Sadly, my beloved has gone home for Christmas. Well, its actually a happy thing that he's gone home, but I'm selfish and would rather have him here. The opportunity to sit around in our pajamas watching old Christmas movies and doing other "couply" things has been retracted and I have been left to spend the Holiday working extra hours at the mall (since I'll have a week off from my "real" job), eating dry turkey with my parents, and restraining Bridget from repeatedly knocking all the ornaments off the Christmas tree.
I know that entire paragraph sounded like a scroogy complaint, but in truth, I feel fairly content about "my" Christmas this year. The past couple of weeks have been CRAZY at work, but it's all been a good crazy. We've distributed extra food to hundreds of families, and about 300 children who may have had nothing at all from Santa this year are now getting pretty decent gifts. I've felt like Santa myself as I've personally delivered big boxes of toys to my clients. It won't come as a surprise to you that I've had my moments of cynicism throughout all of this. I've encountered people who are ungrateful and probably even undeserving of what they've received, and I've had to shake off the "Bah-Humbug" spirit as it has bitten at my heels. But, overall, I've seen a lot of joy and humbleness...and THAT has humbled ME. I keep reminding myself that despite the sometimes nasty attitudes of adults, there are children who are benefiting from our hard work. And THAT is all that really matters.
And you know what else makes me feel better?
I visit this site every now and then and imagine my sweetie there...and how could that not be a happy thing? Besides, I never tire of seeing a pervy Singaporian Santa Claus riding a Christmas train. Apparently Christmas in the Tropics has him even more excited than the kiddos. And, my much-loved readers, check out "Create Your Own Tropical Flower" for a fat slice of happy! I'll warn you...this little virtual craft is scarily addictive and will turn your brain to mush in no time flat. Not only is it fun to look at other flowers that have already been created by people all over the world...it's SO much fun to make your own. I made about 10 in one sitting (brain-mushy afterward, indeed). I wish you could see one I made, appropriately named Pollyanna, just for you guys, but the site won't allow me to post the link. I guess you'll just have to scroll through all the 2,252 flowers that are already on the tree. Let me know how that turns out.
I doubt I'll get another chance to write before Christmas, so have a merry one! I'm off to officially start my vacation with a long nap!
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Love and the Dark
Have you heard about "DARK" restaurants? I first heard about them a few weeks ago on "60 Minutes" and I was completely fascinated by the concept. This slowly-growing trend in fine dining started in Europe, but it's making its way around.
More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.
The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.
The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.
This one is in Canada somewhere.
After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.
For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.
Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.
I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.
What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.
I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.
More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.
The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.
The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.
This one is in Canada somewhere.
After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.
For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.
Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.
I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.
What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.
I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I guess if I have time to look at T-Shirts, I have time to blog, right?
I know, I know. You're wondering where the hell I've been. Well, I've been swamped at work, that's where I've been! My blogging hobby would greatly benefit from having access to a computer at home...and all that time I spend sleeping in the wee hours of the morning could be spent writing, instead. No such luck. My computer is archaic, at best, and can no longer serve me the way a good computer should. So, for the time being, you must suffer the inconvenience of my infrequency. I offer you my deepest regrets.
On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.
Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:
Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.
On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.
Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:
Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Make-Believe, "Snake-Bereave"
There’s a playground right behind my office that belongs to the preschool program that shares our property. As I stood by the microwave this morning, sleepily waiting for my coffee to heat up, I found myself staring out the window at the dew-damp playground equipment. It’s your typical playground. Some toddler-sized swings, a few slides, and a miniature playhouse on stilts. Off to the side of the yard there’s a small wooden wall with some very tall flowers painted on its front. The circular section of both flowers are cut out so that the kiddos can put their faces through; you know...so that it appears as if this flower’s face is really the kid’s face. Not exactly genius design. As I stared at this, I thought to myself…
“That is like...SO lame. Why would someone put that on a playground? There’s nothing fun about putting your face through a wooden flower. Kids are so stupid. They get a kick out of doing such stupid things. ‘Whoo-Hoo! Look at me, everybody! I’m a flower! My face is in a flower! Hahahaha...I’m so awesome and life is so great and it’s so much fun pretending to be a flower! Yay!’”
I know. My inner dialogue was unnecessarily critical. But like I said, I was waiting on my morning coffee. Of course, I did a LOT of stupid pretending as a child. (I still do, for that matter.) Here are just a few things I “pretended” when I was a youngin:
For some reason, I convinced myself that there was a massive underground “Cat City” in the woods behind our house. The secret entrance was through a mossy knot on the front of a certain oak tree I was fond of. I pretended that I was the only human that knew about the Cat City, and that I was an honorary citizen. They’d lead me through the access tunnel and we’d spend the evenings at little cat clubs…wearing fancy party clothes…dancing to jazz music…all played live by little cat musicians.
I dabbled in a variety of professions as a child. I was a teacher. A chef. A circus acrobat. A trainer of wild animals. A soccer mom. A librarian (I was a crazy one, huh?). A medieval warrior. A bus driver. Shirley Temple. A rockstar. A tiger. A bride. A policewoman battling terrorists in extreme situations. A makeup artist. A model. Queen of the Underworld.
When I had nobody else to play with, I’d drag out a board game and several of my favorite stuffed animals. I’d sit them around the game and the 4 of us would play the game…turn by turn. This brought defeat for me every time because it was ALWAYS Sampson the Seal Pup that won. That Sampson was one smart seal pup.
I would use every single spare sheet, blanket, towel, table cloth, and other large cuts of fabric in the house to construct complex fortresses to hide in. I would drape and tie them over every piece of furniture and fixture that stood still. My architecture was impressive. I’d have tunnels and rooms and secret chambers that stretched from one wall of the living room to the other. They were a high-tech hideout that I lived in during nuclear meltdowns and alien invasions…built in the unknown depths of the Brazilian rainforest. I’d usually do this when nobody was paying much attention, and then I’d get berated because my family would walk in and see that it was impossible for them to maneuver around my cloth castle. Usually, my brothers would end up kicking the walls in or throwing pillows through the ceilings, and I’d be left with nothing but a pile of wrinkled bedsheets; exposed and vunerable to the alien infested wilderness around me.
More frequently than anything else, I’d pretend that I belonged to a family different from my own. This wasn’t because I didn’t like my family. My parents were wonderful to me, and my brothers weren’t COMPLETELY horrible. It was just that I thought that life with another family would be so much more glamorous than with my own. I had a perverse fantasy that I was really the love child of Tom Selleck and Shelley Long (have I shared this before???). They had been caught in a torrid love affair, and had had no choice but to give me up when I was born. I would watch Magnum P.I. and Cheers and wonder if they ever thought about me…the daughter they would never know. I would daydream about the trips we would have taken together, the horses we should’ve raised in the back yard, and fabulous birthday parties (with inflatable jump castles, face painting, and hot air balloon rides) I was missing out on every year, thanks to them.
Nowadays I mostly pretend the same types of things that all other adults do. I pretend…almost daily…that I’m in some type of mood other than the mood I’m REALLY in. (Complacent instead of concerned. Interested instead of irritated. Alert instead of sleepy and distracted.) Right now, I’m pretending that, instead of my office, I’m in a luxurious hotel suite in Aspen. My window view is of a breathtaking, snow-covered mountainside and not the dented bumper of my coworker’s car. There’s a steamy cup of latte and a plate of fresh apple danish and cinnamon rolls on the corner of my desk, none of which could possibly make me fat.
What are YOU pretending today?
“That is like...SO lame. Why would someone put that on a playground? There’s nothing fun about putting your face through a wooden flower. Kids are so stupid. They get a kick out of doing such stupid things. ‘Whoo-Hoo! Look at me, everybody! I’m a flower! My face is in a flower! Hahahaha...I’m so awesome and life is so great and it’s so much fun pretending to be a flower! Yay!’”
I know. My inner dialogue was unnecessarily critical. But like I said, I was waiting on my morning coffee. Of course, I did a LOT of stupid pretending as a child. (I still do, for that matter.) Here are just a few things I “pretended” when I was a youngin:
For some reason, I convinced myself that there was a massive underground “Cat City” in the woods behind our house. The secret entrance was through a mossy knot on the front of a certain oak tree I was fond of. I pretended that I was the only human that knew about the Cat City, and that I was an honorary citizen. They’d lead me through the access tunnel and we’d spend the evenings at little cat clubs…wearing fancy party clothes…dancing to jazz music…all played live by little cat musicians.
I dabbled in a variety of professions as a child. I was a teacher. A chef. A circus acrobat. A trainer of wild animals. A soccer mom. A librarian (I was a crazy one, huh?). A medieval warrior. A bus driver. Shirley Temple. A rockstar. A tiger. A bride. A policewoman battling terrorists in extreme situations. A makeup artist. A model. Queen of the Underworld.
When I had nobody else to play with, I’d drag out a board game and several of my favorite stuffed animals. I’d sit them around the game and the 4 of us would play the game…turn by turn. This brought defeat for me every time because it was ALWAYS Sampson the Seal Pup that won. That Sampson was one smart seal pup.
I would use every single spare sheet, blanket, towel, table cloth, and other large cuts of fabric in the house to construct complex fortresses to hide in. I would drape and tie them over every piece of furniture and fixture that stood still. My architecture was impressive. I’d have tunnels and rooms and secret chambers that stretched from one wall of the living room to the other. They were a high-tech hideout that I lived in during nuclear meltdowns and alien invasions…built in the unknown depths of the Brazilian rainforest. I’d usually do this when nobody was paying much attention, and then I’d get berated because my family would walk in and see that it was impossible for them to maneuver around my cloth castle. Usually, my brothers would end up kicking the walls in or throwing pillows through the ceilings, and I’d be left with nothing but a pile of wrinkled bedsheets; exposed and vunerable to the alien infested wilderness around me.
More frequently than anything else, I’d pretend that I belonged to a family different from my own. This wasn’t because I didn’t like my family. My parents were wonderful to me, and my brothers weren’t COMPLETELY horrible. It was just that I thought that life with another family would be so much more glamorous than with my own. I had a perverse fantasy that I was really the love child of Tom Selleck and Shelley Long (have I shared this before???). They had been caught in a torrid love affair, and had had no choice but to give me up when I was born. I would watch Magnum P.I. and Cheers and wonder if they ever thought about me…the daughter they would never know. I would daydream about the trips we would have taken together, the horses we should’ve raised in the back yard, and fabulous birthday parties (with inflatable jump castles, face painting, and hot air balloon rides) I was missing out on every year, thanks to them.
Nowadays I mostly pretend the same types of things that all other adults do. I pretend…almost daily…that I’m in some type of mood other than the mood I’m REALLY in. (Complacent instead of concerned. Interested instead of irritated. Alert instead of sleepy and distracted.) Right now, I’m pretending that, instead of my office, I’m in a luxurious hotel suite in Aspen. My window view is of a breathtaking, snow-covered mountainside and not the dented bumper of my coworker’s car. There’s a steamy cup of latte and a plate of fresh apple danish and cinnamon rolls on the corner of my desk, none of which could possibly make me fat.
What are YOU pretending today?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Comtemplating thankfulness after Thanksgiving = Sending a Belated Birthday card (belatedly)
At the start of last week, I had an enormous amount of negative energy in my body. An enormous amount. I felt choked by it. I could've written several entries in which I ranted and bitched about all the crap that was clogging the pipes of my happiness, but I chose not to. I was practicing some some self-restraint in the spirit of Thanksgiving. I chose to focus on the positive and not let every little worry and frustration (and my growing contempt and disgust in the human race) overtake me. As I thought about it I realized the truth as it is, that I have an immense amount of things to be thankful for right now. God has blessed me more than I deserve to be blessed. I have a job I love (for the most part). I have many comforts and luxuries that others don't. I'm in love. I have great friends. I've had lots of good hair days lately. But, listing the things I'm thankful for would have been the MOST unoriginal thing I could have done. Seeing as Thanksgiving is over now, I could have just skipped this subject altogether, but I really did want to write about it. So...I'm gonna give it a shot.
Instead of thankfulness, I'm going to talk about forgiveness. Why forgiveness? Because I've reached the conclusion that thankfulness isn't possible without forgiveness. I'll do my best to explain...
I read this one day last week. "God is more interested in making us what we ought to be than in giving us what we want to have." I began to disect this the instant I read it. I thought about "wants" as they relate to thankfulness. Should we only be thankful when we recieve the things we want? Or should we be thankful for everything in our lives; the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff we hoped for, AND the stuff we never expected?
A friend of mine taught me a couple of years ago (during a very dark time)to be thankful PARTICULARLY for the bad stuff. I thought she was crazy at first. I immediately told her that there was no way I could thank God for the things that were making me miserable at the time. (There were a lot of them.) And, even if I offered thanks, I would be doing so insincerely...and God would know the difference, anyway. She insisted that I should do it; that I should repeatedly send up praise for every little thing that made me sad and angry and worrisome. Because I trusted my friend and because I was desperate to feel God at the time...I took her advice...and it took it fully. I audibly said "Thank You" to God probably 50-75 times a day. I said it after EVERY negative thought and every unpleasant spark of emotion. And I hated it.
Nothing changed at first, and the continuous task of expressing gratitude in my time of despair took a toll on my already fragile emotional state, and also on my patience. But, much to my surprise, it didn't take long to understand the advice she gave. Before long, I found that all the little ugly things didn't bother me so much...and I was soon able to focus more on the things that WEREN'T ugly. And then something else happened. I realized that I had been blaming myself for all the ugly things that I felt so burdened by. I had convinced myself that they were all, in one way or another, either directly or abstractly, the factor of my failure. But somewhere in my forced, concentrated thankfulness, I forgave myself. I wasn't even concious of it at the time...but it came to me in shallow waves of relief. As the miracle continued, I found myself more thankful...for life and for breath and for love and for opportunity...than I ever had been before. And my focus shifted to the beautiful and away from the ugly.
Since then, I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and I've learned how to forgive not only myself, but others. I know we think that all of us already know how to forgive, but it's an ability that we aren't born with. It's completely unnatural. It's a hard thing to learn; such a painful process...like riding a bike without training wheels. I had bruised legs...and a bruised ego...for months. The more I've forgiven...and the BIGGER I've forgiven...the more thankful I've become. This is partly the power of positive thinking, but mostly it's power that allows beauty to come into my life. I forgive...I let go...and great things follow. I don't even have to look for them. It's as if greatness automatically fills the space that my unforgiveness was once occupying...just like a commonplace act of nature.
If forgiveness can work such miracles in my tiny little life, then what other powers does it possess?
I just read a book called "Left to Tell". It was written by a woman who survived the Rwandan Holocaust by hiding in a bathroom for 3 months. Her entire family, with the exception of one brother, was brutally murdered during the genocide. She tells of the horrible things that happened in Africa during that time. Things that no human being should ever have to witness and endure. But what she talks about more is how she learned to forgive the people that put an entire country through Hell. She even forgave the individuals that slaughtered those she loved most. She instead chose to be thankful for survival and for her faith. This woman has gone on to achieve amazing things, and has spread messages of hope and healing to millions of people around the world. She would never have accomplished anything without forgiveness.
I think of Elie Weisel, one of the best known survivors of the Holocaust during World War II. He has spent years talking about forgiveness. I cry every time I hear him speak and every time I read his works. I cry not only at the emotion I hear in his voice and for the memories he wakes up to every day of his life, but for the way he has embraced life since that horrible time. He has credited much of his success to the power of forgiveness...and he,too, has changed many lives with his wisdom.
I could name dozens of other examples of extreme forgiveness, and all of them would tell a different story of lives changed. I believe that every single one of them would mention thankfulness as a key factor...a prominent outcome.
Being thankful really does transform us. It pushes us towards success, inner peace, and healthy relationships. It gives us hope and acceptance. When you think about it, it enables us to be "what we ought to be" (referring to the afore mentioned quote), doesn't it? Aren't those characteristics things that we "ought" to display? Wouldn't most people WANT those things?
We can look at all of this mathematically. Please keep in mind I have NEVER been good at math.
Pain + Thankfulness = Forgiveness
Forgiveness X more Thankfulness = Great things/things we WANT
So, if God really does care more about making us better people more than he cares about giving us our desires, he's actually killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that.
Instead of thankfulness, I'm going to talk about forgiveness. Why forgiveness? Because I've reached the conclusion that thankfulness isn't possible without forgiveness. I'll do my best to explain...
I read this one day last week. "God is more interested in making us what we ought to be than in giving us what we want to have." I began to disect this the instant I read it. I thought about "wants" as they relate to thankfulness. Should we only be thankful when we recieve the things we want? Or should we be thankful for everything in our lives; the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff we hoped for, AND the stuff we never expected?
A friend of mine taught me a couple of years ago (during a very dark time)to be thankful PARTICULARLY for the bad stuff. I thought she was crazy at first. I immediately told her that there was no way I could thank God for the things that were making me miserable at the time. (There were a lot of them.) And, even if I offered thanks, I would be doing so insincerely...and God would know the difference, anyway. She insisted that I should do it; that I should repeatedly send up praise for every little thing that made me sad and angry and worrisome. Because I trusted my friend and because I was desperate to feel God at the time...I took her advice...and it took it fully. I audibly said "Thank You" to God probably 50-75 times a day. I said it after EVERY negative thought and every unpleasant spark of emotion. And I hated it.
Nothing changed at first, and the continuous task of expressing gratitude in my time of despair took a toll on my already fragile emotional state, and also on my patience. But, much to my surprise, it didn't take long to understand the advice she gave. Before long, I found that all the little ugly things didn't bother me so much...and I was soon able to focus more on the things that WEREN'T ugly. And then something else happened. I realized that I had been blaming myself for all the ugly things that I felt so burdened by. I had convinced myself that they were all, in one way or another, either directly or abstractly, the factor of my failure. But somewhere in my forced, concentrated thankfulness, I forgave myself. I wasn't even concious of it at the time...but it came to me in shallow waves of relief. As the miracle continued, I found myself more thankful...for life and for breath and for love and for opportunity...than I ever had been before. And my focus shifted to the beautiful and away from the ugly.
Since then, I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and I've learned how to forgive not only myself, but others. I know we think that all of us already know how to forgive, but it's an ability that we aren't born with. It's completely unnatural. It's a hard thing to learn; such a painful process...like riding a bike without training wheels. I had bruised legs...and a bruised ego...for months. The more I've forgiven...and the BIGGER I've forgiven...the more thankful I've become. This is partly the power of positive thinking, but mostly it's power that allows beauty to come into my life. I forgive...I let go...and great things follow. I don't even have to look for them. It's as if greatness automatically fills the space that my unforgiveness was once occupying...just like a commonplace act of nature.
If forgiveness can work such miracles in my tiny little life, then what other powers does it possess?
I just read a book called "Left to Tell". It was written by a woman who survived the Rwandan Holocaust by hiding in a bathroom for 3 months. Her entire family, with the exception of one brother, was brutally murdered during the genocide. She tells of the horrible things that happened in Africa during that time. Things that no human being should ever have to witness and endure. But what she talks about more is how she learned to forgive the people that put an entire country through Hell. She even forgave the individuals that slaughtered those she loved most. She instead chose to be thankful for survival and for her faith. This woman has gone on to achieve amazing things, and has spread messages of hope and healing to millions of people around the world. She would never have accomplished anything without forgiveness.
I think of Elie Weisel, one of the best known survivors of the Holocaust during World War II. He has spent years talking about forgiveness. I cry every time I hear him speak and every time I read his works. I cry not only at the emotion I hear in his voice and for the memories he wakes up to every day of his life, but for the way he has embraced life since that horrible time. He has credited much of his success to the power of forgiveness...and he,too, has changed many lives with his wisdom.
I could name dozens of other examples of extreme forgiveness, and all of them would tell a different story of lives changed. I believe that every single one of them would mention thankfulness as a key factor...a prominent outcome.
Being thankful really does transform us. It pushes us towards success, inner peace, and healthy relationships. It gives us hope and acceptance. When you think about it, it enables us to be "what we ought to be" (referring to the afore mentioned quote), doesn't it? Aren't those characteristics things that we "ought" to display? Wouldn't most people WANT those things?
We can look at all of this mathematically. Please keep in mind I have NEVER been good at math.
Pain + Thankfulness = Forgiveness
Forgiveness X more Thankfulness = Great things/things we WANT
So, if God really does care more about making us better people more than he cares about giving us our desires, he's actually killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I'll take the Botox, the Brow Lift, and a side of Vaginal Reconstruction
There’s a new fad in the medical world, folks. Hymenoplasty. It’s actually been around for some time (although it’s news to me), but the popularity of the procedure is growing with fervor. Broken hymen, ladies? Well, here’s a new one for ya!
Apparently, women are taking advantage of this technology to attain a second chance at “virginity”. I put VIRGINITY in quotes because equating the concept of sexual purity with whether or not you happen to have an intact hymen is asinine. What a joke. If you’re TRULY concerned about your sexual purity, then surely you would understand that a little piece of skin really has nothing to do with it at all. I experience so many simultaneous emotions when considering all the ramifications of this subject…I don’t even know where to begin in expressing them.
This article (http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/05349/622923.stm) is almost a year old, but it covers a variety of different views on this matter. The quote…"It's the ultimate gift for the man who has everything," makes me want to vomit. And if you don’t understand all the reasons WHY it makes me want to vomit, then my explaining it to you would make no difference at all; you will never get it.
Spicing up a marriage? Wear some nasty lingerie. Experiment. Role play. Lose the baby weight and get more exercise. See a sex therapist. But please don’t resort to having your vagina surgically altered just so that it feels good for your husband….just ONE more time. If this is what he needs, then your problems are much bigger than you realize.
Apparently, women are taking advantage of this technology to attain a second chance at “virginity”. I put VIRGINITY in quotes because equating the concept of sexual purity with whether or not you happen to have an intact hymen is asinine. What a joke. If you’re TRULY concerned about your sexual purity, then surely you would understand that a little piece of skin really has nothing to do with it at all. I experience so many simultaneous emotions when considering all the ramifications of this subject…I don’t even know where to begin in expressing them.
This article (http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/05349/622923.stm) is almost a year old, but it covers a variety of different views on this matter. The quote…"It's the ultimate gift for the man who has everything," makes me want to vomit. And if you don’t understand all the reasons WHY it makes me want to vomit, then my explaining it to you would make no difference at all; you will never get it.
Spicing up a marriage? Wear some nasty lingerie. Experiment. Role play. Lose the baby weight and get more exercise. See a sex therapist. But please don’t resort to having your vagina surgically altered just so that it feels good for your husband….just ONE more time. If this is what he needs, then your problems are much bigger than you realize.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The 4 years I spent in college was SO worth it.
The following are just a few examples of not-so-smart things I’ve done/said lately.
I mailed off a 2-week-belated birthday gift to my friend in New York. (A Rachael Ray cookbook.) I selected a super cute card that went PERFECTLY with the book, but apparently forgot to include it in the package. AND…I didn’t even put my name on the outside of the package. So, she didn’t even know who the gift was from; it was just a book in an envelope. Happy Birthday from the laziest friend you’ve ever had! (I still haven’t found the card and have no idea what I did with it, BTW.)
After showering, I decided that my itchy dry skin needed a thirst quenching application of lotion. I pulled out a bottle from my very disorganized lotion drawer, and squeezed a hearty amount into my hand. As I proceeded to cover my arms, stomach, and shoulders, I noticed that my skin wasn’t absorbing the lotion well. Why? Because it was shower gel, that’s why. I had to get BACK into the shower to rinse off, and was late for work at the end of it all.
While with David, I noticed some cool apartments that I wanted him to see. Tapping him with my bony finger as he drove, I said, “Hey, Building! Look at that baby!” Needless to say, he did not see the said apartments.
I went into the grocery store for Draino and toilet paper…only. I left the store with ice cream, aluminum foil, tampons, and a can of baked beans…only.
(Another shower story…) I stepped in fire ants. Unfortunate. Painful. Fully dressed, I jumped into the bathtub to rinse off the excruciating fire ant venom. Of course, I didn’t know that the shower nozzle was still on and when I turned the cold water on, I was drenched. My feet hurt so badly that I couldn’t even concentrate enough to turn the water off or to step out of the tub. No outfit makes you feel sexier than a pair of wet jeans and a wet hoodie.
I popped some brownies into the oven and went about my business doing very important things. 30 minutes later, it occurred to me that my apartment was NOT filled with the heavenly aroma of baking chocolate. Going to investigate, I realized that I had never even turned the oven on.
My supervisor put a report in my box that listed a few tasks that I was working on for a particular client. In hindsight, I can say that it was CLEARLY a report that needed to be signed and handed back to him, although at the time, I didn’t get that. I read it and acknowledged in my head that I had, in fact, completed all listed tasks. Good! I then crumbled it into a ball and threw it away. More than a week later, my supervisor asked whatever happened to that report he gave me about such-and-such. Oh. “Yeah. Um, I’m gonna need another copy of that.”
I made some temporary “friends” during a 7-hour-long airline fiasco that revolved around cancelled and delayed flights. Towards the end of our adventure together, one of them mentioned the name of the company they both worked for. “Company A”. I perked up a bit…and quickly shared that my boyfriend works for “Company B”. They both looked at me, then looked at each other, then looked back at me as if to say “…AND…???” I went on to excitedly explain that “B” is closely related to “A”. That, in fact, “A” is really the parent company of “B”.
They looked confused and proceeded to ask me questions about this mysterious “Company B”. They had never heard of it. Feeling the need to defend myself and my boyfriend’s company, I shared with them all the knowledge I had about “Company B”. And…let me tell you what a BigGirl I felt like as I went on and on about what the company specializes in. My new friends finally decided that I seemed to know what I was talking about, but I knew they were still suspicious because they had no knowledge of this “Company B”. Someone graciously changed the subject, and I didn’t give another thought to the conversation.
I finally reached my destination…late and frazzled…and was dragging my butt through the airport when I saw a sign for my boyfriend’s company. It said “Company C” in big, bold letters. Aww. That’s nice. It took me about 3 seconds to realize, with humiliation, that I had wrongly referred to “C” as “B”, and no wonder my airport friends thought I was a moron. As my mind continued to right itself, I came to another embarrassing conclusion. “Company B” was not the name of an existing company at all, but the name of a prescription drug used to treat schizophrenia and other mental illnesses, of all things. (The name of the drug and of the company are similar....)
I know what you’re wondering, and NO, I don’t take any such medication.
I mailed off a 2-week-belated birthday gift to my friend in New York. (A Rachael Ray cookbook.) I selected a super cute card that went PERFECTLY with the book, but apparently forgot to include it in the package. AND…I didn’t even put my name on the outside of the package. So, she didn’t even know who the gift was from; it was just a book in an envelope. Happy Birthday from the laziest friend you’ve ever had! (I still haven’t found the card and have no idea what I did with it, BTW.)
After showering, I decided that my itchy dry skin needed a thirst quenching application of lotion. I pulled out a bottle from my very disorganized lotion drawer, and squeezed a hearty amount into my hand. As I proceeded to cover my arms, stomach, and shoulders, I noticed that my skin wasn’t absorbing the lotion well. Why? Because it was shower gel, that’s why. I had to get BACK into the shower to rinse off, and was late for work at the end of it all.
While with David, I noticed some cool apartments that I wanted him to see. Tapping him with my bony finger as he drove, I said, “Hey, Building! Look at that baby!” Needless to say, he did not see the said apartments.
I went into the grocery store for Draino and toilet paper…only. I left the store with ice cream, aluminum foil, tampons, and a can of baked beans…only.
(Another shower story…) I stepped in fire ants. Unfortunate. Painful. Fully dressed, I jumped into the bathtub to rinse off the excruciating fire ant venom. Of course, I didn’t know that the shower nozzle was still on and when I turned the cold water on, I was drenched. My feet hurt so badly that I couldn’t even concentrate enough to turn the water off or to step out of the tub. No outfit makes you feel sexier than a pair of wet jeans and a wet hoodie.
I popped some brownies into the oven and went about my business doing very important things. 30 minutes later, it occurred to me that my apartment was NOT filled with the heavenly aroma of baking chocolate. Going to investigate, I realized that I had never even turned the oven on.
My supervisor put a report in my box that listed a few tasks that I was working on for a particular client. In hindsight, I can say that it was CLEARLY a report that needed to be signed and handed back to him, although at the time, I didn’t get that. I read it and acknowledged in my head that I had, in fact, completed all listed tasks. Good! I then crumbled it into a ball and threw it away. More than a week later, my supervisor asked whatever happened to that report he gave me about such-and-such. Oh. “Yeah. Um, I’m gonna need another copy of that.”
I made some temporary “friends” during a 7-hour-long airline fiasco that revolved around cancelled and delayed flights. Towards the end of our adventure together, one of them mentioned the name of the company they both worked for. “Company A”. I perked up a bit…and quickly shared that my boyfriend works for “Company B”. They both looked at me, then looked at each other, then looked back at me as if to say “…AND…???” I went on to excitedly explain that “B” is closely related to “A”. That, in fact, “A” is really the parent company of “B”.
They looked confused and proceeded to ask me questions about this mysterious “Company B”. They had never heard of it. Feeling the need to defend myself and my boyfriend’s company, I shared with them all the knowledge I had about “Company B”. And…let me tell you what a BigGirl I felt like as I went on and on about what the company specializes in. My new friends finally decided that I seemed to know what I was talking about, but I knew they were still suspicious because they had no knowledge of this “Company B”. Someone graciously changed the subject, and I didn’t give another thought to the conversation.
I finally reached my destination…late and frazzled…and was dragging my butt through the airport when I saw a sign for my boyfriend’s company. It said “Company C” in big, bold letters. Aww. That’s nice. It took me about 3 seconds to realize, with humiliation, that I had wrongly referred to “C” as “B”, and no wonder my airport friends thought I was a moron. As my mind continued to right itself, I came to another embarrassing conclusion. “Company B” was not the name of an existing company at all, but the name of a prescription drug used to treat schizophrenia and other mental illnesses, of all things. (The name of the drug and of the company are similar....)
I know what you’re wondering, and NO, I don’t take any such medication.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I need to be cooler, and it's all up to YOU.
Okay. I need help.
I'm not COMPLETELY computer illiterate, but I do struggle from time to time with the technical stuff. I am somewhat able to manage my site template to make minor changes, but the big stuff leaves me confused.
So, what I want to do is create some type of cool "masthead". (...across the top of my page...I've been told this is what it's called.) Either that, or insert some large(r) graphics on my sidebar. I've been reading up and tinkling with my template from time to time, but I've obviously not had much luck. I know some of you MUST know how to do this because your own sites look spiffy and fancy.
Please share your knowledge with me, even if it's only out of pity!!!
I'm not COMPLETELY computer illiterate, but I do struggle from time to time with the technical stuff. I am somewhat able to manage my site template to make minor changes, but the big stuff leaves me confused.
So, what I want to do is create some type of cool "masthead". (...across the top of my page...I've been told this is what it's called.) Either that, or insert some large(r) graphics on my sidebar. I've been reading up and tinkling with my template from time to time, but I've obviously not had much luck. I know some of you MUST know how to do this because your own sites look spiffy and fancy.
Please share your knowledge with me, even if it's only out of pity!!!
And don't you just love it when their little bloated bellies are covered in flies? It's to die for!
I frequently wear a white rubber braclet on my left wrist. You know the kind...it's the trendy thing to do now. (Not that I'm all that trendy, honestly.) Lots of people wear rubber braclets that serve as statement for or against a variety of things. (i.e. FOR Lent, FOR Abstinence, FOR macaroni and cheese, AGAINST regular noodles sans cheese.) My braclet is worn in support of ONE . ONE is a quickly-growing campaign to end worldwide poverty. (as stated on their website...ONE believes that allocating an additional ONE percent of the U.S. budget toward providing basic needs like health, education, clean water and food would transform the futures and hopes of an entire generation in the world's poorest countries. ONE also calls for debt cancellation, trade reform and anti–corruption measures in a comprehensive package to help Africa and the poorest nations beat AIDS and extreme poverty.)
I joined the campaign a while back, as did some of my coworkers. I sign online petitions from time to time that are presented to governing bodies. I keep up with what's going on around the world in efforts to reduce debt in third world countries. And the best part? I occassionally get emails from people like Will Smith and Matt Damon filling me in on ONE news. This, of course, makes me feel delightfully special despite the fact that these emails are sent to every ONE member and are probably not written nor even read by the people whose names are attached to them. (But, I like to picture Matt Damon, on his couch with his laptop, sitting indian-style in his sweatsuit and socks, typing away a personal message to lil'ol me.)
I was wearing said rubber braclet one day recently when I girl I know started eyeing it.
"So, what's the braclet for?" She touched it; rotated it around my wrist. "ONE. What's that?"
I eagerly explained to her the mission of ONE and that I wear it to remind myself of the condition of the world and that I should do something...ANYTHING...on a daily basis to contribute to the needs of others.
"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's SO cute!"
I stared at her blankly for a moment before I spoke. I'm sure I rolled my eyes. I may have even drolled a little bit through my gaping mouth. "Cute? Worldwide poverty is CUTE? Billions of people don't have food to eat. Millions of children in Africa are orphaned and homeless. Dozens of people die every single minute in impoverished countries due to AIDS, a lack of nourishment, lack of shelter, and poor healthcare. Yeah, that's cute. It's toddler-with-teddy-bear, kitten-tangled-in-yarn, Susie's Zoo-on-a-onesie cute. It's f-ing adorable, really."
I wonder how she herself didn't choke on the dusty dry sarcasm in my voice. Who knew that a symptom of ignorance is a super-saturated throat?
ONEbyONE
I joined the campaign a while back, as did some of my coworkers. I sign online petitions from time to time that are presented to governing bodies. I keep up with what's going on around the world in efforts to reduce debt in third world countries. And the best part? I occassionally get emails from people like Will Smith and Matt Damon filling me in on ONE news. This, of course, makes me feel delightfully special despite the fact that these emails are sent to every ONE member and are probably not written nor even read by the people whose names are attached to them. (But, I like to picture Matt Damon, on his couch with his laptop, sitting indian-style in his sweatsuit and socks, typing away a personal message to lil'ol me.)
I was wearing said rubber braclet one day recently when I girl I know started eyeing it.
"So, what's the braclet for?" She touched it; rotated it around my wrist. "ONE. What's that?"
I eagerly explained to her the mission of ONE and that I wear it to remind myself of the condition of the world and that I should do something...ANYTHING...on a daily basis to contribute to the needs of others.
"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's SO cute!"
I stared at her blankly for a moment before I spoke. I'm sure I rolled my eyes. I may have even drolled a little bit through my gaping mouth. "Cute? Worldwide poverty is CUTE? Billions of people don't have food to eat. Millions of children in Africa are orphaned and homeless. Dozens of people die every single minute in impoverished countries due to AIDS, a lack of nourishment, lack of shelter, and poor healthcare. Yeah, that's cute. It's toddler-with-teddy-bear, kitten-tangled-in-yarn, Susie's Zoo-on-a-onesie cute. It's f-ing adorable, really."
I wonder how she herself didn't choke on the dusty dry sarcasm in my voice. Who knew that a symptom of ignorance is a super-saturated throat?
ONEbyONE
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I'll never look at Tenacious "D" the same way again
This morning...around 4:45 am, I woke up from one of the most terrifying nightmares I’ve ever had. It was gruesome, bloody, and life-changingly disturbing. It was so horrible, in fact, that I had to turn on all the lights, the t.v. in the living room, and the radio in my bedroom just for the sake of distraction. I sat up in bed and prayed for a solid hour before I finally fell back asleep. (I’ll spare you the details of the dream. I’ll even spare you the concept. I did share them with my coworker this morning, however, and he was more than eager to interpret the meaning for me. His insights actually gave me a great deal of clarity, and I’m sure I’ll be obsessing over what he said for the next week or so.)
Anyway…as awful as the nightmare was, it ended in a rather amusing way. It was me and Jesus…dancing the waltz. That I was dancing with Jesus wasn’t the funny part. It was quite beautiful, really, considering what had happened previously in the dream. No, the funny part was that “the role” of Jesus was played by Jack Black. Jack Black…looking up at me with those beady eyes and that goofy little crooked grin of his….reciting scripture and assuring me that it was all going to be okay. Surprisingly, I found tremendous comfort in this.
Again, I’m reminded that God REALLY does have a sense of humor. I love that about God.
Anyway…as awful as the nightmare was, it ended in a rather amusing way. It was me and Jesus…dancing the waltz. That I was dancing with Jesus wasn’t the funny part. It was quite beautiful, really, considering what had happened previously in the dream. No, the funny part was that “the role” of Jesus was played by Jack Black. Jack Black…looking up at me with those beady eyes and that goofy little crooked grin of his….reciting scripture and assuring me that it was all going to be okay. Surprisingly, I found tremendous comfort in this.
Again, I’m reminded that God REALLY does have a sense of humor. I love that about God.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
The horse is dead. Really...he's a goner. You can put the bat down now.
I love my coworkers (all 9 of them). We're like family. We care about each other. Support each other. Make each other laugh. And, just like family, we often argue and pick on each other like adolescent brothers and sisters.
One of the ways in which we as a group remind me of a family is the way we NEVER let things lie. Like my own family, for example: every one of my family members thinks it's uproariously funny to mention "The Allison Hug" at every family gathering. "The Allison Hug" refers to the alleged way I used to hug them. It was a limp hugging style...bodies not touching...mostly involving hands gently patting on the upper back. What can I say? It was during my middle school years...when I didn't like to be touched. I'm a loveable, enthusiastic hugger NOW, and that's all that should matter. Or, how about the way my mother refers to milk as "golly-ga" or "gulp" when my brothers are around just because that's how they pronounced it 30 years ago or so. It's really not that cute any more. I guess all families do this, right? Please tell me that all families do this!! If I can't believe that, then I'll be pushed a little closer towards insanity.
So, had I fully realized way back in June what the familial nature of our staff is/would be, I may have avoided setting myself up the way I did. After I had been working here for a few weeks, we had a day-long staff retreat at a local plantation home/conference center. At that point, I hadn't yet revealed myself as the smart-ass that I am. I usually try to reveal that in small doses so to not scare people off, you know? I let it out in small tufts...like air slowly escaping a balloon.
We had a full day planned; every mintue already occupied on the schedule. An "expert" speaker had been recruited. Games would be played. Planning would take place in grand form. Good food would be eaten...constantly...all day long. Everyone was milling around when I arrived...drinking coffee and casually chatting. Renee, my boss, was standing by a table alone, organizing her papers. I walked over to her to say good morning. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I spoke in a very serious voice.
"Renee, I have something kinda special planned. I've been practicing an interpretive dance that illustrates the importance of teamwork. I have music with it and everything. When do you think we might have time today for me to perform this?" Still serious. No smile on my face. I don't have a clue why I say these types of things to people. I never plan it. It just happens. I think my sense of humor has me wired like someone suffering fromTourette's Syndrome.
She was obviously shocked. The look on her face showed that she was locked in an emotion somewhere between confusion and panic. I could tell that part of her wanted to laugh, but the professional side of her told her that she COULD'NT laugh; not to my face, anyway. Her eyes darted around searching for somewhere nearby that had overheard because she knew immediately that, later on, she would want someone to laugh WITH.
"Oh! Okay. Well..." All she could get out were one-word sentences. She was searching her brain for an answer, but one failed to come to her. Feeling guilty for her struggle, I admitted that I was only joking. She was so relieved that her eyes literally welled up with tears as she laughed. It was just "the funniest thing" she had ever heard. She HAD to run and tell the others what I had said. And right then and there, I was named "the funny one".
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind being "the funny one". It's better than being "the smelly one" or "the one that lingers too closely" or "the one that picks her nose when she thinks nobody is watching". But my coworkers have used the dance incident to get a chuckle about 375 times since then. Any time we have a meeting or a special event coming up, it's inevitable that someone will suggest that Allison "prepare a dance" for the occassion.
Renee has even spread rumors of my liturgical dancing skills to our board members and volunteers. She usually does this in front of me...and she'll nudge me and say "Tell 'em, Allison! Tell 'em the story. You guys are gonna love this!" This always leaves me in an awkward position to explain that it was all just a silly, spontaneous joke. For some reason, this seems to confuse non-staff members. Most of them half-giggle politely, pretending to get the humor in the whole thing. But I know that under the surface they think I'm an idiot.
One of the ways in which we as a group remind me of a family is the way we NEVER let things lie. Like my own family, for example: every one of my family members thinks it's uproariously funny to mention "The Allison Hug" at every family gathering. "The Allison Hug" refers to the alleged way I used to hug them. It was a limp hugging style...bodies not touching...mostly involving hands gently patting on the upper back. What can I say? It was during my middle school years...when I didn't like to be touched. I'm a loveable, enthusiastic hugger NOW, and that's all that should matter. Or, how about the way my mother refers to milk as "golly-ga" or "gulp" when my brothers are around just because that's how they pronounced it 30 years ago or so. It's really not that cute any more. I guess all families do this, right? Please tell me that all families do this!! If I can't believe that, then I'll be pushed a little closer towards insanity.
So, had I fully realized way back in June what the familial nature of our staff is/would be, I may have avoided setting myself up the way I did. After I had been working here for a few weeks, we had a day-long staff retreat at a local plantation home/conference center. At that point, I hadn't yet revealed myself as the smart-ass that I am. I usually try to reveal that in small doses so to not scare people off, you know? I let it out in small tufts...like air slowly escaping a balloon.
We had a full day planned; every mintue already occupied on the schedule. An "expert" speaker had been recruited. Games would be played. Planning would take place in grand form. Good food would be eaten...constantly...all day long. Everyone was milling around when I arrived...drinking coffee and casually chatting. Renee, my boss, was standing by a table alone, organizing her papers. I walked over to her to say good morning. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I spoke in a very serious voice.
"Renee, I have something kinda special planned. I've been practicing an interpretive dance that illustrates the importance of teamwork. I have music with it and everything. When do you think we might have time today for me to perform this?" Still serious. No smile on my face. I don't have a clue why I say these types of things to people. I never plan it. It just happens. I think my sense of humor has me wired like someone suffering fromTourette's Syndrome.
She was obviously shocked. The look on her face showed that she was locked in an emotion somewhere between confusion and panic. I could tell that part of her wanted to laugh, but the professional side of her told her that she COULD'NT laugh; not to my face, anyway. Her eyes darted around searching for somewhere nearby that had overheard because she knew immediately that, later on, she would want someone to laugh WITH.
"Oh! Okay. Well..." All she could get out were one-word sentences. She was searching her brain for an answer, but one failed to come to her. Feeling guilty for her struggle, I admitted that I was only joking. She was so relieved that her eyes literally welled up with tears as she laughed. It was just "the funniest thing" she had ever heard. She HAD to run and tell the others what I had said. And right then and there, I was named "the funny one".
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind being "the funny one". It's better than being "the smelly one" or "the one that lingers too closely" or "the one that picks her nose when she thinks nobody is watching". But my coworkers have used the dance incident to get a chuckle about 375 times since then. Any time we have a meeting or a special event coming up, it's inevitable that someone will suggest that Allison "prepare a dance" for the occassion.
Renee has even spread rumors of my liturgical dancing skills to our board members and volunteers. She usually does this in front of me...and she'll nudge me and say "Tell 'em, Allison! Tell 'em the story. You guys are gonna love this!" This always leaves me in an awkward position to explain that it was all just a silly, spontaneous joke. For some reason, this seems to confuse non-staff members. Most of them half-giggle politely, pretending to get the humor in the whole thing. But I know that under the surface they think I'm an idiot.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Or, then again, maybe I'll just stick to kitty cats and goldfish.
It never ceases to amaze me how many parents there are in the world that really have no business at all being such. It’s truly alarming. Disturbing. We’ve all suffered the wrath of poorly disciplined children in restaurants and grocery stores and shot judging glares in the direction of their complacent mothers and fathers. It seems that lately I’ve been inclined to shoot a horrific number of these glares.
An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)
The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.
And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.
There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.
I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)
Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.
I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.
And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.
An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)
The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.
And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.
There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.
I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)
Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.
I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.
And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Here's another old one...posted exactly a year ago. I haven't thought of anything new to say about Halloween that's particularly amusing and/or interesting. So, kids, this will have to do for now.
Smell My Feet
Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.
The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.
Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room. Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.
Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.
Smell My Feet
Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.
The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.
Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room. Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.
Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 6
When it comes to car maintenance, I’m not the most efficient nor the most proactive gal around. This is something I need to work on. Are you happy? I’ve acknowledged it with my tail between my knees.
Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.
Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?
After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.
I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”
I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.
(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”
“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”
Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.
Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.
Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)
Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.
Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?
After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.
I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”
I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.
(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”
“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”
Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.
Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.
Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)
Thursday, October 19, 2006
creativity is NOT always a good thing
Thought you couldn't eat corn in a sandwich?
Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.
Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
It's quite possible that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
There are 3 things in particular that are bothering me this morning.
1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.
What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?
2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?
3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?
1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.
What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?
2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?
3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy
Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”
My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”
The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.
The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”
I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.
My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”
Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.
My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”
The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.
The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”
I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.
My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”
Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Those uniforms are lovely. Would you call that color "grape" or "aubergine"?
I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll have to say it again. Brace yourself. I don’t care about football. I don’t hate football. I don’t loathe it. I just don’t care about it. I’m completely ambivalent about it. I say it with no apology attached. It is what it is. I am what I am. And I’m not a football fan. When I’ve admitted this in the past, I’ve often been met with surprised gasps and dirty looks and sighs of disappointment. I don’t quite get why my lack of interest is so impossible to accept.
I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.
In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.
Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.
I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.
But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.
All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.
I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.
In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.
Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.
I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.
But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.
All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.
(I just wanted to add before you roll your eyes and make fun of me that I will not try to slip in a mention of him in EVERY blog entry I write from now on. I’ll try not to. But I can’t make any promises of such.)
An appropriate end to this is the following quote from Jenna Fischer’s article “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women”, featured in a recent edition of Esquire. In case you don’t know who Jenna Fischer is, she’s a very funny gal on the extremely funny show, The Office. If you don’t watch it, you should. Anyway, back to the quote:
“You know what's really gay? Football. Instead of watching it, just have sex with another dude once a year. Get it all out of your system at once.”
Well said, Jenna. Well said.
recycled genius
I got an email this morning from one of my most beloved friends, and she said something about the impending Fall season making her want to sit with me and drink $5 lattes. This season stirs all sorts of "wants" in me, as well. I remembered an entry I posted around this time last year...and I thought I'd re-post it. If this were Wayne's World, I'd wave my fingers through the air and make that little "dullalullalup...dullalullalup" sound; as if to suggest a coming flashback.
The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie
There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.
These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.
Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).
Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?
The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie
There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.
These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.
Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).
Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
It's a wonder that Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy made it through the awkward stage
Today I saw a couple sitting on a park bench holding an umbrella above their heads. There was not a cloud in sight, by the way. Unless they were just crazy, I assume the umbrella was there to block the sun. I smirked at the 1930’s of it all…the Mickey Mouse/Minnie Mouse, Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland quality that it bestowed.
Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.
The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.
Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)
I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.
On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.
Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.
The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.
Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)
I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.
On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.
one of the ones who, hopefully, will never stop referring to me as "Aunt Al"
And just when you thought your day couldn't get any better...
Monday, October 09, 2006
And then she woke up...
You know how this goes. Every time I’ve been absent from my blog for quite some time, I always say that I’ve just been “too busy”. It’s true, too. I can honestly say that I’ve just been too busy to write blogs. But nobody wants to hear that. It sounds lame and cliché and unapologetic. What to do, what to do?? And the thing is…I HATE not having time to write. The worst part of it is (like anything else) is that the longer I stray from it, the harder it is to pick it up again. I guess that’s one of the guarantees about life that we can’t escape. Absence…nonactivity…neglect…always heeds an awkward return. We expect to be welcomed back by whatever it is we abandoned like a cheating, unfaithful whore; crawling on all fours while wailing about our intended innocence. Well, here I am again, my absolving blog. The knees of my khakis are filthy, indeed.
Other than writing (my first to-be-published work, preferably), there are SO many other things I’d be doing (either in the immediate present, or in the ongoing) if I didn’t have to spend between 8 and 14 hours working 5 days a week.
Things I Would Be Doing if I Didn’t Have to Work
Reading through the stack of novels I have at home that REALLY do look very interesting. I attempt to read them before bed quite frequently, but I usually manage to fall asleep with the lamp…and my glasses still on.
Traveling. Let’s ignore the fact that if I was, in fact, not working, I’d have absolutely no money and would, therefore, not be able to travel anywhere, ever. Actually, let’s ignore that fact for the duration of this list.
Working out with a personal trainer on a daily basis in efforts to attain and maintain a rock star body.
Learning how to use chopsticks. Apparently, I need at least 5 hours a day to devote to mastering this skill. My wonderful boyfriend pretends to not find my lack of skill pathetic even though his patient coaching hasn’t yet amounted to much improvement. (It’s humiliating to always be the white girl at the table who has to ask for a fork.)
Dancing in public.
Planting and tending to a fabulous garden. If I had somewhere to plant one, that is.
Collecting Fraggle Rock memorabilia.
Watching all the great “classics” that I’ve just never had time to watch. Wait. Scratch that. Most of the “classics” I’ve missed, I’ve never cared to watch in the first place. Which is the real reason why I haven’t. Let’s replace this one with watching the “American Pie” series. That’s more realistic.
Straightening my priorities.
Brainstorming new and more creative names for the colors of Crayola crayons. They wouldn’t even have to pay me. (i.e. indigo= “blueberry parade”, apricot= “clammy flesh”, yellow green= “acidic pee”, and dandelion= “buttery nipple”) Although, I suppose it’s not appropriate to refer to a liquor shot when naming a child’s educational tool.
Spending time with my nieces before they cease to call me “Aunt Al” and start referring to me as “that funny lady that used to be Daddy’s sister”.
Elaborately painting my toenails to represent and correspond with every national holiday.
Watching the clouds.
Flipping turn-of-the-century houses for profit.
Rescuing abandoned and orphaned children from all over the world and sending them to live with Oprah…or maybe even her friend, Gayle.
Hugging strangers.
Mastering the guitar. And then playing it for no one but the people I love. (Bridget included.)
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A Dedication
“18th Floor Balcony” and Blue October is one of my favorite songs and one of my favorite bands, respectively. The former is a product of the latter.
I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.
I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.
I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.
"18th Floor Balcony"
I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.
And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...
I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams
I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.
I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.
I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.
I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.
"18th Floor Balcony"
I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.
And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...
I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.
And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams
I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.
This is why risking looking like a fool is almost always worth it.
I've always liked the saying "dance like no one is watching". But there's also something to be said for dancing as if the whole world is watching.
Turn the sound on your computer up and watch the video on this guy's website. There's a simplistic beauty about this. I watch this, and I want to be him. Not literally, necessarily. Maybe just in a spiritual sense. Maybe just in my dreams.
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com
Turn the sound on your computer up and watch the video on this guy's website. There's a simplistic beauty about this. I watch this, and I want to be him. Not literally, necessarily. Maybe just in a spiritual sense. Maybe just in my dreams.
http://www.wherethehellismatt.com
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Okay, Okay! I Give In.
I was doing SO well for a while, wasn’t I? I succeeded to distribute a steady stream of good reads for over a month, and then, much to my dismay, I just ran out of steam. I was hoping that maybe nobody had noticed I’ve been slacking. Or that, maybe, my recent posts were of such impeccable quality that their influence would carry on for a while and cancel out the need for replenishment. Seems like I was wrong on both counts. shucks.
I had the time to visit Elise’s site (All or Nothing...linked at the left) this morning and immediately experienced two emotions simultaneously. First—joy. I was quite the excited girl to see that she’s posted like 57 fabulous and funny new entries in the past month. And not only that, but she’s upgraded the site with cool fonts and an even cooler fun-looking, cool-vintage, old-timey sexy lady character mascot thingy. Second—shame with a sprinkling of jealousy. I realized that I have to catch up with her now. After all, she’s posted like 57 fabulous and funny new entries in the past month. And not only that, but she’s upgraded the site with cool fonts and an even cooler fun-looking, cool-vintage, old-timey sexy lady character mascot thingy. You tryin to make me look bad, punk? It’s ON, my friend. Oh, yeah. It’s ON.
Who I am kidding? Competition takes too much effort. I’d rather just pretend that we’re equals. Humor me.
There IS one challenge that I’ve decided I can manage to meet. Elise made it a point to mention in her blog that I “DESPERATELY” need a new post and that I should complete the lame little quiz that she agreed to complete per the request of someone else. Okay…so it’s not much of a challenge. But it is one that I can handle. So, here goes.
Three Things that Scare Me:
I’ve actually written quite a bit about fears in the past year and a half or so, but I’ll try to think of some new ones.
1. Moose (They can kill people, ya know. Seriously, they can.)
2. Poverty (Which is why I work so hard to eradicate it from my own life and the lives of others.)
3. Being stuck in an elevator with John Lovitz for an extended period of time. Correction: Being stuck in an elevator with John Lovitz for ANY amount of time. Correction: Being physically stuck to John Lovitz by means of super glue, bodily fluids, or grape jam.
Three People Who Make me Laugh:
1. myself
2. Conan O’Brien
3. almost every single member of my family. Does laughing AT someone count??
Three Things I Hate the Most:
Again…I’ve covered this topic many times. But I’ll NEVER run out of things to gripe about hating. Or hate about griping…whichever makes more sense.
1. Rudeness
2. Ignorance
3. John Lovitz
Three Things I Don’t Understand:
1. Rudeness
2. the ever-growing popularity of “Crocs”
3. the rules to poker
Three Things I’m Doing Right Now:
1. Listening to “In the Name of Love” (a compilation of U2 covers that was recorded to aid WorldVision’s efforts in Africa. It’s an old one that I happened to dig out this morning.)
2. Watching our office cleaning crew fight (rather loudly and humorously) about the CORRECT way to mop.
3. Thinking about all the work that I should be doing instead of writing this blog.
Three Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
1. Write a book!! (at the TOP of MY list, Elise.)
2. Try to be a platinum blonde
3. Stand at the foot of the Sphinx in Egypt
Three Things I Can Do:
1. make people laugh
2. make a mean peanut butter and banana milkshake
3. stay calm in an extreme emergency (as I was just recently reminded)
Three Ways to Describe My Personality:
1. Someone who doesn’t like me might say “over analytical”. Someone who does might call it “insightful”.
2. quirky
3. emotional (interpret that how you choose)
Three Things I Can’t Do:
1. pretend to enjoy the company of idiots
2. anything that involves wearing non-shoe items on my feet. Rollerblading, snowskiing, waterskiing, skateboarding, and stilt-walking included.
3. tolerate the smell of pickles
Three Things I Think You Should Listen To:
1. the rain
2. Kristen’s music…any of it
3. what people are REALLY saying when they talk to you
Three Things You Should Never Listen To:
1. me singing in the shower
2. your neighbors having sex. or people in vehicles outside your bedroom window having sex.
3. Marilyn Manson’s Christmas album
Three Favorite Foods:
1. strangely, surprisingly….sushi is climbing the charts
2. ice cream. Definitely ice cream. This is why Elise and I get along so well.
3. anything with cheese on it
Three Beverages I Drink Regularly:
This is such a boring question.
1. coke
2. milk
3. chai
Three Shows I Watched as a Kid:
1. Pinwheel’s Playhouse (a generic version of Seasme Street that ROCKED!!)
2. General Hospital. Somehow my mother didn’t mind me watching HER soap operas. But she thought that 90210 was “too mature” for me. What-ev, mama…what-ev.
3. Kids Incorporated (I’m completely traumatized that Stacey Ferguson now shakes her ass and pees her pants on stage with the Black Eyed Peas. What happened to her?)
Three People I’m Tagging (to do this):
This is unfair b/c I don’t have many friends with blog sites.
1. Kristen
2. Dancuh-Boi
3. Elise, how about you do it again?? But this time…be funny.
Monday, August 21, 2006
A Sermon of My Own
When Robert Kennedy became New York’s Senator, he began an untiring fight for educational and economic reformation. He began by concentrating on Harlem and Brooklyn before moving on to Chicago and Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta; speaking out for communities all over the United States. And then he started on the rest of the world. He strived to galvanize the human race to look beyond the inconvenience of poverty and into the faces that lived in it. He stood in front of South African university students in the summer of 1966 to give his Day of Affirmation speech. The entire speech is quite moving, but this is just a very small portion of it:
We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people; before God, before the law, and in the councils of government. We must do this, not because it is economically advantageous, although it is. Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do. Not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of these acts will be written the history of each generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.
When I read this, the part that stands out the most to me is “Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do….we must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do.” Many, many, many Christians serve others because of religious reasons. Because they believe that God would want them to. Because Jesus did, and would do, the same. I think this is great. This, to me, is one of the truest ingredients of Christianity. Perhaps THE truest (after serving God himself). But there are also many, many, many “non-Christians” that choose to serve others. The lot of them might very well serve because of moral conviction. There could be limitless other reasons. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter WHY someone chooses to love and serve by action, as long as they do it sincerely. What matters more is HOW they do it. What gives anyone the right to disvalue heartfelt service just because it might not be done in the name of Christ?
I’ve developed a conflicted opinion; I guess you could say, of individuals and organizations both that offer service/aid/help to people who need it…but with strings attached. It’s easy for us to offer “love” and “goodwill” on our own agendas and not even realize our fault (arrogance, really) in doing so. Why should any of us feel good about meeting someone’s needs with the attached condition that they attend a sermon or say a certain prayer or join a certain church? To me, all this says is that OUR sermons and OUR prayers and OUR church is the only one worthy of whatever love or service we’re providing. We’re saying “Yes, we love you. And we want to help you. But only if you believe what we believe. Otherwise, we’ve wasted our time and efforts.” And that isn’t really sincere love at all, is it? It’s conditional. It has a price tag. Shouldn’t we be delirious with satisfaction that we’ve bettered someone’s life just because they have the right as a human being to have it bettered?
A tiny example: A wonderful religious organization here in town has recently begun offering prescription drug cards for other area agencies to give to clients. They can be used at any pharmacy for any prescribed drugs EXCEPT for contraceptives. This is because, of course, their religion doesn’t smile upon birth control. They’ve offered these cards to all agencies that work in the same communities that I do. Our clients are poor and uneducated (for the most part). Quite a few of them have never been exposed to the concept of planned parenthood or responsible parenting, as is the case in the majority of impoverished communities all over the planet. They don’t practice safe sex or use any form of birth control because, first of all, they can’t afford it, and secondly, they’ve never been taught to. In my position, I’m not allowed to address or promote any practices either way in regards to the subject, so my involvement in this process is very limited. But I have a problem with the said organization denying clients the power of choice and control just because their religion says so. Instead, they’d rather see generation after generation continue to bring more and more children into poverty…children that cannot and will not be properly cared for…thus recycling some of the CAUSES of generational poverty…which is the organism that this organization supposedly strives to put to death on a daily basis. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It infuriates me. There are SO many other instances like this…problems with the system that we all hear about from time to time. I’m just incapable of ignoring them now that I work where I do.
I’ve vowed to myself that I will never again (even though I’ve done it before) offer myself to an individual or cause with the intention of convincing the world to believe the way I do. I love God. I love Jesus. I live my life fueled by this love, and I’ll discuss it with anyone who is interested. But I also love people. In my imperfection, I strive to love people the way I believe God loves people…and I won’t ever stop believing that people deserve the best of life’s joys and the best of God’s love no matter where they stand.
We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people; before God, before the law, and in the councils of government. We must do this, not because it is economically advantageous, although it is. Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do. Not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of these acts will be written the history of each generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.
When I read this, the part that stands out the most to me is “Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do….we must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do.” Many, many, many Christians serve others because of religious reasons. Because they believe that God would want them to. Because Jesus did, and would do, the same. I think this is great. This, to me, is one of the truest ingredients of Christianity. Perhaps THE truest (after serving God himself). But there are also many, many, many “non-Christians” that choose to serve others. The lot of them might very well serve because of moral conviction. There could be limitless other reasons. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter WHY someone chooses to love and serve by action, as long as they do it sincerely. What matters more is HOW they do it. What gives anyone the right to disvalue heartfelt service just because it might not be done in the name of Christ?
I’ve developed a conflicted opinion; I guess you could say, of individuals and organizations both that offer service/aid/help to people who need it…but with strings attached. It’s easy for us to offer “love” and “goodwill” on our own agendas and not even realize our fault (arrogance, really) in doing so. Why should any of us feel good about meeting someone’s needs with the attached condition that they attend a sermon or say a certain prayer or join a certain church? To me, all this says is that OUR sermons and OUR prayers and OUR church is the only one worthy of whatever love or service we’re providing. We’re saying “Yes, we love you. And we want to help you. But only if you believe what we believe. Otherwise, we’ve wasted our time and efforts.” And that isn’t really sincere love at all, is it? It’s conditional. It has a price tag. Shouldn’t we be delirious with satisfaction that we’ve bettered someone’s life just because they have the right as a human being to have it bettered?
A tiny example: A wonderful religious organization here in town has recently begun offering prescription drug cards for other area agencies to give to clients. They can be used at any pharmacy for any prescribed drugs EXCEPT for contraceptives. This is because, of course, their religion doesn’t smile upon birth control. They’ve offered these cards to all agencies that work in the same communities that I do. Our clients are poor and uneducated (for the most part). Quite a few of them have never been exposed to the concept of planned parenthood or responsible parenting, as is the case in the majority of impoverished communities all over the planet. They don’t practice safe sex or use any form of birth control because, first of all, they can’t afford it, and secondly, they’ve never been taught to. In my position, I’m not allowed to address or promote any practices either way in regards to the subject, so my involvement in this process is very limited. But I have a problem with the said organization denying clients the power of choice and control just because their religion says so. Instead, they’d rather see generation after generation continue to bring more and more children into poverty…children that cannot and will not be properly cared for…thus recycling some of the CAUSES of generational poverty…which is the organism that this organization supposedly strives to put to death on a daily basis. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It infuriates me. There are SO many other instances like this…problems with the system that we all hear about from time to time. I’m just incapable of ignoring them now that I work where I do.
I’ve vowed to myself that I will never again (even though I’ve done it before) offer myself to an individual or cause with the intention of convincing the world to believe the way I do. I love God. I love Jesus. I live my life fueled by this love, and I’ll discuss it with anyone who is interested. But I also love people. In my imperfection, I strive to love people the way I believe God loves people…and I won’t ever stop believing that people deserve the best of life’s joys and the best of God’s love no matter where they stand.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
brief thoughts on passion
I came across this quote. Think about it.
"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."
My personal definition of "passion" (in a non-sexual way) is caring about something enough to DO something for it/about it. Passion is a path to action. Without action, that could-be passion is just another good intention. This quote is nothing all that profound, but it made me think about passion. I think to say that we're passionate about something should mean that others can watch us and KNOW that we love it...and that our loving it will serve as an inspiration. If passion doesn't inspire, then what is it worth, anyway?
I've been spending a good bit of time in recent weeks trying to pinpoint what I'm truly passionate about. I'm done with good intentions.
"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."
My personal definition of "passion" (in a non-sexual way) is caring about something enough to DO something for it/about it. Passion is a path to action. Without action, that could-be passion is just another good intention. This quote is nothing all that profound, but it made me think about passion. I think to say that we're passionate about something should mean that others can watch us and KNOW that we love it...and that our loving it will serve as an inspiration. If passion doesn't inspire, then what is it worth, anyway?
I've been spending a good bit of time in recent weeks trying to pinpoint what I'm truly passionate about. I'm done with good intentions.
Friday, August 04, 2006
"Thread Count"...A Measurement of Love
One of the many things I'm a tad bit obsessive about is my bed linens. First off...I have way too many of them. Most people have ONE comforter/bedspread/quilt (whatever), along with coordinating sheets and pillowcases that they use until they all fall apart. Or, at least until they go out of fashion. I have 4 or five sets, all completely different, that I rotate seasonally. I don't just rotate them seasonally, really. Sometimes I rotate them to accommodate my mood. I even have certain scents of candles and linen spray that I use to specifically compliment the colors and textures of each respective bed outfit. Secondly...I'm very particular about how my sheets are tucked in and arranged on the mattress. You know how some people sleep all messy and their sheets are never tucked and all the covers just lay balled up and twisted and they never care to straighten them out? (You're probably one of them, aren't you?) I CAN'T STAND THAT. Seriously, I can't handle it. It makes me want to scream and claw the air like a rabid mountain lion (that's quite the image, huh?). If I mess the covers up, it is imperative that they be amended before I get into bed again. Thirdly...sheets must be clean. We all know that it doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture the types of things that go on in our sheets and the types of cooties that, therefore, reside on our sheets. Yes. They must be clean and, more importantly, smell clean.
So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.
While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.
I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.
Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.
As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.
So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.
While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.
I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.
Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.
As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Poss-A-Bil-A-Tees
I remember way back when...soon after I moved into my apartment...I mentioned concern at the possibility of puking while living alone. My exact words were " What if I..... get sick in the middle of the night, puking in the pot, and what would I do with nobody there to call out to? Who would hold my hair back? Who would bring me lemon-lime Gatorade and a straw?..."
Unfortunately, that possibility (or inevitability, if you will) has been realized. fulfilled. faced. It happened. It was one of those horrible nights that keeps you awake with fever and wretching and cramping and all other varieties of awful.
In the midst of this event, I found myself disappointed to be reminded that Bridget is, in fact, a useless animal and not the brilliant human daughter that I so often liken her to. Every time I got sick, I actually felt embarrassed because she would just stand in the doorway of the bathroom and stare...big eyed, yet complacent...as if to say "Eww." I felt the need to apologize to her for freaking her out and being so gross. I wanted to yell "I'm sorry! I can't help it!", but my throat hurt too badly. She didn't once offer to hold my hair back or bring me a cold beverage of any kind. In all fairness, she did attempt to make me some hot chocolate (the kind with the mini marshmallows), but who the hell wants that when they're yaking?
After I had returned to my bed after the 5th trip of stumbling around in the darkness...and I was all shaky and shivering from the spiking of my possessive fever...Bridget perched herself on my midsection. I told myself that she was trying to keep me warm, but I really knew better. Every time I looked up at her, she was eyeing me from a sideways glance with her nose crinkled away from me...so that I couldn't breathe on her. The ironic thing is that one morning last week I got out of bed only to stick my heel in the slimy wetness that was her coughed up hairball. How dare she judge me? Anyway, the story ended happily. I called my mom once daylight struck and requested that she come take care of me. And of course she did. She showed up with Sprite and Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Sometimes it just feels SO nice to be treated like a 6 year old, doesn't it?
Unfortunately, that possibility (or inevitability, if you will) has been realized. fulfilled. faced. It happened. It was one of those horrible nights that keeps you awake with fever and wretching and cramping and all other varieties of awful.
In the midst of this event, I found myself disappointed to be reminded that Bridget is, in fact, a useless animal and not the brilliant human daughter that I so often liken her to. Every time I got sick, I actually felt embarrassed because she would just stand in the doorway of the bathroom and stare...big eyed, yet complacent...as if to say "Eww." I felt the need to apologize to her for freaking her out and being so gross. I wanted to yell "I'm sorry! I can't help it!", but my throat hurt too badly. She didn't once offer to hold my hair back or bring me a cold beverage of any kind. In all fairness, she did attempt to make me some hot chocolate (the kind with the mini marshmallows), but who the hell wants that when they're yaking?
After I had returned to my bed after the 5th trip of stumbling around in the darkness...and I was all shaky and shivering from the spiking of my possessive fever...Bridget perched herself on my midsection. I told myself that she was trying to keep me warm, but I really knew better. Every time I looked up at her, she was eyeing me from a sideways glance with her nose crinkled away from me...so that I couldn't breathe on her. The ironic thing is that one morning last week I got out of bed only to stick my heel in the slimy wetness that was her coughed up hairball. How dare she judge me? Anyway, the story ended happily. I called my mom once daylight struck and requested that she come take care of me. And of course she did. She showed up with Sprite and Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Sometimes it just feels SO nice to be treated like a 6 year old, doesn't it?
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