I just had lunch with the parents and it was fine. Nothing too snotty happened. The fact I was on the verge of tears the whole time may have kept them from starting something too. Although a few big juicy drops snuck out on me anyway. Thinking I've got my mom right here I ask, "Did you get weepy during menopause?" She replies, "I still do". Fuck me.
We get back and there is funky ass spoiled milk smell in the kitchen so I start to pick up stuff and take out the garbage. I see a couple of dirty dishes on the table, a steak knife and glass. Grabbing the glass without any thought, I take notice of the knife. And just for that brief second it crosses your mind. But I let it go of the thought just as fast, I'm nothing if not a wimp.
Where does this self-destructive nature come from? And why do we take ourselves down paths that we know are just dead ends? Going into menopause has brought back every horrifying feeling and tendency that I ever had in puberty. The obsessive thoughts and unrealistic expectations have reared their elephant's heads at me to distraction. Maybe 2 weeks a month I feel normal. Normal being relative of course. All this quality alone time I have does not help matters at all.
These are the thoughts the race through my heads whenever they get a chance: Why do I love so hard? Please quit telling me that there is something wrong with me. I'm stuck and I don't know what to do. I'm not a joke. I'm not a freak. Please leave me the fuck alone
I believe a certain amount of us will just got lost along the way. And I would give my left leg if I didn't feel this way. I see hope and potential all around but when I have to fit into that peg, that's when the trouble starts. Substituting your reality for mine, trying to fit in, it's all a meaningless exercise. Look at the person sitting alone and you'll find the one who longs for their own group. And be careful of the quiet ones, they'll find their voice some day.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
To All the Men I've Loved Before
Do I make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry. Do you trust me less because I adore you despite your flaws? I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I hate not knowing, please tell me. It drives me crazy. Surrendering all this power has made me doubt my judgement but when I think about you all the time, what else can I do? Why can't I be your sidekick, it's all I want.
These swirling thoughts would drive the sanest person to distraction but this is the way I've always been with men. Lots of time it has gotten to the point where I wish I had never met that person because the pain is greater than the joy I once felt. What is the longing and how do you make it go away? Always wanting more than it can ever be.
These swirling thoughts would drive the sanest person to distraction but this is the way I've always been with men. Lots of time it has gotten to the point where I wish I had never met that person because the pain is greater than the joy I once felt. What is the longing and how do you make it go away? Always wanting more than it can ever be.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Where do I fit in here?
I was raised by a father who undeniably hates women and by a mother so insecure and meek, she's never had a strong sense of self.
My father's mother dumped him off at his grandmother's house for 4 years, living in the same town, never visited him again until the day she came to bring him back to live with her. He never forgave her.
My mother's mother was bullied by her husband who could drink too much and was known to smack her around. This changed my grandmother, making her a bully too, especially to my mother. My grandmother had 4 children, 2 were her obvious favorites. My mother was neither one.
So time passes and these two souls come together and start their own family. The inception was quick, probably too quick. Sometimes dating because much more permanent when a child comes unexpectedly into the picture. Certainly common but none the less life changing for those involved. This is how the family got started and once started, adding to it seems to make sense and more legitimate. All these children were planned and boom boom, two more kids were added to the mix. The family is complete with a mom and dad, two adorable girls and the namesake of the clan, a boy. Hold on, that's a lot of responsibility and money is needed to raise these offspring, so it's time to hunker down and do the right thing. Always do the right thing. There is no choice. Follow the rules. Somebody smarter than you made up these laws and guidelines, the least you can do is follow along.
Years pass, lets say 6 years and people get bored. How can we rekindle that feeling of newness and excitement we once had? I know, lets have another baby. And we're really ready for it this time, no surprises, just the sheer joy of a new life. Did you know that some people like kids and some people just like babies? I should mention here, my mom is the latter. Once a child can talk, that child loses a lot of its shine. Since all pregnancies are the same either, my mom could not know what would lie ahead in this last one. My mom was so sick with with me, the day I was due, she was induced and out I popped out.
I don't know when my mom stated getting sickly but she's been that way my whole life. She has a disease that affects her balance, it's called Minears. This poor woman can be dizzy for days and weeks at a time. When I was growing up I would want to watch TV with her in the bedroom, lie on the bed with her. It was always understood and reminded to me not to move on the bed. Eventually that habit was given up on. My mom, physically, was always at home but she was tucked away into her mind. I still don't know what makes her tick. Whatever dad said went as law and "I don't know" was a frequent answer, even to some of the most critical questions that growing up brings with it. The only thing I ever remember her being really confident about was when I got my first period which resulted in me crying all day long. And that I needed to lose weight and not be so silly. My mom sure does not like fat people. A trait she passed on to me for years until I realized the outside package rarely reflects what's on the inside. Just recently, I had mentioned I had lost 17 lbs and that's all I said about it. The next time I saw her the only thing she asked me was "Have you lost anymore weight?".
When it comes to my dad, he's an avid law and rule follower. There are no shades of gray. He is punctual to an obsession and very opinionated. Too bad all his opinions and philosophies are completely opposite to me. I look like my dad in my face and I have the same body type too. And my dad makes me so uncomfortable I can hardly stand to stay in the same room with him alone. The man is so testosterone laden, it's unreal. God help me if I had ever been gay. If I had been gay and I had the courage to tell him, that would have been it, nice knowing you all these years, see ya. I got a tattoo at the age of 35 and he still has forgiven me for that. He told me"unless I wanted to be taken out of the will, I wouldn't be getting a ton of tattoos." Again, I just have the one and I have no intention of getting the another. And while I lived at home, my dad was just a quiet entity that worked, came home, slept, and watch TV. The only time he piped up was when he had to tell me how I was wrong about something.
I grew up with two parents who seemingly wanted little to do with me. And the day I moved out was no different. I moved from my parent's house on the 4th of July 1982. I had rented an apartment with 3 other girls in Iowa City and we had the apartment available over the summer and I guess I had asked one too many times when I was going to move there because my dad announced "if I wanted to move, let's do it today". So I stripped down my room in the morning and moved that afternoon. My boyfriend at the time could not be bothered with riding with me to Iowa City because he "wanted to watch All my Children". I swear to God he said that to me. With little more than the furniture of my bedroom, a portable TV set and groceries my parents bought me, I was dumped out to start my adult life.
So where do I fit in here? I can't follow their rules and be happy and since I don't live under their roof anymore, I am going to let their rules go. Fitting in at the expense of your soul doesn't work anymore.
My father's mother dumped him off at his grandmother's house for 4 years, living in the same town, never visited him again until the day she came to bring him back to live with her. He never forgave her.
My mother's mother was bullied by her husband who could drink too much and was known to smack her around. This changed my grandmother, making her a bully too, especially to my mother. My grandmother had 4 children, 2 were her obvious favorites. My mother was neither one.
So time passes and these two souls come together and start their own family. The inception was quick, probably too quick. Sometimes dating because much more permanent when a child comes unexpectedly into the picture. Certainly common but none the less life changing for those involved. This is how the family got started and once started, adding to it seems to make sense and more legitimate. All these children were planned and boom boom, two more kids were added to the mix. The family is complete with a mom and dad, two adorable girls and the namesake of the clan, a boy. Hold on, that's a lot of responsibility and money is needed to raise these offspring, so it's time to hunker down and do the right thing. Always do the right thing. There is no choice. Follow the rules. Somebody smarter than you made up these laws and guidelines, the least you can do is follow along.
Years pass, lets say 6 years and people get bored. How can we rekindle that feeling of newness and excitement we once had? I know, lets have another baby. And we're really ready for it this time, no surprises, just the sheer joy of a new life. Did you know that some people like kids and some people just like babies? I should mention here, my mom is the latter. Once a child can talk, that child loses a lot of its shine. Since all pregnancies are the same either, my mom could not know what would lie ahead in this last one. My mom was so sick with with me, the day I was due, she was induced and out I popped out.
I don't know when my mom stated getting sickly but she's been that way my whole life. She has a disease that affects her balance, it's called Minears. This poor woman can be dizzy for days and weeks at a time. When I was growing up I would want to watch TV with her in the bedroom, lie on the bed with her. It was always understood and reminded to me not to move on the bed. Eventually that habit was given up on. My mom, physically, was always at home but she was tucked away into her mind. I still don't know what makes her tick. Whatever dad said went as law and "I don't know" was a frequent answer, even to some of the most critical questions that growing up brings with it. The only thing I ever remember her being really confident about was when I got my first period which resulted in me crying all day long. And that I needed to lose weight and not be so silly. My mom sure does not like fat people. A trait she passed on to me for years until I realized the outside package rarely reflects what's on the inside. Just recently, I had mentioned I had lost 17 lbs and that's all I said about it. The next time I saw her the only thing she asked me was "Have you lost anymore weight?".
When it comes to my dad, he's an avid law and rule follower. There are no shades of gray. He is punctual to an obsession and very opinionated. Too bad all his opinions and philosophies are completely opposite to me. I look like my dad in my face and I have the same body type too. And my dad makes me so uncomfortable I can hardly stand to stay in the same room with him alone. The man is so testosterone laden, it's unreal. God help me if I had ever been gay. If I had been gay and I had the courage to tell him, that would have been it, nice knowing you all these years, see ya. I got a tattoo at the age of 35 and he still has forgiven me for that. He told me"unless I wanted to be taken out of the will, I wouldn't be getting a ton of tattoos." Again, I just have the one and I have no intention of getting the another. And while I lived at home, my dad was just a quiet entity that worked, came home, slept, and watch TV. The only time he piped up was when he had to tell me how I was wrong about something.
I grew up with two parents who seemingly wanted little to do with me. And the day I moved out was no different. I moved from my parent's house on the 4th of July 1982. I had rented an apartment with 3 other girls in Iowa City and we had the apartment available over the summer and I guess I had asked one too many times when I was going to move there because my dad announced "if I wanted to move, let's do it today". So I stripped down my room in the morning and moved that afternoon. My boyfriend at the time could not be bothered with riding with me to Iowa City because he "wanted to watch All my Children". I swear to God he said that to me. With little more than the furniture of my bedroom, a portable TV set and groceries my parents bought me, I was dumped out to start my adult life.
So where do I fit in here? I can't follow their rules and be happy and since I don't live under their roof anymore, I am going to let their rules go. Fitting in at the expense of your soul doesn't work anymore.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Moment to moment
The swarm of emotions that come, hang around, and pass through my mind every day are a lot to take some days. Let's examine last night, shall we?
So I come to work and I'm hit with an immediate kick in the ass. I look at my schedule and it says I'm not only doing my area but another one as well. This means I will be working with a coworker and I figure it will be a new girl, not my favorite thing to do but she appears quite pleasant. Innocently I say to my boss, "I've never done the 204 schedule and then she drops the bomb. " You'll be working with Agatha (real name withheld for who gives a shit reasons) tonight, she is on light duty. She can't mop or run the vacuum but she can do everything else." In other words, I will be doing most of the work tonight. But let me describe this lovely contribution to mankind known as Agatha to you. Agatha is at least 6 feet tall with a shoulder slump from a lifetime of trying not to be 6 feet tall. Her hair is completely white, permed in a style known simply as "the old lady perm". This means, no self-respecting woman after a certain age would be caught with straight hair regardless of how stupid and tragic the ringlet curls and abrupt bangs look. To go along with Agatha's no nonsense looks comes an equally wearisome personality. I guess I'm a snob in this way. You can only do so much with your looks but god damn it, you can fucking learn how to carry on a conversation! And though it's clear to me this woman has not lead the easiest life, she has clearly chosen the self-righteous, sanctimonious style of small talk which grates on my last nerve. The idea of spending the next eight hours with this nonstop joy factory pushed some words from my mouth that I could have normally held inside. "Jesus Christ. When is this going to end? God damn it." This coupling of workers has been going on for some time now. You see, people just can't seem to work without hurting themselves. The hospital doesn't want to pay them for sitting around doing nothing on Workmans' compensation but they don't want the liability of people really getting hurt so they've come up with this compromise known as "Modified Duty". Modified duty clears the hospital of some liability if the employee gets hurt but still allows them to milk them for all they're worth. What it really does is makes the healthy employees work twice as hard and causes these uncomfortable pairings of people.
To my supervisors credit and that's why I CAN even stand working here, she didn't get defensive and said "I'm sorry" which just sent me pouting on my way. I did catch a break though. Apparently, the idea of working with me didn't sound pleasing to Agatha either and the next thing I know, Agatha is feeling well enough to work alone and I'm back to my protective cocoon. I gather my "toys" and head alone back to my own sandbox.
The night started out quite productively. I've got a plan. I'm going to really dig in and get some good cleaning done and make this department happy with me. Turning on my iPod, I decide on music tonight. I love listening to podcasts and in many ways these shows have absolutely allowed me to keep this job but sometimes the conversations get on my nerves. The over the top laughter at each other's so-so jokes is a bit much. NPR can suck the life out of any topic. Music is calming, therapeutic if you will but it also allows the mind to wander in and out more than a podcast. And wander and weave this mind did do last night.
My job is in many ways perfect for me but also a burden. I like that I am mostly by myself because I can hide all my quirks or as some may call the side effects of being human. Except for when I was a small kid, I have always been unnaturally embarrassed by farting and worse still, pooing in public. I mean, I can do it. I'm not like some people who absolutely refuse and will go home to do it but it causes me much chagrin. Besides that, when I am around other people, I feel like I have to be constantly making conversation. Trying to be funny and charming is incredibly draining. Silence, unless around your spouse, makes me nervous. I really have to know a person well before I can feel comfortable just being quiet around them. Probably because I fill the silence with their unspoken judgements of me. It is truly a neurotic thing to believe that when people are given the opportunity, they will think nothing but negative and hostile things about you. So being alone allows me to relax in these respects but my job is also a burden. The physical aspects are obvious. Standing on your feet for 8 hours a day takes a toll on your body, especially your legs and it you're not moving, nothing is getting done. I am constantly moving some part of my body. And though the body is active, the brain is truly loafing, free to wander and explore every idea, every possible scenario, usually to its not so logical conclusion.
This is where I was last night. Listening to my familiar music. Floating in and out of songs. Sometimes my thoughts were pure fantasy and this made me happy, joyful, hopeful about life. As the night went along, my body started saying "Don't forget about me, I'm tired, I'm hungry". And the emotional side of me started talking, "I'm getting a little lonely for some company, let's find somebody to talk to". So I was tired and lonely, a break will fix this problem. Taking my computer and pushing the appropriate buttons, I hook up to the virtual world, trolling around for some people. I like these people, this will be good. But I guess my people are busy, oh well, maybe next break. Back to work more of the same. I'm getting tired of this music. How many times can I listen to the same Cat Stevens album and get the calming feeling I'm looking for? The music is actually making me anxious now. The previous soothing tones are now just irritating. This is where the brain kicks into high gear. It tells me I'm just fooling myself. The flights of fancy I found so pleasant before are all now clearly ridiculous. These things will never happen and who do I think I am fooling anyway? For that matter, what are you even bother going through the motions of all these activities for anyway. Swimming, you'll never keep up with that. Crafts, they're just silly things that will never last the test of time. Work, if I don't do it, some other dumb shit will take their pittance and do it. In other words, it's all been done before and what I really want, I will never get. What's the point? And maybe I should just quit trying all together.
This is nothing I've never thought before, that's the trouble. It's this spiral of thought and it swirls and twirls until it goes to it's natural conclusion. And for a moment, there is a calm. A decision is made and all the what ifs have been eliminated. But the finality is not what I want either. It is faulty logic but it does have a sick truth to it. I appreciate the process in the most academic way but it does not serve me well. Ultimately the question becomes what is our purpose in this life and just what can we expect from it. What can we change and what is it worth it to us to try? Wanting is easy. Getting can be harder. Being content is harder still.
So I come to work and I'm hit with an immediate kick in the ass. I look at my schedule and it says I'm not only doing my area but another one as well. This means I will be working with a coworker and I figure it will be a new girl, not my favorite thing to do but she appears quite pleasant. Innocently I say to my boss, "I've never done the 204 schedule and then she drops the bomb. " You'll be working with Agatha (real name withheld for who gives a shit reasons) tonight, she is on light duty. She can't mop or run the vacuum but she can do everything else." In other words, I will be doing most of the work tonight. But let me describe this lovely contribution to mankind known as Agatha to you. Agatha is at least 6 feet tall with a shoulder slump from a lifetime of trying not to be 6 feet tall. Her hair is completely white, permed in a style known simply as "the old lady perm". This means, no self-respecting woman after a certain age would be caught with straight hair regardless of how stupid and tragic the ringlet curls and abrupt bangs look. To go along with Agatha's no nonsense looks comes an equally wearisome personality. I guess I'm a snob in this way. You can only do so much with your looks but god damn it, you can fucking learn how to carry on a conversation! And though it's clear to me this woman has not lead the easiest life, she has clearly chosen the self-righteous, sanctimonious style of small talk which grates on my last nerve. The idea of spending the next eight hours with this nonstop joy factory pushed some words from my mouth that I could have normally held inside. "Jesus Christ. When is this going to end? God damn it." This coupling of workers has been going on for some time now. You see, people just can't seem to work without hurting themselves. The hospital doesn't want to pay them for sitting around doing nothing on Workmans' compensation but they don't want the liability of people really getting hurt so they've come up with this compromise known as "Modified Duty". Modified duty clears the hospital of some liability if the employee gets hurt but still allows them to milk them for all they're worth. What it really does is makes the healthy employees work twice as hard and causes these uncomfortable pairings of people.
To my supervisors credit and that's why I CAN even stand working here, she didn't get defensive and said "I'm sorry" which just sent me pouting on my way. I did catch a break though. Apparently, the idea of working with me didn't sound pleasing to Agatha either and the next thing I know, Agatha is feeling well enough to work alone and I'm back to my protective cocoon. I gather my "toys" and head alone back to my own sandbox.
The night started out quite productively. I've got a plan. I'm going to really dig in and get some good cleaning done and make this department happy with me. Turning on my iPod, I decide on music tonight. I love listening to podcasts and in many ways these shows have absolutely allowed me to keep this job but sometimes the conversations get on my nerves. The over the top laughter at each other's so-so jokes is a bit much. NPR can suck the life out of any topic. Music is calming, therapeutic if you will but it also allows the mind to wander in and out more than a podcast. And wander and weave this mind did do last night.
My job is in many ways perfect for me but also a burden. I like that I am mostly by myself because I can hide all my quirks or as some may call the side effects of being human. Except for when I was a small kid, I have always been unnaturally embarrassed by farting and worse still, pooing in public. I mean, I can do it. I'm not like some people who absolutely refuse and will go home to do it but it causes me much chagrin. Besides that, when I am around other people, I feel like I have to be constantly making conversation. Trying to be funny and charming is incredibly draining. Silence, unless around your spouse, makes me nervous. I really have to know a person well before I can feel comfortable just being quiet around them. Probably because I fill the silence with their unspoken judgements of me. It is truly a neurotic thing to believe that when people are given the opportunity, they will think nothing but negative and hostile things about you. So being alone allows me to relax in these respects but my job is also a burden. The physical aspects are obvious. Standing on your feet for 8 hours a day takes a toll on your body, especially your legs and it you're not moving, nothing is getting done. I am constantly moving some part of my body. And though the body is active, the brain is truly loafing, free to wander and explore every idea, every possible scenario, usually to its not so logical conclusion.
This is where I was last night. Listening to my familiar music. Floating in and out of songs. Sometimes my thoughts were pure fantasy and this made me happy, joyful, hopeful about life. As the night went along, my body started saying "Don't forget about me, I'm tired, I'm hungry". And the emotional side of me started talking, "I'm getting a little lonely for some company, let's find somebody to talk to". So I was tired and lonely, a break will fix this problem. Taking my computer and pushing the appropriate buttons, I hook up to the virtual world, trolling around for some people. I like these people, this will be good. But I guess my people are busy, oh well, maybe next break. Back to work more of the same. I'm getting tired of this music. How many times can I listen to the same Cat Stevens album and get the calming feeling I'm looking for? The music is actually making me anxious now. The previous soothing tones are now just irritating. This is where the brain kicks into high gear. It tells me I'm just fooling myself. The flights of fancy I found so pleasant before are all now clearly ridiculous. These things will never happen and who do I think I am fooling anyway? For that matter, what are you even bother going through the motions of all these activities for anyway. Swimming, you'll never keep up with that. Crafts, they're just silly things that will never last the test of time. Work, if I don't do it, some other dumb shit will take their pittance and do it. In other words, it's all been done before and what I really want, I will never get. What's the point? And maybe I should just quit trying all together.
This is nothing I've never thought before, that's the trouble. It's this spiral of thought and it swirls and twirls until it goes to it's natural conclusion. And for a moment, there is a calm. A decision is made and all the what ifs have been eliminated. But the finality is not what I want either. It is faulty logic but it does have a sick truth to it. I appreciate the process in the most academic way but it does not serve me well. Ultimately the question becomes what is our purpose in this life and just what can we expect from it. What can we change and what is it worth it to us to try? Wanting is easy. Getting can be harder. Being content is harder still.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Every Sha La La La
Look up whhhhhite in the dictionary and you'll see a picture of Karen Carpenter and Richard, her spit curled brother. And this was part of the sound track to my formative years. The 1970s really embraced the back up singers and the over production values newly available to recording studios. Who hasn't been to a wedding and been forced to listen some best friend's version of "We've Only Just Begun"? You could take all the lyrics of the Carpenter's songs and write yourself one tragically sappy Harlequin Romance. Speaking of lyrics, I used to think it would be such a good idea to take the lyrics of REM and write a book or story based around them. I could never figure out the copyright laws on that one. Anywho...
Easy listening music filled the airwaves of my AM radio back then, is it any wonder depression filled my soul? But isn't it something the way a song can immediately transport you back in time to a moment in time so quickly? After breaking up with Joe, the first guy I lived with, I couldn't listen to Elton John for years. The tie to him was way too strong. And I thought I wanted to write about music, I think I'll change the topic to this Joe fellow.
I met Joe through a roommate in college. My roommate was in the University's marching band and she was in band with the roommate of Joe, see how that works? I had been sick, laying on the couch watching Geraldo, let's say, and Joe showed up at my door step, literally. He was bringing by a tape he wanted to share with my roommate. I can see it in my head, him standing in the doorway: brown, almost black hair, parted on the side, pale complexion, dark lashes, runners build, preppy clothes, maybe even topsiders on his feet and that was it. Who was this guy? How does my roomy know him and where had she'd been hiding him from me? Of course, she had a crush on him too but that didn't stop me from a full on attack and conquer mentality, friendship be damned! And I got him. Soon we were inseparable. I was under his thumb and under him and happy to be so. But where hormones tread, drama soon follows and was there ever!
Joe had grown up in a very dysfunctional or as I like to say "fucked up" family. Apparently, his mother was little more than a white trash whore. She had been married no less than 4 times, maybe 5 depending on who you talked to. Joe had not had any contact with this testament to motherhood in 5 years and had no intention of breaking the streak. And though I don't remember him sharing many direct details about his mother to me, he did say she kept her reusable douche on the side of the tub, gross on anybodys scale.
Having grown up his many sisters and his charming mother, Joe had many ideas of what he viewed as being a "proper" woman and was more than willing to share these thoughts and opinions with me. I will give you a few examples. Your jeans are too tight, it they fit right, you would have those lines in the front and they're too faded. (Please keep in mind I'd been waiting since my teen years to have these perfectly faded jeans, maybe with a perfectly placed hole in the knee, it was cool, OK, don't judge.) You can't study longer than an hour at a time, what are you a kid? I've forgotten most of the specifics but sentences began with a lot of YOU SHOULD... There are two things he said to me that I will never forget.
The following may be classified as TMI in some people's book, so skip it if you wish.
When I used to date people, as I'm sure you've done, you go through that "This is my life up to this point story and how many people I've had sex with." Foolish, yes, mandatory, of course. As is for many girls, college was a time of experimentation and by that I mean, indiscriminate sex with strangers. And don't lose your mind, it wasn't that many but it did happen. And it was only with guys and only one guy at a time. Very vanilla, very boring stuff. I tell you all this because you need to know that to understand why Joe said this. "Sometimes when I think about all the guys you've been with, it makes me sick". Charming huh? In the same breath, Joe decided we needed to watch pornography too. This was no easy task as nobody owned a VCR on in the early 80's. So you had to rent the VCR and the movies too. The very first of less than 3 pornos I've ever seen was "Behind the Green Door". Google it. What a fucked up movie that was. And news flash, most girls don't want to genitals that close up, okay!!!! God, it's fucking burned in my brain. So he wanted to treat me like a whore but didn't want be to be whore. The oldest story in the book. I need to insert the information here that I thought all the sex we were having and it was plenty, was because of me. In my mind, he loved me and if I just figured out how to do everything right, he would be mind forever. And when the side effects of all this fornication reared it's ugly head one day and he told me he was no longer in the mood because of it, I just wanted to die. That scene in bed is also burned in my memory. Why do people humiliate each other when they are at their most vulnerable? Anyway.....
So I was his stray following him around for one year and three months. During this time he would go to parties with nobody but his other female coworkers would be there. One night he took my fucking car to the store supposedly and ended up at one of these parties and didn't bother to tell me. And he got mad at me because I should have somehow magically known he decided to go to this party because he had mentioned it existed earlier in the evening. This is how desperate I was. I called the store multiple times and had him paged and then got on my bike, in the middle of the night and rode to this girl's house and found my car and my boyfriend. Then after practically begging him to come home he told me to go home, in front of everyone and I drove my bike home. I left him my car. Just typing this makes my want to vomit. One night he went over to another female coworkers place to talk with her boyfriend problems and didn't come home until very late because she had hidden his car keys from him. Somehow me getting mad about that was my fault as well. But I really knew when things were coming to an end when he got his own car. He had never had a car while we were together and I was his personal chauffeur. I would pick him at 2 in the morning all the time. He would call and say he was ready to come home and then keep me waiting in the parking lot for 30 minutes while he bullshit inside. Again, I had no right to be pissed off about this either. So when he got his "vintage" tacky orange VW bug, I knew the clock was ticking. Anybody with a brain knows you don't buy VW bug in a state that has winters, there is no fucking heating system in these things. We once drove 250 miles in the winter, in Iowa, in this fucking abomination. I have never shivered so much in my life. Sorry, tangent. So he got his own car and it wasn't too much later we broke up. And big surprise, he ended up dating one of his many coworkers from the restaurant he worked. Who saw that coming?
So the last time I saw this douche bag was in the mall. We may have said "Hi" in passing, I don't remember but that apparently wasn't enough for him. Joe called my sister, whose house I just happened to be at. He wanted to get a hold of me. So I took the phone and he said "Do you want to get together and talk? I thought you might have some things you wanted to get off your chest." Well, we never got together because I couldn't stand the idea of being in the same room with him and dredging up all this stuff I was so desperately trying to forget but we did talk a minute on the phone. He said one thing that made that was a back handed apology. He said it was easier for him to concentrate on my "problems" than his. Wow, what a generous soul to admit that.
So you see, music can really take you back in time and remember stuff that makes your skin crawl and stomach ache. Thank God for time and all the space the world can offer.
Easy listening music filled the airwaves of my AM radio back then, is it any wonder depression filled my soul? But isn't it something the way a song can immediately transport you back in time to a moment in time so quickly? After breaking up with Joe, the first guy I lived with, I couldn't listen to Elton John for years. The tie to him was way too strong. And I thought I wanted to write about music, I think I'll change the topic to this Joe fellow.
I met Joe through a roommate in college. My roommate was in the University's marching band and she was in band with the roommate of Joe, see how that works? I had been sick, laying on the couch watching Geraldo, let's say, and Joe showed up at my door step, literally. He was bringing by a tape he wanted to share with my roommate. I can see it in my head, him standing in the doorway: brown, almost black hair, parted on the side, pale complexion, dark lashes, runners build, preppy clothes, maybe even topsiders on his feet and that was it. Who was this guy? How does my roomy know him and where had she'd been hiding him from me? Of course, she had a crush on him too but that didn't stop me from a full on attack and conquer mentality, friendship be damned! And I got him. Soon we were inseparable. I was under his thumb and under him and happy to be so. But where hormones tread, drama soon follows and was there ever!
Joe had grown up in a very dysfunctional or as I like to say "fucked up" family. Apparently, his mother was little more than a white trash whore. She had been married no less than 4 times, maybe 5 depending on who you talked to. Joe had not had any contact with this testament to motherhood in 5 years and had no intention of breaking the streak. And though I don't remember him sharing many direct details about his mother to me, he did say she kept her reusable douche on the side of the tub, gross on anybodys scale.
Having grown up his many sisters and his charming mother, Joe had many ideas of what he viewed as being a "proper" woman and was more than willing to share these thoughts and opinions with me. I will give you a few examples. Your jeans are too tight, it they fit right, you would have those lines in the front and they're too faded. (Please keep in mind I'd been waiting since my teen years to have these perfectly faded jeans, maybe with a perfectly placed hole in the knee, it was cool, OK, don't judge.) You can't study longer than an hour at a time, what are you a kid? I've forgotten most of the specifics but sentences began with a lot of YOU SHOULD... There are two things he said to me that I will never forget.
The following may be classified as TMI in some people's book, so skip it if you wish.
When I used to date people, as I'm sure you've done, you go through that "This is my life up to this point story and how many people I've had sex with." Foolish, yes, mandatory, of course. As is for many girls, college was a time of experimentation and by that I mean, indiscriminate sex with strangers. And don't lose your mind, it wasn't that many but it did happen. And it was only with guys and only one guy at a time. Very vanilla, very boring stuff. I tell you all this because you need to know that to understand why Joe said this. "Sometimes when I think about all the guys you've been with, it makes me sick". Charming huh? In the same breath, Joe decided we needed to watch pornography too. This was no easy task as nobody owned a VCR on in the early 80's. So you had to rent the VCR and the movies too. The very first of less than 3 pornos I've ever seen was "Behind the Green Door". Google it. What a fucked up movie that was. And news flash, most girls don't want to genitals that close up, okay!!!! God, it's fucking burned in my brain. So he wanted to treat me like a whore but didn't want be to be whore. The oldest story in the book. I need to insert the information here that I thought all the sex we were having and it was plenty, was because of me. In my mind, he loved me and if I just figured out how to do everything right, he would be mind forever. And when the side effects of all this fornication reared it's ugly head one day and he told me he was no longer in the mood because of it, I just wanted to die. That scene in bed is also burned in my memory. Why do people humiliate each other when they are at their most vulnerable? Anyway.....
So I was his stray following him around for one year and three months. During this time he would go to parties with nobody but his other female coworkers would be there. One night he took my fucking car to the store supposedly and ended up at one of these parties and didn't bother to tell me. And he got mad at me because I should have somehow magically known he decided to go to this party because he had mentioned it existed earlier in the evening. This is how desperate I was. I called the store multiple times and had him paged and then got on my bike, in the middle of the night and rode to this girl's house and found my car and my boyfriend. Then after practically begging him to come home he told me to go home, in front of everyone and I drove my bike home. I left him my car. Just typing this makes my want to vomit. One night he went over to another female coworkers place to talk with her boyfriend problems and didn't come home until very late because she had hidden his car keys from him. Somehow me getting mad about that was my fault as well. But I really knew when things were coming to an end when he got his own car. He had never had a car while we were together and I was his personal chauffeur. I would pick him at 2 in the morning all the time. He would call and say he was ready to come home and then keep me waiting in the parking lot for 30 minutes while he bullshit inside. Again, I had no right to be pissed off about this either. So when he got his "vintage" tacky orange VW bug, I knew the clock was ticking. Anybody with a brain knows you don't buy VW bug in a state that has winters, there is no fucking heating system in these things. We once drove 250 miles in the winter, in Iowa, in this fucking abomination. I have never shivered so much in my life. Sorry, tangent. So he got his own car and it wasn't too much later we broke up. And big surprise, he ended up dating one of his many coworkers from the restaurant he worked. Who saw that coming?
So the last time I saw this douche bag was in the mall. We may have said "Hi" in passing, I don't remember but that apparently wasn't enough for him. Joe called my sister, whose house I just happened to be at. He wanted to get a hold of me. So I took the phone and he said "Do you want to get together and talk? I thought you might have some things you wanted to get off your chest." Well, we never got together because I couldn't stand the idea of being in the same room with him and dredging up all this stuff I was so desperately trying to forget but we did talk a minute on the phone. He said one thing that made that was a back handed apology. He said it was easier for him to concentrate on my "problems" than his. Wow, what a generous soul to admit that.
So you see, music can really take you back in time and remember stuff that makes your skin crawl and stomach ache. Thank God for time and all the space the world can offer.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Friends
Getting to know new people as an adult is so different than when you're a child. When I was a kid, I think I just expected people to be jerks at one time or another. Maybe they'd get mad at something you did or said but it didn't mean that was the end of the friendship. Being grown, it feels like one wrong or misstated comment can tear that relationship apart. I do know that I felt a lot freer when my pride was not so much at stake.
From the time I was in 2nd grade, let's say, my best friend lived across the street from me. Her name was Carla and she was a Jehovah's Witness. Carla was 2 years my junior but that didn't seem to matter. We would literally spend the entire day together in the summers. During the school year, we walked to school together, after school time together, and lots of times after supper together, depending on the TV schedule of course. Her mother's rule of thumb was Carla had to be home by the time the street lights came on but besides that not much else. We stayed within our neighborhood or at the pool which was half a block away.
The fact that Carla was a Jehovah's Witness did not mean she didn't get presents, far from it. In fact, every Christmas she somehow managed to conveniently get more and way better presents than I ever got from Santa Claus. Carla had a pink three story barbie doll house with an elevator that I would have killed for. It was plastic and couldn't take much weight but none the less was so awesome. All I had were my sister's doll houses from the 1950's and the ceilings were too low to play barbie dolls in making them useless. Today you would find these dollhouses in any antique store. They were metal with painted wall details, really special. In fact, I took one home from my parents' basement awhile back because it had been there for the last 50 years and when my sister saw it in my house, she suddenly remembered she owned it and wanted it back. Funny how that works, anyway. But I digress. And Carla had the cool store bought clothes for her barbies and several of the dolls themselves. I had the leftover had made barbie clothes from when my sister's were kids. And their 1950s style barbies and Ken. I did have a Malibu Barbie with gorgeous blond hair and a baby blue swimsuit and an inferior brunette girl, totally forgot her name. She didn't get played with much. I always went for my blond beauty. Oh yeah, no red head to be found, doll that is. And I kept all my stuff in a round, pepto bismul pink carry case. I still have my dolls and my case, just can't bear to get rid of them. One more toy I remember Carla had was a plastic Pillsbury Dough Boy. I don't know why but that sticks out in my head. All this talk about toys got me sidetracked. My point was that Carla did not go a wanting for the material items in life. I envied her stuff, her cool clothes, and especially her.
Carla was everything I wasn't growing up. She had straight brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose, which was slightly pug, and a tom boy, very athletic, naturally coordinated. When she was young, she was cute bordering on adorable. When she got older, she was pretty and very popular with the boys. Her mother bought her trendy clothes including blue jeans and the right tennis shoes. If I was to compare her to a famous person, Kristy McNichol would be a very fair comparison. On the other hand, I wore a combination of home made clothes dutifully made by grandmother when I was younger and K-Mart clothes as I got older. Why was polyester so fucking popular anyway? Oh yeah, no ironing. Pastel polyester pant suits are an abomination against mother nature. The point here was I totally idolized her and followed her around like a lost puppy. Her coolness rubbed off on me, so I thought. And because I thought so highly of her, I was willing to put up all kinds of humiliation to keep that connection. Carla's sisters made fun of me to my face. The one example I can remember is this. The two of us were standing outside the house and for some reason Carla and I both had on monochromatic outfits, hers mostly white, mine entirely pink. They called her the toothpick and me the pink elephant. That happened when I was probably 11 years old and I can see the whole thing in my head, where we were standing, the yard, the house, everything. That feeling of surprise, of embarrassment, of what did I do to deserve this? Every time I get a snotty out of nowhere emotional assault I still feel the same way. First my heart beats a little funny, my head gets light, and then the tears come. Sometimes I am in such shock of what I've heard that disbelief holds back the tears.
As life would have it, Carla and her family moved away right before high school and I only saw her once after she moved. When she told me she was moving, she cried, I didn't. She was mad at me because I didn't cry and I don't know why I didn't get more upset. Maybe because she had left me so many other times in little ways along the years by choosing different girlfriends over me, by not defending me against her family and friends. To this day, I haven't really missed her all that much because it never felt like a true equal friendship. Sometimes I feel like this first relationship has set a life long trend of unequal relationships, that I am used to be not considered. If this is my normal, man oh man. Being the weaker one of any friendship is no place to be, feeling not worthy, just wanting to give up. Why do we repeat these patterns? Even we see what we are doing and we continue to do it, to edit ourselves, to try and be what the other person wants, it's tiring and draining and discouraging. And if this is how I think friendships are, no wonder it wears me out.
I was going to end it there but I need to say this. If I don't call you names and bully you around as my friend, it's not because I am weak, it is because I couldn't live with myself if I did. There are very few things that I think are black and white in life but that is one of them. Friends don't make life fucking harder, friends make it easier.
From the time I was in 2nd grade, let's say, my best friend lived across the street from me. Her name was Carla and she was a Jehovah's Witness. Carla was 2 years my junior but that didn't seem to matter. We would literally spend the entire day together in the summers. During the school year, we walked to school together, after school time together, and lots of times after supper together, depending on the TV schedule of course. Her mother's rule of thumb was Carla had to be home by the time the street lights came on but besides that not much else. We stayed within our neighborhood or at the pool which was half a block away.
The fact that Carla was a Jehovah's Witness did not mean she didn't get presents, far from it. In fact, every Christmas she somehow managed to conveniently get more and way better presents than I ever got from Santa Claus. Carla had a pink three story barbie doll house with an elevator that I would have killed for. It was plastic and couldn't take much weight but none the less was so awesome. All I had were my sister's doll houses from the 1950's and the ceilings were too low to play barbie dolls in making them useless. Today you would find these dollhouses in any antique store. They were metal with painted wall details, really special. In fact, I took one home from my parents' basement awhile back because it had been there for the last 50 years and when my sister saw it in my house, she suddenly remembered she owned it and wanted it back. Funny how that works, anyway. But I digress. And Carla had the cool store bought clothes for her barbies and several of the dolls themselves. I had the leftover had made barbie clothes from when my sister's were kids. And their 1950s style barbies and Ken. I did have a Malibu Barbie with gorgeous blond hair and a baby blue swimsuit and an inferior brunette girl, totally forgot her name. She didn't get played with much. I always went for my blond beauty. Oh yeah, no red head to be found, doll that is. And I kept all my stuff in a round, pepto bismul pink carry case. I still have my dolls and my case, just can't bear to get rid of them. One more toy I remember Carla had was a plastic Pillsbury Dough Boy. I don't know why but that sticks out in my head. All this talk about toys got me sidetracked. My point was that Carla did not go a wanting for the material items in life. I envied her stuff, her cool clothes, and especially her.
Carla was everything I wasn't growing up. She had straight brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose, which was slightly pug, and a tom boy, very athletic, naturally coordinated. When she was young, she was cute bordering on adorable. When she got older, she was pretty and very popular with the boys. Her mother bought her trendy clothes including blue jeans and the right tennis shoes. If I was to compare her to a famous person, Kristy McNichol would be a very fair comparison. On the other hand, I wore a combination of home made clothes dutifully made by grandmother when I was younger and K-Mart clothes as I got older. Why was polyester so fucking popular anyway? Oh yeah, no ironing. Pastel polyester pant suits are an abomination against mother nature. The point here was I totally idolized her and followed her around like a lost puppy. Her coolness rubbed off on me, so I thought. And because I thought so highly of her, I was willing to put up all kinds of humiliation to keep that connection. Carla's sisters made fun of me to my face. The one example I can remember is this. The two of us were standing outside the house and for some reason Carla and I both had on monochromatic outfits, hers mostly white, mine entirely pink. They called her the toothpick and me the pink elephant. That happened when I was probably 11 years old and I can see the whole thing in my head, where we were standing, the yard, the house, everything. That feeling of surprise, of embarrassment, of what did I do to deserve this? Every time I get a snotty out of nowhere emotional assault I still feel the same way. First my heart beats a little funny, my head gets light, and then the tears come. Sometimes I am in such shock of what I've heard that disbelief holds back the tears.
As life would have it, Carla and her family moved away right before high school and I only saw her once after she moved. When she told me she was moving, she cried, I didn't. She was mad at me because I didn't cry and I don't know why I didn't get more upset. Maybe because she had left me so many other times in little ways along the years by choosing different girlfriends over me, by not defending me against her family and friends. To this day, I haven't really missed her all that much because it never felt like a true equal friendship. Sometimes I feel like this first relationship has set a life long trend of unequal relationships, that I am used to be not considered. If this is my normal, man oh man. Being the weaker one of any friendship is no place to be, feeling not worthy, just wanting to give up. Why do we repeat these patterns? Even we see what we are doing and we continue to do it, to edit ourselves, to try and be what the other person wants, it's tiring and draining and discouraging. And if this is how I think friendships are, no wonder it wears me out.
I was going to end it there but I need to say this. If I don't call you names and bully you around as my friend, it's not because I am weak, it is because I couldn't live with myself if I did. There are very few things that I think are black and white in life but that is one of them. Friends don't make life fucking harder, friends make it easier.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
You so stoopid
If ever there was time when I wished I was someone else, it is when I get embarrassed, which is very frequently. Why do I act this way? Why can't anything be simple? Sometimes I just want to disappear when I do dumb ass stuff. In the moment when I'm saying this shit or doing it, it all seems perfectly fine and reasonable. The expressions on people's faces is sometimes a tip off but other times my own common sense kicks in even as I am doing it. A voice in my head says, don't do that, stop it, stop it but I just don't listen.
Everything that comes as a natural impulse to me ends up fucking me. I don't trust any of my impulses. When I let my guard down, it never turns out good. Is it any wonder I spend so much time by myself.
Everything that comes as a natural impulse to me ends up fucking me. I don't trust any of my impulses. When I let my guard down, it never turns out good. Is it any wonder I spend so much time by myself.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Crying Part 1
I don't know how men feel but I imagine their hormones keep them on some sort of roller coaster ride every month, I know mine do. This last Friday night at work, I just could not keep my composure. Fortunately for me, I have a job where I CAN silently or violently weep in relative privacy. I wish I could say this is a recent trend, that my approaching change of life has brought on all this high drama and misdemeanors but that truly would be a grand lie.
"Don't cry" said with barely hidden contempt & hate. "Quit crying" said with the last straw of patience. This topic is so embarrassing and hits so close to home, my edit button is flashing the warning lights and screaming "Abort Abort"!!! I've have always been a crier. My grandma, my dad, my mom, they all loved to tell me to quit crying. What is so fucking bad about crying anyway? If someone feels bad enough to cry, does telling them to stop really help your cause. It can. You can scare them into quitting, that usually works. I get it too, crying can be irritating especially if you don't give a shit about the person doing the crying. Things that make you go hmmmmm....
This I know is true for me. Crying is a release of stress and tension. Frustration often leads to crying. And most of all crying has kept me from telling most of my employers to Fuck Off. I'm telling you this edit button is strong right now. Sometimes crying is all you can do. And for me, if I can't feel anything strong enough about you that could make me cry, I may have given up on you. My feelings of love and sadness are so closely tied together they are impossible to separate.
All my life it has been beaten into my brain that crying is a sign of weakness but I think crying is hope. In order to love someone, you have to be vulnerable. Crying shows an open heart.
I used to think that sex and true love went side by side. I now truly believe love and tenderness rarely have much to do with sex. Sex is all lust and selfishness. Love is adoration and love of time spent together and if someone is inspired with enough emotion and love to get upset enough to cry over you, don't shut them down, look at their open heart. They've just given something you'll never see from 99% of the people you'll ever encounter.
The one who is willing to cry over you is truly the one who will love you and protect you so nobody will make you cry.
I will come back to this but the edit button is too strong.
"Don't cry" said with barely hidden contempt & hate. "Quit crying" said with the last straw of patience. This topic is so embarrassing and hits so close to home, my edit button is flashing the warning lights and screaming "Abort Abort"!!! I've have always been a crier. My grandma, my dad, my mom, they all loved to tell me to quit crying. What is so fucking bad about crying anyway? If someone feels bad enough to cry, does telling them to stop really help your cause. It can. You can scare them into quitting, that usually works. I get it too, crying can be irritating especially if you don't give a shit about the person doing the crying. Things that make you go hmmmmm....
This I know is true for me. Crying is a release of stress and tension. Frustration often leads to crying. And most of all crying has kept me from telling most of my employers to Fuck Off. I'm telling you this edit button is strong right now. Sometimes crying is all you can do. And for me, if I can't feel anything strong enough about you that could make me cry, I may have given up on you. My feelings of love and sadness are so closely tied together they are impossible to separate.
All my life it has been beaten into my brain that crying is a sign of weakness but I think crying is hope. In order to love someone, you have to be vulnerable. Crying shows an open heart.
I used to think that sex and true love went side by side. I now truly believe love and tenderness rarely have much to do with sex. Sex is all lust and selfishness. Love is adoration and love of time spent together and if someone is inspired with enough emotion and love to get upset enough to cry over you, don't shut them down, look at their open heart. They've just given something you'll never see from 99% of the people you'll ever encounter.
The one who is willing to cry over you is truly the one who will love you and protect you so nobody will make you cry.
I will come back to this but the edit button is too strong.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Balance off
So here I am again writing. Less than 48 hours after I've started this blog I'm writing my 3rd entry. Let's jump out of my tight wearing kindergarten class and join my "adulthood" shall we? Now could I have planned a better metaphor than what just happened? I hesitated typing and looked down at my hand. I've been wearing a cheapo ring on my left middle finger for a weeks now, every since I bought it. Nothing special, pretty fake stones that go all around in different colors. I believe the fine craftsmen at Target's third world country jewelery supplier made this ring. But as I was admiring it I noticed it. There was no doubt it would happen. Time would make sure it did. One of the crappy little colored stones is now gone. This innocent distraction that twirled on my finger now only pisses me off. Despite all the other lovely ones left all I notice is the one that is missing. How FUCKING typical is that for me?? Not that my constant wearing made one of the little glass gems come unglued but now I don't want to wear it anymore. You would be hard pressed to even notice it was gone. I surely would have to point it out to you. By the way, Molly is really snoring. Just a minute ago she was running and trying to bark in her sleep. If I could bring my pack of dogs, Molly and Maude with me everywhere, I wouldn't be writing this blog. Undiagnosed ADD just kicked in and we're back....
Since my knee has been bothering me so much I've noticed that things have gotten out of balance in my life again. Usually I live in the physical in a lot of ways. My job is merely moving things from one place to another and making wiping motions. This is cleaning. Think about it the next time you're doing some household chores. I listen to music (old music, which I'm getting tired of), I watch TV (mostly cartoons now since there is nothing new on TV I like), and of course listen to podcasts. But these are not singular activities, I am moving at the same time. This might be doing dishes, working on crafts, walking the dogs but my mind is occupied while my body is moving. Lately, however, this body doesn't want to move. The knee is really squawking and making a lot of noise. Guess who's picking up the slack? The whole noggin is getting quite a work out lately. The brain, she is not content to do solitary duty, she drags the emotions along for the ride. For you see, this old broad is just barely keeping her shit together and it's been this way for as long as I can remember. The scale has tipped.
You see, I don't feel like I own my life. I never have. First I was the property of Dave and Ruth and when I turned 18, they signed the rights over to me. Property ownership is a daunting task. First you are giddy with excitement, look at all the cool stuff I can put in it. YES, I'm talking about boys and their, you know, dingily dangles. For awhile I couldn't afford the good "furniture" so I was picking a lot of it off the side of the road, if you know what I mean?? I'd get it home and it would be comfortable at first but by the time morning came, I saw why it was in the garbage. Worn out and not nearly as pretty as I thought. But wait, we'll talk more about the early days of promiscuity later. But that reminds me....
Sometimes I feel like I'm the crazy one and some days I feel like I'm the only sane person in the world. If you don't react to the barrage of crap life throws at your doorstep, you're the fucked up one, not me, you. And you think that by rationalizing fucking strangers on a regular basis is normal to distract yourself from your miserable life changes anything, go ahead but you'll never sit on my couch or my toilet. Being a whore in your 20's is one thing. Being a whore in your 50's ain't nothing but sad. Please refer to my previous blog to understand this outburst.
I'm starting to think that being nice is way overrated. I don't mean become an asshole. I get a lot of genuine pleasure when I think my words, my attitude can help somebody else. But this false face we strut around with all the time in order to fit into civilized society, maybe it's to blame. Maybe if people were allowed to vent a little a long the way we wouldn't have dumb fucks blowing themselves up and teenagers going on shooting sprees in their high school libraries. Fucking rules. They are everywhere. Guess who in my life are avid rule followers....I, on the other hand, revel in the shades of gray. Boring myself again.
Alright, my impulse is to delete all this but I'm not going to. It's not cohesive and it just a perfect example of being off balance.
Since my knee has been bothering me so much I've noticed that things have gotten out of balance in my life again. Usually I live in the physical in a lot of ways. My job is merely moving things from one place to another and making wiping motions. This is cleaning. Think about it the next time you're doing some household chores. I listen to music (old music, which I'm getting tired of), I watch TV (mostly cartoons now since there is nothing new on TV I like), and of course listen to podcasts. But these are not singular activities, I am moving at the same time. This might be doing dishes, working on crafts, walking the dogs but my mind is occupied while my body is moving. Lately, however, this body doesn't want to move. The knee is really squawking and making a lot of noise. Guess who's picking up the slack? The whole noggin is getting quite a work out lately. The brain, she is not content to do solitary duty, she drags the emotions along for the ride. For you see, this old broad is just barely keeping her shit together and it's been this way for as long as I can remember. The scale has tipped.
You see, I don't feel like I own my life. I never have. First I was the property of Dave and Ruth and when I turned 18, they signed the rights over to me. Property ownership is a daunting task. First you are giddy with excitement, look at all the cool stuff I can put in it. YES, I'm talking about boys and their, you know, dingily dangles. For awhile I couldn't afford the good "furniture" so I was picking a lot of it off the side of the road, if you know what I mean?? I'd get it home and it would be comfortable at first but by the time morning came, I saw why it was in the garbage. Worn out and not nearly as pretty as I thought. But wait, we'll talk more about the early days of promiscuity later. But that reminds me....
Sometimes I feel like I'm the crazy one and some days I feel like I'm the only sane person in the world. If you don't react to the barrage of crap life throws at your doorstep, you're the fucked up one, not me, you. And you think that by rationalizing fucking strangers on a regular basis is normal to distract yourself from your miserable life changes anything, go ahead but you'll never sit on my couch or my toilet. Being a whore in your 20's is one thing. Being a whore in your 50's ain't nothing but sad. Please refer to my previous blog to understand this outburst.
I'm starting to think that being nice is way overrated. I don't mean become an asshole. I get a lot of genuine pleasure when I think my words, my attitude can help somebody else. But this false face we strut around with all the time in order to fit into civilized society, maybe it's to blame. Maybe if people were allowed to vent a little a long the way we wouldn't have dumb fucks blowing themselves up and teenagers going on shooting sprees in their high school libraries. Fucking rules. They are everywhere. Guess who in my life are avid rule followers....I, on the other hand, revel in the shades of gray. Boring myself again.
Alright, my impulse is to delete all this but I'm not going to. It's not cohesive and it just a perfect example of being off balance.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Self
In my previous blog I touched upon self-esteem briefly. I am here to tell you that the biggest sad sack in the room can still have a giant ego. Don't believe it, here I am, waving "Hello". This is not to say I am confident in all topics. Since I am a girl, math does make feel oogy. And science takes a patience I will never possess. You get the idea. But I can sit in a room and gradually, systematically, rip apart every person in there, in my mind. Did I hear a gasp of shock? First censor, my first response is "Fuck you!" Second response is "Oh I'm just kidding". Third response is as follows:
My earliest memories of childhood are just glimpses at this point, the youngest being 5 years old. The first things that pop into my head was being in kindergarten and the tights I wore under my dress were cream colored with some sort of ribbing but they didn't quite fit, a little too small. I was always tugging at them, the crotch (I hate that word) always hung too low. So my mom's solution was for me to wear my underwear on the outside of the tights instead. So unless you were rolling around on the floor, which I was, nobody would know. Big surprise, some kid said "Hey you got your underwear on the outside". It wasn't all that traumatic. I just remember it. I do recall the contempt in the kid's voice though. Besides that there are little memories like the sour smell of a 1 pint carton of milk and how the paper carton broke down so quickly when you pressed your mouth on it over and over. In that same vein, the pure joy of when the cafeteria had chocolate milk for the day. I remember running to the door when the recess bell went off, trying to be the first in line, falling, sliding and cutting my right leg and knee and walking down the hall with my leg caked in gravel and blood dripping down to my ankle. And the very next day, doing the EXACT same thing. But to describe these first few years of school, not much stands out. Things really changed around 8-10 years old, I do remember that I suddenly started worrying about school more and more. Gym class became an increasingly dread-filled experience. And the biggest thing that stands out is how all my quirks and short-comings became fodder for my classmates. "Don't you have any other clothes?" "Carrot top!!" "Your hair is on fire" And who can forget the classic gym class humiliation, say it with me, getting picked last or 2nd to last for teams. You'll never know how many times I survived on the "AT LEAST I wasn't picked last" Come with me won't you while I paint a picture of myself in 1973. Messy carrot red hair, lime green polyester stretch pants (homemade no less by my grandma with a pleat sewn into the front of the pants), peach colored sweat shirt, and tennis shoes from your local K-Mart. Not exactly a princess smelling of cotton candy and sunshine, huh?
I'm going to pause from this description to say, I get no pleasure from describing the previous. It still makes me feel out of control and vulnerable and to retell it as an adult, ashamed too. Ashamed that it still causes me enough grief that I am writing about it now. That being said...
This time period is when I remember the verbal onslaughts starting. Nobody ever beat me up and it didn't happen even every day. This what I can say for certain, my parents never had my back. They never stood up for me. They never told me I was good enough just the way I was and they never told me how to deal with it except to say "Just ignore them". I am here to tell you, playing opossum doesn't work. Silence to a child is little more than a reason to fill the chasm with their clever taunts and insults. Silence makes you a weirdo. Silence makes you invisible until that's all you want to do is disappear. To my adult brain, this all seems melodramatic. But to the child's mind who looks to the parents to navigate them and protect them in this world, it felt like being thrown to the proverbial wolves. As you would expect, the bullied adopt the bullies' techniques.
I did not become a bully. I did judge you in my mind. I judged you harshly. And every new person who was mean to me was just that much more evidence that there was something wrong with me but I could also find plenty wrong with you. And the mind that can torture you with memories can also provide you with a terrific fantasy life. More and more I found myself pulling away from the people who I craved to belong. I created this idea of what a successful life would entail. So anything I deemed as ordinary was eliminated. Having kids was ordinary and why would I have kids so they could hate me too? Why do I want to create another creature just like myself? The idea of reliving my childhood through another person sounded like torture. Reliving these thoughts is painful. There were many other directions in life I eliminated but it just feels like details now.
This is the kind of random thing that has happened to me as an adult that keeps these feelings going. Once I was walking down the highway to get to my boyfriend's job to pick up MY fucking car. I was in my very early twenties. A small child difference in weight. I was wearing baggy sweatpants after working a shift waiting tables at Pizza Hut and some car full of guys going down the road yelled out the windows at me "Hey Fat ass!" "Why don't you join Weight Watchers?" "Hey (insert random fatty insult here)" This hit and run caught me off guard, made me upset, and cry to my boyfriend where I was picking up MY CAR (did I mention that) and he told me to get over it. The more I tried to convince him that I was wronged, the madder he got at me. The madder he got a me....
Here's an example of something that happened within the last two years. I work in a hospital and I used to work the day shift. Like a factory, we had break times and for some reason the supervisors encouraged us to all go to the cafeteria and take our breaks together. I think it was so they could keep an eye us and know if we were taking too long of breaks. As is natural when that many women are crammed at the same table will do, conversations would develop. Unfortunately the topics drove me crazy. One lady would come down and spew the same bitches about the nurses everyday. One lady would recreate the last two hours of work for us. One lady would talk about her fucked up daughter and her fucked up grandchildren and all the bad decisions they made in life. And one lady like to run to management whenever I said the word Fuck. So when I could no longer take the barrage of crazy and getting in trouble for cussing, I excused myself from this break table and went somewhere else in the hospital. And this is the response I got. These things were said to my face. "What, do you think you're better than us?" "How are we supposed to feel since you're not coming to break with us anymore?" This is the reaction I got from women raging in age from 40 to 62 years old. My head hurts now. FUCK YOU Norma. (That's the lady who tattled on me).
I tell you all this not so you will look at me as a victim or feel sorry for me, not at all. These are the sort of human interactions that still fucking confuse me. I want to call them all out on their crazy. I want to tell them to keep their opinions to themselves. My brain tries so hard to make sense of all this stuff and sometimes, the only way I can survive is to go back into my head and put them down. And on the outside, just ignore it.
My earliest memories of childhood are just glimpses at this point, the youngest being 5 years old. The first things that pop into my head was being in kindergarten and the tights I wore under my dress were cream colored with some sort of ribbing but they didn't quite fit, a little too small. I was always tugging at them, the crotch (I hate that word) always hung too low. So my mom's solution was for me to wear my underwear on the outside of the tights instead. So unless you were rolling around on the floor, which I was, nobody would know. Big surprise, some kid said "Hey you got your underwear on the outside". It wasn't all that traumatic. I just remember it. I do recall the contempt in the kid's voice though. Besides that there are little memories like the sour smell of a 1 pint carton of milk and how the paper carton broke down so quickly when you pressed your mouth on it over and over. In that same vein, the pure joy of when the cafeteria had chocolate milk for the day. I remember running to the door when the recess bell went off, trying to be the first in line, falling, sliding and cutting my right leg and knee and walking down the hall with my leg caked in gravel and blood dripping down to my ankle. And the very next day, doing the EXACT same thing. But to describe these first few years of school, not much stands out. Things really changed around 8-10 years old, I do remember that I suddenly started worrying about school more and more. Gym class became an increasingly dread-filled experience. And the biggest thing that stands out is how all my quirks and short-comings became fodder for my classmates. "Don't you have any other clothes?" "Carrot top!!" "Your hair is on fire" And who can forget the classic gym class humiliation, say it with me, getting picked last or 2nd to last for teams. You'll never know how many times I survived on the "AT LEAST I wasn't picked last" Come with me won't you while I paint a picture of myself in 1973. Messy carrot red hair, lime green polyester stretch pants (homemade no less by my grandma with a pleat sewn into the front of the pants), peach colored sweat shirt, and tennis shoes from your local K-Mart. Not exactly a princess smelling of cotton candy and sunshine, huh?
I'm going to pause from this description to say, I get no pleasure from describing the previous. It still makes me feel out of control and vulnerable and to retell it as an adult, ashamed too. Ashamed that it still causes me enough grief that I am writing about it now. That being said...
This time period is when I remember the verbal onslaughts starting. Nobody ever beat me up and it didn't happen even every day. This what I can say for certain, my parents never had my back. They never stood up for me. They never told me I was good enough just the way I was and they never told me how to deal with it except to say "Just ignore them". I am here to tell you, playing opossum doesn't work. Silence to a child is little more than a reason to fill the chasm with their clever taunts and insults. Silence makes you a weirdo. Silence makes you invisible until that's all you want to do is disappear. To my adult brain, this all seems melodramatic. But to the child's mind who looks to the parents to navigate them and protect them in this world, it felt like being thrown to the proverbial wolves. As you would expect, the bullied adopt the bullies' techniques.
I did not become a bully. I did judge you in my mind. I judged you harshly. And every new person who was mean to me was just that much more evidence that there was something wrong with me but I could also find plenty wrong with you. And the mind that can torture you with memories can also provide you with a terrific fantasy life. More and more I found myself pulling away from the people who I craved to belong. I created this idea of what a successful life would entail. So anything I deemed as ordinary was eliminated. Having kids was ordinary and why would I have kids so they could hate me too? Why do I want to create another creature just like myself? The idea of reliving my childhood through another person sounded like torture. Reliving these thoughts is painful. There were many other directions in life I eliminated but it just feels like details now.
This is the kind of random thing that has happened to me as an adult that keeps these feelings going. Once I was walking down the highway to get to my boyfriend's job to pick up MY fucking car. I was in my very early twenties. A small child difference in weight. I was wearing baggy sweatpants after working a shift waiting tables at Pizza Hut and some car full of guys going down the road yelled out the windows at me "Hey Fat ass!" "Why don't you join Weight Watchers?" "Hey (insert random fatty insult here)" This hit and run caught me off guard, made me upset, and cry to my boyfriend where I was picking up MY CAR (did I mention that) and he told me to get over it. The more I tried to convince him that I was wronged, the madder he got at me. The madder he got a me....
Here's an example of something that happened within the last two years. I work in a hospital and I used to work the day shift. Like a factory, we had break times and for some reason the supervisors encouraged us to all go to the cafeteria and take our breaks together. I think it was so they could keep an eye us and know if we were taking too long of breaks. As is natural when that many women are crammed at the same table will do, conversations would develop. Unfortunately the topics drove me crazy. One lady would come down and spew the same bitches about the nurses everyday. One lady would recreate the last two hours of work for us. One lady would talk about her fucked up daughter and her fucked up grandchildren and all the bad decisions they made in life. And one lady like to run to management whenever I said the word Fuck. So when I could no longer take the barrage of crazy and getting in trouble for cussing, I excused myself from this break table and went somewhere else in the hospital. And this is the response I got. These things were said to my face. "What, do you think you're better than us?" "How are we supposed to feel since you're not coming to break with us anymore?" This is the reaction I got from women raging in age from 40 to 62 years old. My head hurts now. FUCK YOU Norma. (That's the lady who tattled on me).
I tell you all this not so you will look at me as a victim or feel sorry for me, not at all. These are the sort of human interactions that still fucking confuse me. I want to call them all out on their crazy. I want to tell them to keep their opinions to themselves. My brain tries so hard to make sense of all this stuff and sometimes, the only way I can survive is to go back into my head and put them down. And on the outside, just ignore it.
Waiting
A good chunk of my life has been spent waiting. Waiting to be noticed, waiting to be loved, waiting to be happy. And what has all this hanging around gotten me? Bitter for one thing. Disillusioned for another. No further along from when I started. So just what keeps me stuck here?
Let's start with the fact that I am a girl and there is a long standing tradition, rule if you will, that girls never make the first move. It is our lot in life to sit along the sidelines like some never ending dance, forever sitting in a folding chair along the wall of our high school gymnasium. So here we are at the dance dressed up, hair piled high, make-up just right, and no takers. Then what? What does a girl do when fate has not supplied her with the honey for her generation? I've been on this planet nearly 5 decades. My looks and the current trend have never yet matched. Didn't I mention being pretty is the highest standard of success for any girl? It is so ingrained into my subconscious that it doesn't feel like it even needed to be said. Oh, don't get me wrong there is a place for the less fortunate looking girl but she is destined to be the breeder, the workhorse of the family, always supporting the husband without a thought for herself, the happiness of her family as her only reward. But I am not a saint or a martyr either. I have the attitude of a super model with the looks of a farmer's wife combined with the aspirations of a man all wrapped with the self-esteem of a frequently kicked puppy dog. A puppy with ADD that is.
Even before I ever even worried about getting married, I was the kid next door beating on your door "Hey you want to come out and do something?" And realistically that's how I still make my friends. I see somebody and just keep beating on their front door until they let me in or they call the cops. Just ask somebody I know named Vera, he'll attest to this fact. In a lot of ways this worked until I was 10 years old and then somebody changed the rules. All the crap my parents had been presenting to me as fact for years, suddenly they're telling me, remember all that fun stuff like Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, yeah, that was a bunch of bullshit and why haven't you figured that on your own by now? Life is hard, quit being so silly, and grow up. And growing up for a girl means shutting down all your natural impulses to be the center of attention, asking for what you want, and the willingness to be embarrassed by your mistakes. Suddenly this very clumsy goofy girl is being told pull in the reins and be worried about your clothes, your hair, your behavior. Okay, I understand this the natural maturation process but not to be given the skills to make these changes makes me call FOUL. To this brain, this unsophisticated mind, all I heard was you're not good enough just the way you are and you better hope somebody notices you as a diamond in the ruff. So by 12 years old, I was no longer a person, I was a girl.
The next best thing to getting the cute boy in your class was being friends with the girl who did and this was my lot in life for many years. God, what a fucking drag, however, being the sidekick did make it necessary to develop a personality, a trait many go to their grave without ever achieving. This is not to say I did not participate in the "Oh my God did you see what she was wearing today?" game. Oh no, I was just as judgemental as the gorgeous girls. You know there's a hierarchy even amongst the losers. Anyway, I'm starting to bore myself. None of this new stuff. All this background to say the following.
As of say 2 years ago I decided to join the 1990's and check into this new finagled thing called the interwebs and not just for shopping but actual computer to computer virtual interaction. And what did I find? A whole new group of neighbors where I could pound on their door and say "Hey, do you want to come out and do something?" Throw in different time zones and then different countries, you could "Up all Night" just the old USA overnight movie tag line. Let me tell you, at first everyday was like my birthday. Balloons, streamers, all the attention and cake, just for me. But as time passed, I was no longer the shiny new toy in the room and other people had their birthdays and who the hell is this new person infringing on my territory. Just like little kid who is being ignored will resort to bad behavior to get attention, so does the impatient female. Virtually jumping up and down in the corner waving her hands wildly screaming "Look at me Look at me!" This resulted in me revisiting those same old feelings of desperation, loss of control, and just being a girl. A girl who has to be content with whatever comes her way, the scraps, the leftovers. Believe me when I say this, it's not to be melodramatic or get your sympathy, it just honestly feel like my "buying power" is quite small and my resale value is greatly compromised by today's market swings.
So if we accept the previous to be true, where does that leave a girl? This one speaking has always felt suspended in time, in life's purgatory, not quite hell but certainly not heaven. Lurking around always searching for someone to come and save her from herself. To put it simply, life is like a bag Lay's Potato Chips. When you first break the seal, you get the puff of air from the fresh crispy chips and you grab the first one, the salt hits your tongue, melts ever so slightly, and the snap as your teeth bite the chip. That's as good as it gets. At first you don't even need a drink, it's not too salty yet. But as you continue down the bag, you need a little soda to get it go down. And that Pepsi is tasty, what a nice combination, sweet carbonated cola with the salt of the chip. But now you get to the bottom. The chips are getting staler, less whole pieces, the burnt ones are rearing their ugly heads and then finally the crumbs. And nothings gonna bring back that feeling of the first chip, no soda, no beer, nothing. So if life were a bag Lay's Potato chip I'm staring at a pile of crumbs.
Let's start with the fact that I am a girl and there is a long standing tradition, rule if you will, that girls never make the first move. It is our lot in life to sit along the sidelines like some never ending dance, forever sitting in a folding chair along the wall of our high school gymnasium. So here we are at the dance dressed up, hair piled high, make-up just right, and no takers. Then what? What does a girl do when fate has not supplied her with the honey for her generation? I've been on this planet nearly 5 decades. My looks and the current trend have never yet matched. Didn't I mention being pretty is the highest standard of success for any girl? It is so ingrained into my subconscious that it doesn't feel like it even needed to be said. Oh, don't get me wrong there is a place for the less fortunate looking girl but she is destined to be the breeder, the workhorse of the family, always supporting the husband without a thought for herself, the happiness of her family as her only reward. But I am not a saint or a martyr either. I have the attitude of a super model with the looks of a farmer's wife combined with the aspirations of a man all wrapped with the self-esteem of a frequently kicked puppy dog. A puppy with ADD that is.
Even before I ever even worried about getting married, I was the kid next door beating on your door "Hey you want to come out and do something?" And realistically that's how I still make my friends. I see somebody and just keep beating on their front door until they let me in or they call the cops. Just ask somebody I know named Vera, he'll attest to this fact. In a lot of ways this worked until I was 10 years old and then somebody changed the rules. All the crap my parents had been presenting to me as fact for years, suddenly they're telling me, remember all that fun stuff like Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, yeah, that was a bunch of bullshit and why haven't you figured that on your own by now? Life is hard, quit being so silly, and grow up. And growing up for a girl means shutting down all your natural impulses to be the center of attention, asking for what you want, and the willingness to be embarrassed by your mistakes. Suddenly this very clumsy goofy girl is being told pull in the reins and be worried about your clothes, your hair, your behavior. Okay, I understand this the natural maturation process but not to be given the skills to make these changes makes me call FOUL. To this brain, this unsophisticated mind, all I heard was you're not good enough just the way you are and you better hope somebody notices you as a diamond in the ruff. So by 12 years old, I was no longer a person, I was a girl.
The next best thing to getting the cute boy in your class was being friends with the girl who did and this was my lot in life for many years. God, what a fucking drag, however, being the sidekick did make it necessary to develop a personality, a trait many go to their grave without ever achieving. This is not to say I did not participate in the "Oh my God did you see what she was wearing today?" game. Oh no, I was just as judgemental as the gorgeous girls. You know there's a hierarchy even amongst the losers. Anyway, I'm starting to bore myself. None of this new stuff. All this background to say the following.
As of say 2 years ago I decided to join the 1990's and check into this new finagled thing called the interwebs and not just for shopping but actual computer to computer virtual interaction. And what did I find? A whole new group of neighbors where I could pound on their door and say "Hey, do you want to come out and do something?" Throw in different time zones and then different countries, you could "Up all Night" just the old USA overnight movie tag line. Let me tell you, at first everyday was like my birthday. Balloons, streamers, all the attention and cake, just for me. But as time passed, I was no longer the shiny new toy in the room and other people had their birthdays and who the hell is this new person infringing on my territory. Just like little kid who is being ignored will resort to bad behavior to get attention, so does the impatient female. Virtually jumping up and down in the corner waving her hands wildly screaming "Look at me Look at me!" This resulted in me revisiting those same old feelings of desperation, loss of control, and just being a girl. A girl who has to be content with whatever comes her way, the scraps, the leftovers. Believe me when I say this, it's not to be melodramatic or get your sympathy, it just honestly feel like my "buying power" is quite small and my resale value is greatly compromised by today's market swings.
So if we accept the previous to be true, where does that leave a girl? This one speaking has always felt suspended in time, in life's purgatory, not quite hell but certainly not heaven. Lurking around always searching for someone to come and save her from herself. To put it simply, life is like a bag Lay's Potato Chips. When you first break the seal, you get the puff of air from the fresh crispy chips and you grab the first one, the salt hits your tongue, melts ever so slightly, and the snap as your teeth bite the chip. That's as good as it gets. At first you don't even need a drink, it's not too salty yet. But as you continue down the bag, you need a little soda to get it go down. And that Pepsi is tasty, what a nice combination, sweet carbonated cola with the salt of the chip. But now you get to the bottom. The chips are getting staler, less whole pieces, the burnt ones are rearing their ugly heads and then finally the crumbs. And nothings gonna bring back that feeling of the first chip, no soda, no beer, nothing. So if life were a bag Lay's Potato chip I'm staring at a pile of crumbs.
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