I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I am not the kind of person who can be unemployed – for a number of reasons, really. First, I spend every single “free” minute stressing out over not having an income. Secondly, I’ve discovered that I can only stand my own company for six minutes. Not six minutes at a time – but total for the waking period. I don’t find myself that interesting.
It’s probably important to note that I would have less trouble with having nothing to do if there were someone in my life to support me.
So I’ve been painting during my down time. Not creatively; no this has been completely utilitarian. I’ve been painting interior doors.
[Sidebar: semi-gloss is the devil.]
The up side of this hideous chore is that, like mowing the lawn or scrubbing grout, it gives me plenty of time to think in a leisurely manner. No rush, I’m gonna be here all day anyway…
Finally! The point of that long introduction:
It occurred to me while cursing those damned fancy doors, that there are a number of things in my life I’ve been managing all “wrong” because I didn’t see them “right.”
It appears that I’ve been carrying on relationships, one in particular but several in general, only in my head. What I mean is that the relationship I thought I was having, didn’t actually exist in real life the way I insisted it did inside my little “Life Bubble.” I don’t like to see the ugly bits life doles out – I’ve seen enough, thank you very much – so I just paint them a color I like and pretend it was never ugly to begin with, employing the “if you don’t talk about it, it never happened” approach. Gee. That’s smart…*sarcasm*
Nonetheless, the up side is that since I shocked myself into reality with this revelation, I’m not paralyzed by mourning any longer. And it feels great! And brave! Like I can say all the things that have been swirling around in my head because I don’t have concern myself with the outcome. Which leads me to…
Do you ever think about the things you say to yourself before you go to sleep? The conversations you’ll never have with people you really want to set straight? Or the little lies we tell ourselves:
I’m happy.
It’s all perfectly fine.
Tomorrow, I will add on to my exercise program to lose these last five pounds.
It’s as though by whispering it late at night, it’ll stick. It will all be true in the morning. I do it all the time for whatever mad reason. Though I suppose now it’s because I never knew how bad it could hurt to lose something I never really had.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Deal With It
This morning started out with the gruesome discovery that I’d arrived about one minute too late to prevent a senseless murder.
Stepping onto the back porch for a quick weather check, I saw one of the rabbits who live under the bushes standing, frozen in the yard – eyes trained on something outside my line of vision. I ventured out to see what could possibly be so interesting that the rabbit wasn’t even going to acknowledge my proximity, only to witness one of my dogs “playing” with an infant bunny. I called her off and ran to check. The week-old baby was breathing, but paralyzed and bleeding from the nose.
Running for the house, I tucked the dog inside, grabbed the phone and a plastic gloves. I did the only thing I could think of then. I called the one person I knew would help me do, oh I don’t know, something to help?
Back in the yard again and standing over the still breathing baby bunny, I quickly explained the situation. What came next was completely unexpected. Instead of sympathy or some other sort of understanding, I was told to “get a shovel and deal with it.” What?
WHAT!
Hanging up, I threw the phone at the fence and picked up the little innocent, cooing, comforting, and apologizing until finally, it blinked once more then took its last little sigh of a breath. I felt somehow responsible for this loss of small, new life. I knew the rabbits were in the yard. I knew there was at least one newborn. And yet, I’d done nothing to protect it from the two dogs who share the same grass.
Yeah. I know, survival of the fittest, and all that.
“…deal with it.”
Life happens. Death, in all varieties, inevitably comes. People, animals, relationships... At some point the time to coddle, coo, and be hopeful passes and you’re left with the lifeless remains of something that “used to be.”
Somebody hand me my grown-up panties. If you need me, I’ll be figuring out how to “deal with it” on my own.
Stepping onto the back porch for a quick weather check, I saw one of the rabbits who live under the bushes standing, frozen in the yard – eyes trained on something outside my line of vision. I ventured out to see what could possibly be so interesting that the rabbit wasn’t even going to acknowledge my proximity, only to witness one of my dogs “playing” with an infant bunny. I called her off and ran to check. The week-old baby was breathing, but paralyzed and bleeding from the nose.
Running for the house, I tucked the dog inside, grabbed the phone and a plastic gloves. I did the only thing I could think of then. I called the one person I knew would help me do, oh I don’t know, something to help?
Back in the yard again and standing over the still breathing baby bunny, I quickly explained the situation. What came next was completely unexpected. Instead of sympathy or some other sort of understanding, I was told to “get a shovel and deal with it.” What?
WHAT!
Hanging up, I threw the phone at the fence and picked up the little innocent, cooing, comforting, and apologizing until finally, it blinked once more then took its last little sigh of a breath. I felt somehow responsible for this loss of small, new life. I knew the rabbits were in the yard. I knew there was at least one newborn. And yet, I’d done nothing to protect it from the two dogs who share the same grass.
Yeah. I know, survival of the fittest, and all that.
“…deal with it.”
Life happens. Death, in all varieties, inevitably comes. People, animals, relationships... At some point the time to coddle, coo, and be hopeful passes and you’re left with the lifeless remains of something that “used to be.”
Somebody hand me my grown-up panties. If you need me, I’ll be figuring out how to “deal with it” on my own.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Weinergate... Keep it in Your Pants
Thus far it’s a pretty slow summer so I’ve been thinking a lot about Weinergate. I mean, I haven’t been thinking specifically about Weiner’s wiener; more it’s been about where we draw the line between online flirting and straight-up infidelity. And what about any associated “privacy issues?”
Now, I know we all want to stand up and wave the freedom of speech flag – even those who are completely appalled by Weiner’s behavior. Certainly none of us wants the government legislating what we do – however inappropriate – in our private time, assuming of course we’re directing this to the activities of consenting adults. Hey, I’m in the front row with a placard of my own, crawling onto some stranger’s shoulders to scream through my megaphone, “No one is going to tell ME what I can and cannot write, say, or photograph! I will not be silenced by The Man!”
Here’s the thing: that’s not really what we’re talking about – or more specifically, not talking about. The penis in the room isn’t about freedom of speech or what consenting adults can or cannot do. No, no, no. The penis in the room is about what consenting adults should or should not do.
*senses guilty people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs*
I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that the appropriateness of sexting or the exchanging nudie pics is pretty much dependent on your relationship status. If you’re single – single as in you don’t have the same person regularly sleeping next to you – I say do what you like! Go craaaazy! Sow your wild oats! Take all the photographs or sex videos, and send all the racy text messages you like! Grab life by your balls! Who cares?!?!?
[Caution: your current or future employer might care should these surface so I’d think this through without the throbbing sexual desire before proceeding. Also note that the ban on “bad naked” has not been lifted.]
Now that we’ve established I’m not from the Christian right, or any kind of prude for that matter, let’s get to the meat of this. Here’s a primer for those of you who apparently can’t function within the general confines of decency:
1. If you are married; if you are in a “committed relationship,” or if your part-time partner thinks your liaison is monogamous, you’re just a skeevy asshole for sexting, emailing, or taking “self-portraits” with or for someone else.
2. That’s it. Re-read number one.
I’m sure by now a few of you are mentally composing what you believe to be a compelling yet scathing argument, albeit “anonymously,” to leave in this post’s Comments. Compose away, I say! But before you click Submit ask yourself this: are you going to share it with your significant other? No? Chickenshit… What do you suppose that says about you? That, oh I dunno, maybe you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing? If you have to hide it, you know it’s wrong. And don’t go trying to hide behind lame excuses, attempt to make it less than it is, or turn the tables on the person you’re supposed to be sharing a relationship or your life with by flinging accusations about invasion of privacy.
First, if we’ve learned nothing else from Tony Weiner, it’s that when you lie or make excuses to cover-up your behavior, you will be caught and the fallout will be even more dangerous to life, “limb” or reputation. You never really know how crazy or vindictive someone can be until they’re the last to know they’ve been being made a fool of – publically or privately.
I’ve recently heard this kind of Weiner-tastic carrying-on referred to as “flirting.” Are you fucking kidding me? I have an idea, how about we take a moment to look that word up.
According to Merriam-Webster online, flirting is:
a. To behave amorously without serious intent
b. To show superficial or casual interest or liking
c. To come close to reaching or experiencing something
Behavior check, anyone?
Now, because I rarely take a position based on one resource, I pulled out my Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, and my trusty old Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language (college edition and yes, it’s just that old) and nowhere did I see any mention of sexting or bawdy photographs discussed or described in those additional definitions of flirting. So what have we learned? We’ve learned this: no, jackass, you do NOT get to call your behavior “flirting!”
As for the privacy portion of your wheedling, what the hell kind of “relationship” are you carrying on if you’re worried about what your spouse might uncover if he or she were to use your computer because it’s right there, or use your cell to send a text to a mutual friend? Or! Even if he or she was just being nosey, the point here is that if you’re having an honest relationship, there’d be nothing to hide and privacy would not even be an issue!
Maybe reality television has skewed the public’s definition of appropriate relationship behavior. All those loud-mouthed girls chasing after whore-boys; people sneaking around doing who knows what with it doesn’t matter who… When did it become “acceptable” to partake in extracurricular activities? And why are those who are the most hurt by it – the spouses and significant others of the offenders – be expected to get onboard with the idea that this isn’t infidelity? That no apology is necessary because there wasn’t actual sex?
I have a yardstick of sorts I use when I’m not really onboard with my own behavior. I ask myself whether my grandparents would be ashamed of me. Feel free to consider that your takeaway.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Blank Pages
I’ve recently self-determined that I’m not funny anymore. Oh sure, there are still the occasional snarky one-liners, but where anything more than that is required, there are pet shop parrots with more interesting things to say.
It occurs to me that maybe I ought to try something new. Something … exhilarating.
It’s no secret that I like to limit my physical activity to things that give me immediate results - like hauling the giant vodka bottle down from its cabinet. Don’t judge. This exercise also employs the use of extreme bicep strength in order to remove the freezer-burned ice cubes trapped in their trays.
Safe to say that there’s no situation whereby I’ll find myself jumping out of an airplane naked like my girlfriend JG, swimming with actual sharks, or freezing my ass off in an Iditarod. I thought briefly about rock climbing… the kind you do indoors with thick mats and a super hot trainer. I just worry about how my ass will look squished out the bottom of a harness. That view can’t be good from below… So where that idea is concerned, I’ve decided that perhaps the only rocks I’ll be conquering will remain those in a 4oz glass, ungraciously blocking me from the last of my liquor.
I think the problem is that I’m unbearably bored. I’ve gone from having entirely too much, to having only a moderate amount to occupy my days. I suppose I should work on The Book That Will Never Be Finished, or refresh my political point of view, but really? Why? To either. I’ve never actually finished anything – which obviously isn’t a record I plan to break this late in the game; and outside of Weinergate, the wind has left my sails now that Washington has gone home for summer vacation.
[sidebar: you can bet that given the events of this week, many a Republican and Democrat of both genders is giving their computer and cell phone a good “scrubbing.” Here’s some food for thought: if you’re hiding it, you know you shouldn’t be doing it.]
I feel a privacy rant coming on so I think I’ll collect my rocks see if that thought takes us somewhere exhilarating.
It occurs to me that maybe I ought to try something new. Something … exhilarating.
It’s no secret that I like to limit my physical activity to things that give me immediate results - like hauling the giant vodka bottle down from its cabinet. Don’t judge. This exercise also employs the use of extreme bicep strength in order to remove the freezer-burned ice cubes trapped in their trays.
Safe to say that there’s no situation whereby I’ll find myself jumping out of an airplane naked like my girlfriend JG, swimming with actual sharks, or freezing my ass off in an Iditarod. I thought briefly about rock climbing… the kind you do indoors with thick mats and a super hot trainer. I just worry about how my ass will look squished out the bottom of a harness. That view can’t be good from below… So where that idea is concerned, I’ve decided that perhaps the only rocks I’ll be conquering will remain those in a 4oz glass, ungraciously blocking me from the last of my liquor.
I think the problem is that I’m unbearably bored. I’ve gone from having entirely too much, to having only a moderate amount to occupy my days. I suppose I should work on The Book That Will Never Be Finished, or refresh my political point of view, but really? Why? To either. I’ve never actually finished anything – which obviously isn’t a record I plan to break this late in the game; and outside of Weinergate, the wind has left my sails now that Washington has gone home for summer vacation.
[sidebar: you can bet that given the events of this week, many a Republican and Democrat of both genders is giving their computer and cell phone a good “scrubbing.” Here’s some food for thought: if you’re hiding it, you know you shouldn’t be doing it.]
I feel a privacy rant coming on so I think I’ll collect my rocks see if that thought takes us somewhere exhilarating.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Invisible Ink
Bet you thought one of the elephants from the circus of my life ate me, eh?
I know, I know... It's been a long time between entries. I am writing, but for the moment my "talent" is being abused... I mean used... for pay. Yeah. I'm whoring myself out to The Man for mortgage money. Don't judge. *glares* Anyway, by the end of a day full of corporate nonsense and forcing my mouth shut for a paycheck, I can't string three words together coherently, let alone scare up any snarky reparte. Mostly I just blink...
The "good" news (though for whom I'm unclear) is that I'll be out of a job and back on the dole in just a matter of weeks, so there's bound to be a flood of words you can actually see coming soon. Of course, if you'd like to employ me, I'll happily shift the blame for my continued shunning of this site... and I'm okay with that!
I need a sign...
Will compromise morals and jounalistic integrity for cash.
I know, I know... It's been a long time between entries. I am writing, but for the moment my "talent" is being abused... I mean used... for pay. Yeah. I'm whoring myself out to The Man for mortgage money. Don't judge. *glares* Anyway, by the end of a day full of corporate nonsense and forcing my mouth shut for a paycheck, I can't string three words together coherently, let alone scare up any snarky reparte. Mostly I just blink...
The "good" news (though for whom I'm unclear) is that I'll be out of a job and back on the dole in just a matter of weeks, so there's bound to be a flood of words you can actually see coming soon. Of course, if you'd like to employ me, I'll happily shift the blame for my continued shunning of this site... and I'm okay with that!
I need a sign...
Will compromise morals and jounalistic integrity for cash.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Crazy
The first thing we need to remember is that you can’t fix crazy.
Take a hard look at your Crazy vs. Not So Crazy Relationship Ratio. Are you trending toward “what the hell is wrong with my decision-making processes?” I don’t know about y’all but I’ve been with Crazy and, as thrilling a rollercoaster as it is, eventually you have to get off and head for a 3-day bender to restore your sanity. Stay with Crazy long enough and it starts to resemble Normal – whatever that is exactly.
There are varying degrees of Crazy; some you can live with, some will suffocate you while you’re passed out drunk on the sofa. These two ends of the spectrum aren’t really what I’m talking about though. The crazy that will make you crazy is the bit in the middle; the bit that makes you wonder if you’re imagining it. The bit that you ignore when you wanna get laid.
In my ongoing effort to convince some of my guy friends to step away from the crazy, I’ve developed the following scale for determining whether or not having sex is eventually going to get them killed, or just damage their reputation a little more. Remember, crazy doesn’t wear an identifying t-shirt.
Crazy Range 1-3:
Every woman has a little crazy in her somewhere. If you think yours falls into the 1-3 category, perhaps you should take your eyes off her boobs and watch her face when there are other women around. It's possible she doesn't lean toward crazy behavior at all. It’s also possible that this one is a master of deceit. I wouldn’t lay poker with her.
Crazy Range 4-6:
Women in this range are probably as close to “normal” as you’re going to find. Sure, she may occasionally exhibit meltdowns or manifest moderate amounts of random craziness, but I would venture to say that these are manageable and most likely the direct result of scheduled hormonal fluctuations... if you know what I mean.
Crazy Range 7-8:
She’s broken. Broadly speaking, she’s wholly aware of this and in her defense, she’ll make every effort to hide it from prying public eyes. If you have a hankering to jump out of a plane or train lions, she’ll not only agree to go with you, she’ll probably suggest it first. Still, she’s likely to go off the deep end when least provoked so be sure to check your parachute.
Nutcase 9 or above (because there is a 12… I’ve met her):
There’s no telling what could happen on any given day, in any given hour. She “seems” like a 4 or 5 when you first meet her… and that should scare you. The real trouble with this one is that she’s almost always a freak in the rack. This is why you keep going back. But what does it get you, my friend? I’ll tell you. It gets you weeks and weeks of 1,000s of text messages, “coincidental” meetings out, messages left in shaving cream on your car, and calls to your mother even if they’ve never met. Dude, walk away… quietly. Consider witness protection because you’ll never really be rid of her. Ever.
I suppose I should probably attempt to deflect the hate mail by saying yes, I’m fully aware that crazy comes in the form of penis owners, too. The thing is, their attention span is so freakishly short that the episodes of crazy rarely last long enough to be worth writing about. And of course, it’s rarely inventive or fresh because, again, the short attention span.
I wish I had the answer to dealing with crazy. I’d write a book, make my millions, and retire to some place sunny. I can only suggest that you take solace in the fact that there are plenty of nearly crazy-free women in the world. I think I met one once…
Take a hard look at your Crazy vs. Not So Crazy Relationship Ratio. Are you trending toward “what the hell is wrong with my decision-making processes?” I don’t know about y’all but I’ve been with Crazy and, as thrilling a rollercoaster as it is, eventually you have to get off and head for a 3-day bender to restore your sanity. Stay with Crazy long enough and it starts to resemble Normal – whatever that is exactly.
There are varying degrees of Crazy; some you can live with, some will suffocate you while you’re passed out drunk on the sofa. These two ends of the spectrum aren’t really what I’m talking about though. The crazy that will make you crazy is the bit in the middle; the bit that makes you wonder if you’re imagining it. The bit that you ignore when you wanna get laid.
In my ongoing effort to convince some of my guy friends to step away from the crazy, I’ve developed the following scale for determining whether or not having sex is eventually going to get them killed, or just damage their reputation a little more. Remember, crazy doesn’t wear an identifying t-shirt.
Crazy Range 1-3:
Every woman has a little crazy in her somewhere. If you think yours falls into the 1-3 category, perhaps you should take your eyes off her boobs and watch her face when there are other women around. It's possible she doesn't lean toward crazy behavior at all. It’s also possible that this one is a master of deceit. I wouldn’t lay poker with her.
Crazy Range 4-6:
Women in this range are probably as close to “normal” as you’re going to find. Sure, she may occasionally exhibit meltdowns or manifest moderate amounts of random craziness, but I would venture to say that these are manageable and most likely the direct result of scheduled hormonal fluctuations... if you know what I mean.
Crazy Range 7-8:
She’s broken. Broadly speaking, she’s wholly aware of this and in her defense, she’ll make every effort to hide it from prying public eyes. If you have a hankering to jump out of a plane or train lions, she’ll not only agree to go with you, she’ll probably suggest it first. Still, she’s likely to go off the deep end when least provoked so be sure to check your parachute.
Nutcase 9 or above (because there is a 12… I’ve met her):
There’s no telling what could happen on any given day, in any given hour. She “seems” like a 4 or 5 when you first meet her… and that should scare you. The real trouble with this one is that she’s almost always a freak in the rack. This is why you keep going back. But what does it get you, my friend? I’ll tell you. It gets you weeks and weeks of 1,000s of text messages, “coincidental” meetings out, messages left in shaving cream on your car, and calls to your mother even if they’ve never met. Dude, walk away… quietly. Consider witness protection because you’ll never really be rid of her. Ever.
I suppose I should probably attempt to deflect the hate mail by saying yes, I’m fully aware that crazy comes in the form of penis owners, too. The thing is, their attention span is so freakishly short that the episodes of crazy rarely last long enough to be worth writing about. And of course, it’s rarely inventive or fresh because, again, the short attention span.
I wish I had the answer to dealing with crazy. I’d write a book, make my millions, and retire to some place sunny. I can only suggest that you take solace in the fact that there are plenty of nearly crazy-free women in the world. I think I met one once…
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
What Did You Just Say?
And then there’s the deceit...
Here’s the thing about that; let’s just call it what it is: lying.
Whether by omission, distortion, or boldfaced storytelling, it’s all the same.
I know this girl (though not very well I suppose), who lies about pretty much everything. From what she’s doing, to what she ate for lunch. I can only assume this is a defense mechanism to keep from facing the fact that she’s basically miserable. Or maybe she knows, but she’s trying to hide it from everyone else. Whatever the reason, it’s totally transparent… to everyone…which is embarrassing. One of her friends should talk to her about this…
*looks around*
So, I was chatting with some girlfriends, trying to sort out why so many people give lip-service to “loving everyone just the way they are” then behaving in such a way as to prove that’s total bullshit. We got sidetracked with margaritas so there was never a resolution reached… but the drinks were fantastic, no one lied about anything, and we nearly managed to solve the Libyan crisis.
Still, out of that tequila-fueled conversation came our humble opinion:
Most non-cover-story lying is based in some distorted sense of competition. I have to admit that, given my completely fucked up life (hey, I own it… leave it alone), I’m always caught a little off guard when it happens to me. Y'all are already one up on me... no need to compete for the Most Fucked Up Life title! Besides, if there were something here to compete with, I’d be exploiting the hell out of it.
Here's what I want to know:
Whatever happened to The Sisterhood?
What about supporting one another, instead of belittling another's accomplishments or happiness with a misguided, self-congratulatory tale of superiority?
Where is the kinship that ties us together in mutual love and respect?
Where is the genuine happiness for something good that happens in someone else’s life?
When did all of that get replaced with lying about how you did the same thing only better?
Do those women understand how little the rest of us want to be around that behavior?
It’s a special relationship among women who have the kind of honest communication that sisterhood deserves, free of competitive bullshit and “what are you wearing so I can be sure to look cuter” crap. I’m very lucky to have a few girls in my life who are, like me, too busy, grown-up, disinterested, or damaged to make time for that behavior. Gesh, imagine how unnerving it would be to discover one of “those girls” within your inner circle of confidants.
We should probably consider a stricter friendship application form...
Here’s the thing about that; let’s just call it what it is: lying.
Whether by omission, distortion, or boldfaced storytelling, it’s all the same.
I know this girl (though not very well I suppose), who lies about pretty much everything. From what she’s doing, to what she ate for lunch. I can only assume this is a defense mechanism to keep from facing the fact that she’s basically miserable. Or maybe she knows, but she’s trying to hide it from everyone else. Whatever the reason, it’s totally transparent… to everyone…which is embarrassing. One of her friends should talk to her about this…
*looks around*
So, I was chatting with some girlfriends, trying to sort out why so many people give lip-service to “loving everyone just the way they are” then behaving in such a way as to prove that’s total bullshit. We got sidetracked with margaritas so there was never a resolution reached… but the drinks were fantastic, no one lied about anything, and we nearly managed to solve the Libyan crisis.
Still, out of that tequila-fueled conversation came our humble opinion:
Most non-cover-story lying is based in some distorted sense of competition. I have to admit that, given my completely fucked up life (hey, I own it… leave it alone), I’m always caught a little off guard when it happens to me. Y'all are already one up on me... no need to compete for the Most Fucked Up Life title! Besides, if there were something here to compete with, I’d be exploiting the hell out of it.
Here's what I want to know:
Whatever happened to The Sisterhood?
What about supporting one another, instead of belittling another's accomplishments or happiness with a misguided, self-congratulatory tale of superiority?
Where is the kinship that ties us together in mutual love and respect?
Where is the genuine happiness for something good that happens in someone else’s life?
When did all of that get replaced with lying about how you did the same thing only better?
Do those women understand how little the rest of us want to be around that behavior?
It’s a special relationship among women who have the kind of honest communication that sisterhood deserves, free of competitive bullshit and “what are you wearing so I can be sure to look cuter” crap. I’m very lucky to have a few girls in my life who are, like me, too busy, grown-up, disinterested, or damaged to make time for that behavior. Gesh, imagine how unnerving it would be to discover one of “those girls” within your inner circle of confidants.
We should probably consider a stricter friendship application form...
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