa.” If I’d known any hymns, I would have sung them. As it was the tile had to settle for “Seasons of Love” from Rent. I do what I can.
Mame came in for a couple of days to help me settle in. I took her to my favorite restaurant here (hey, I find all the important shit first), and found that they had customized our menus to welcome me to the area. Classy. They gave us copies and I hung mine on the fridge. Mame forgot hers, because it takes a lot more to impress her so she really didn’t care to keep it. Okay, I was kidding about that part.
The best thing about having Mame here is that the place automatically felt like home. She helped me rearrange some furniture and unpack some boxes, but it was really her physical presence that gave the place what it needed. Friends bring what you need to where you are. Friendship, like family, isn’t a place but a feeling.
So here I am, day three of my new life. So far, I love it here. I walk Puppy and everyone I meet is very kind, and I look at the mountains off in the distance and marvel at the view. The neighbors offer me tips on what’s around and how I can find important things, like the library and the hospital. Now I’m sitting in my new apartment looking out the windows, excited to be here right before the leaves begin to change, so that we can be in metamorphosis together.
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