I'm worried about a friend of mine. We've been friends for 15 years, and he periodically disappears and reappears and goes to rehab and gets okay and then descends into madness again. I'm pretty pissed, actually. I'm tired of losing people I love. It's funny, the people who come in and out of your life, who maybe at the time don't seem that significant, but who do have a pretty big impact.
I think addiction is selfish. There, I said it. My father was an alcoholic, and while he never laid one single hand on me in anger, it stole a part of my relationship with him. As close as we were and as much as we shared, I can't imagine what our complete relationship might've been, had that not been a part of him. I have had other issues with family addiction, which are not currently my story to tell, but they steal parts of me. The addicted person has no concept of their effect on other people, and I know this is a part of addiction, but that weakness makes me so angry, that I have a hard time coming to grips with it.
I've grappled with my own issues; I'll be the first to admit that I am nowhere near perfect. Alcohol has caused problems for me in the past, and I recognized it enough to metaphorically kick my own ass and pull myself out of it. I would never want to cause pain or suffering to anyone I love, and that is the thing that keeps me most grounded. I think that I don't and will probably never understand true addiction because I can't fathom picturing those who I love most so worried about me that it makes them sick or truly alters their lives.
It's funny the things that seemed commonplace or "okay" 10 years ago are most assuredly not okay now, when you have families and spouses and mortgages and responsibilities to consider. I have and do love some people that have deep roots in addiction and self-destruction, and it's literally like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. You don't want to turn your back and think you could've done something differently, but in truth, there's nothing you, singularly, could do to change a course of events.
For over 10 years, I've harbored a guilt that an ex-boyfriend I had reconnected with killed himself because I didn't answer a call the weekend that he shot himself. I thought it was cool that we were friends, but we needed to understand distance and what that meant, and when I didn't answer his call and was told 2 days later that he killed himself, I lived with, and partially still live with, the nagging thought that it's my fault, that if I had picked up the phone, I could've changed something or said something. If guilt were a talent, I could rock it at Miss America..srsly, I have a gift generally bestowed to the Jewish.
My point is, no one can make anyone do anything or choose a path or decide their fate. I am so worried about you, J.C., and I want to literally kick you in your ass, but you have to decide, in the words of the immortal Morgan Freeman (well, Stephen King, really) "Get busy living or get busy dying." For real. People with the talent that you possess are bound for greatness, you just have to find that opportunity, and I swear if you come out of this, I will cry with joy and punch you in the throat. I feel the Yosemite Sam anger rising....
Monday, March 28, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Not in a state of yo
I'm anxious. I've been this way for about a month now. I can't pinpoint what's causing it. I have a few ideas, but until I mull them over, I think I'll keep them to myself for a bit. Smitty says I share too much information anyway. That may be true, but as a writer, I genuinely feel I don't need to hide anything about myself. Yes, I walk into doors and fall into holes and wore two bras to work one day...that's the beauty of me...
I just saw a commercial for a Senior Citizen dating website. In theory, that's nice, although creepy. In reality, it brings to mind that my grandmother mentioned to my sister recently that my mother should "find somebody." It's been less than a year since my father died. While I don't begrudge my mother having another relationship, I think maybe more than a year should pass since your husband of 48 years' death before you start dating. And also, I would like to say for the record, this is not something for which I'm ready. If this happens soon, I will actually need therapy and will have to stop joking about the fake need for it.
Disorganized people can have children, right? I've been thinking about the whole "little person" (baby, not midget) thing seriously lately, and I worry. On the one hand, we always have milk and canned goods, and we have guns to fight against zombies and baby kidnappers, but on the other hand, I have sand in my car, and I don't know from where, there is a pile of at least 15 pairs of shoes on the floor in front of my dresser, and I think Jimmy Hoffa is in my closet.
Children need structure and order, but they also need milk (which we have) and maybe they need beets and oysters in a tin, which we also have ... for some reason. And they need creativity and imagination, which I have, in droves, and acceptance and love and unconditional support, but also a kick in their asses, which Smitty and I can both provide. I think we'll be okay...I just worry...these random things are the things that keep my neck in knots and cause insomnia and weird dreams and thoughts.
I think that Smitty and I balance each other out well enough to have ONE (only one) well-adjusted child. If you had told me 10 years ago I would marry a gun nut with more than a touch of OCD who lives for football season, I would've called shenanigans. But, I imagine if you had told him that he would marry a Noxubee County yellow-dog Democrat with no coordination who frequently runs out of gas and sings a soundtrack that ranges from Frank Sinatra to Carrie Underwood to Concrete Blonde to Sheri Lewis, and sings 80% of the words wrong, he would've guffawed and called his own shenanigans...but it works...oh, how it works. I internally give thanks every day for him.
I'm very excited to be on a reading dervish again. When my ADHD kicks in, I don't want to read, but I think recently, I need inspiration and a bit of escape..and I refuse to play any weird, role-playing games. I feel good things are afoot for Team Smittily. We'll see how it unfolds.
I just saw a commercial for a Senior Citizen dating website. In theory, that's nice, although creepy. In reality, it brings to mind that my grandmother mentioned to my sister recently that my mother should "find somebody." It's been less than a year since my father died. While I don't begrudge my mother having another relationship, I think maybe more than a year should pass since your husband of 48 years' death before you start dating. And also, I would like to say for the record, this is not something for which I'm ready. If this happens soon, I will actually need therapy and will have to stop joking about the fake need for it.
Disorganized people can have children, right? I've been thinking about the whole "little person" (baby, not midget) thing seriously lately, and I worry. On the one hand, we always have milk and canned goods, and we have guns to fight against zombies and baby kidnappers, but on the other hand, I have sand in my car, and I don't know from where, there is a pile of at least 15 pairs of shoes on the floor in front of my dresser, and I think Jimmy Hoffa is in my closet.
Children need structure and order, but they also need milk (which we have) and maybe they need beets and oysters in a tin, which we also have ... for some reason. And they need creativity and imagination, which I have, in droves, and acceptance and love and unconditional support, but also a kick in their asses, which Smitty and I can both provide. I think we'll be okay...I just worry...these random things are the things that keep my neck in knots and cause insomnia and weird dreams and thoughts.
I think that Smitty and I balance each other out well enough to have ONE (only one) well-adjusted child. If you had told me 10 years ago I would marry a gun nut with more than a touch of OCD who lives for football season, I would've called shenanigans. But, I imagine if you had told him that he would marry a Noxubee County yellow-dog Democrat with no coordination who frequently runs out of gas and sings a soundtrack that ranges from Frank Sinatra to Carrie Underwood to Concrete Blonde to Sheri Lewis, and sings 80% of the words wrong, he would've guffawed and called his own shenanigans...but it works...oh, how it works. I internally give thanks every day for him.
I'm very excited to be on a reading dervish again. When my ADHD kicks in, I don't want to read, but I think recently, I need inspiration and a bit of escape..and I refuse to play any weird, role-playing games. I feel good things are afoot for Team Smittily. We'll see how it unfolds.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
With the lights off, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us
I'm having a day where I just want to scream and shoot a loud gun at some cans or a target with Sarah Palin's face. For over two weeks, I am seemingly incapable of unclenching. I lost a job I applied for within my company, and I'm okay with that on the face of it, but I'm reaching an odd point where I feel if I have to hear one more sob story or blatant lie in the course of a work day, I'm going to strip off my clothes and start acting like a monkey.
It is approaching the 1-year anniversary of my father's death, and it really hasn't gotten much easier to accept that he's not available for me to call and talk about the Oscars or what Norton is doing or what he thought about the super computer kicking ass at Jeopardy. This has not been a great year for me since last April. I keep going through stages where I think I'm okay and then I'm sooo not okay. I don't want to talk about my feelings all the time, though, I really don't, so Smitty has (thank GOD) identified and accepted my pattern of denial, denial, denial, then teary breakdown and catharsis...I couldn't be more grateful to have that tall drink of water as my husband than if I were Charlie Sheen and he was a big bag of cocaine.
On a completely different note, Smitty is gone until Saturday, and I'm concerned. What if a snake crawls in the house, or I start a fire, or hit my head on a cabinet and become concussed? See, this is not cool. I lived by myself for almost 10 years and was relatively self-sufficient, although I did have a family of rats living behind my stove in one apartment and had "Fight Club" in the garage of a house I rented in college, although I had roommates...I'm just saying, clearly, I can function by myself, but when I get used to having Smitty around to rub the head I bang on the freezer and use the scary Japanese knife that cuts the onions the best, I feel unsure.
Seriously, I just miss the hell out of him. He is my best friend...go vomit if you like, and I like having him around. However, we do, in fact, need time apart. He needs to do family stuff and outdoor man stuff like fishing and talking about bears and Nazis, and I need my time to play games and sing karaoke and perhaps attend an 80s movie showing. It's the glue, people....
I need a creative outlet other than this blog...desperately. I'm thinking of trolling for local writer's conferences and collecting money on the side of the road for the registration fee. I have got to feed this crazy brain with something other than fluff and piffle. How fun are those words? Let me know if you have any leads...
I leave you with this:
-- "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" Dr. Seuss
It is approaching the 1-year anniversary of my father's death, and it really hasn't gotten much easier to accept that he's not available for me to call and talk about the Oscars or what Norton is doing or what he thought about the super computer kicking ass at Jeopardy. This has not been a great year for me since last April. I keep going through stages where I think I'm okay and then I'm sooo not okay. I don't want to talk about my feelings all the time, though, I really don't, so Smitty has (thank GOD) identified and accepted my pattern of denial, denial, denial, then teary breakdown and catharsis...I couldn't be more grateful to have that tall drink of water as my husband than if I were Charlie Sheen and he was a big bag of cocaine.
On a completely different note, Smitty is gone until Saturday, and I'm concerned. What if a snake crawls in the house, or I start a fire, or hit my head on a cabinet and become concussed? See, this is not cool. I lived by myself for almost 10 years and was relatively self-sufficient, although I did have a family of rats living behind my stove in one apartment and had "Fight Club" in the garage of a house I rented in college, although I had roommates...I'm just saying, clearly, I can function by myself, but when I get used to having Smitty around to rub the head I bang on the freezer and use the scary Japanese knife that cuts the onions the best, I feel unsure.
Seriously, I just miss the hell out of him. He is my best friend...go vomit if you like, and I like having him around. However, we do, in fact, need time apart. He needs to do family stuff and outdoor man stuff like fishing and talking about bears and Nazis, and I need my time to play games and sing karaoke and perhaps attend an 80s movie showing. It's the glue, people....
I need a creative outlet other than this blog...desperately. I'm thinking of trolling for local writer's conferences and collecting money on the side of the road for the registration fee. I have got to feed this crazy brain with something other than fluff and piffle. How fun are those words? Let me know if you have any leads...
I leave you with this:
"You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Westboro Baptist Church and when God hated Emily
Sorry I've been AWOL the last few weeks. For the 4 of you that keep up with my blog, I'm sure you've been devastated. Sometimes, as a writer and a human being, I don't feel I have anything interesting to say. If I got paid to blog, I'm sure I could scrape out some bon mots in a hurry, but as it were, life and stress and headaches like Sumo wrestlers resting on my head intervened, and I went silent.
I've been following with amused detachment the cuckoo-kachoo Westboro Baptist Church in the news recently. This is the group of people based in Kansas who have decided to picket dead soldiers' funerals, because the war and/or the soldiers have something to do with homosexuality or the general loss of godliness. I'm not clear on the details, because these people are certifiable. I have, in fact, tangled with them before.
Picture it: Columbus, Mississippi, early-2002. A young, winsome girl is a plucky copy editor at a local daily newspaper. Alright, I was a cranky copy editor at a newspaper that paid me just above the poverty line...oh, and the Dorothy Hamill haircut-having boss I had treated me like something that she scraped off her shoe. Among my many genuinely important duties, I had to periodically check the fax machine. Heaven forbid, an important Rotary meeting or mayoral appearance fell through the cracks. One particular day, I pulled a press release off the fax machine, and in the boldest, largest font, it read, " Matthew Shephard burning in hell since 1999," with a link listed "www.godhatesfags.org."
I was absolutely horrified, and I forget why we were even receiving the fax. It may have been the year they picketed the University of Southern Mississippi for something inane, but my liberal sensibilities were shaken. Who were these people? Who gave them the right to invoke God's name in the name of hate? So, I went to their horrid website, saw more of the same, and immediately fired off an e-mail to them, something to the effect of "I don't know to what God you're praying, but my God doesn't foster hate and judgment and would never lend his name to a group as horrible as yours. You should be ashamed of yourselves." And then, as I always did, signed Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, Commercial Dispatch. Not because I was speaking for the paper, but because I wanted them to know why I knew who they were, and a title lends a certain strength, I guess.
Maybe about 12 hours later, we got a fax that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," with a press release detailing how they were planning to visit our city, picket the newspaper and also several local churches...why, I have no idea. Let me explain another thing, the managing editor and two of our reporters were gay. However, Emily was taking up the indignant cause of the rainbow at this particular point. Turns out, the managing editor was in agreement with me until she related this latest development to the executive editor/OWNER of the newspaper.
In short: He e-mailed or contacted these people, and what I like to imagine is that he told them I was a renegade, a rebel, a liberal with no connections, and I did not speak for the newspaper. I have to believe he must've also told them that he supported their wacked-out views, or they would've come anyway, but, whatever...Also, I was suspended from work for a day because I had nearly brought the crazies to Main Street, and at the time I was A. Extremely grateful for not losing my job and B. Extremely grateful I wouldn't have to explain to several news stations how these people had come to be in Mississippi.
In retrospect, had I had the boss that hired me, he would've welcomed the controversy, and I might've ended up on the national news, who knows, but I find it ridiculously amusing that the conservative nation as a whole is outraged by these people, who began, as far as I can tell, out of hate for a dead, gay teenager who never harmed anyone, yet endured the most awful, brutal hate crime since segregation days. They wouldn't have identified with that, which is bad enough, but when it comes to the troops, that's when we start to care. Personally, I like to believe that everyone's death is tragic, and one doesn't weigh more than the other.
Also, Westboro Baptist Church is batshit crazy. They're all related, they're all attorneys, and they know everything imaginable about the First Amendment. Smart, insane people...like the Unabomber...gives me the chills.
I've been following with amused detachment the cuckoo-kachoo Westboro Baptist Church in the news recently. This is the group of people based in Kansas who have decided to picket dead soldiers' funerals, because the war and/or the soldiers have something to do with homosexuality or the general loss of godliness. I'm not clear on the details, because these people are certifiable. I have, in fact, tangled with them before.
Picture it: Columbus, Mississippi, early-2002. A young, winsome girl is a plucky copy editor at a local daily newspaper. Alright, I was a cranky copy editor at a newspaper that paid me just above the poverty line...oh, and the Dorothy Hamill haircut-having boss I had treated me like something that she scraped off her shoe. Among my many genuinely important duties, I had to periodically check the fax machine. Heaven forbid, an important Rotary meeting or mayoral appearance fell through the cracks. One particular day, I pulled a press release off the fax machine, and in the boldest, largest font, it read, " Matthew Shephard burning in hell since 1999," with a link listed "www.godhatesfags.org."
I was absolutely horrified, and I forget why we were even receiving the fax. It may have been the year they picketed the University of Southern Mississippi for something inane, but my liberal sensibilities were shaken. Who were these people? Who gave them the right to invoke God's name in the name of hate? So, I went to their horrid website, saw more of the same, and immediately fired off an e-mail to them, something to the effect of "I don't know to what God you're praying, but my God doesn't foster hate and judgment and would never lend his name to a group as horrible as yours. You should be ashamed of yourselves." And then, as I always did, signed Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, Commercial Dispatch. Not because I was speaking for the paper, but because I wanted them to know why I knew who they were, and a title lends a certain strength, I guess.
Maybe about 12 hours later, we got a fax that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," with a press release detailing how they were planning to visit our city, picket the newspaper and also several local churches...why, I have no idea. Let me explain another thing, the managing editor and two of our reporters were gay. However, Emily was taking up the indignant cause of the rainbow at this particular point. Turns out, the managing editor was in agreement with me until she related this latest development to the executive editor/OWNER of the newspaper.
In short: He e-mailed or contacted these people, and what I like to imagine is that he told them I was a renegade, a rebel, a liberal with no connections, and I did not speak for the newspaper. I have to believe he must've also told them that he supported their wacked-out views, or they would've come anyway, but, whatever...Also, I was suspended from work for a day because I had nearly brought the crazies to Main Street, and at the time I was A. Extremely grateful for not losing my job and B. Extremely grateful I wouldn't have to explain to several news stations how these people had come to be in Mississippi.
In retrospect, had I had the boss that hired me, he would've welcomed the controversy, and I might've ended up on the national news, who knows, but I find it ridiculously amusing that the conservative nation as a whole is outraged by these people, who began, as far as I can tell, out of hate for a dead, gay teenager who never harmed anyone, yet endured the most awful, brutal hate crime since segregation days. They wouldn't have identified with that, which is bad enough, but when it comes to the troops, that's when we start to care. Personally, I like to believe that everyone's death is tragic, and one doesn't weigh more than the other.
Also, Westboro Baptist Church is batshit crazy. They're all related, they're all attorneys, and they know everything imaginable about the First Amendment. Smart, insane people...like the Unabomber...gives me the chills.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Some things to get off my chest...and my chest is big, so stay with me...
I do not like being stressed. I try to pride myself on using humor and my inner monkey DJ and the other various frenetic things that run about in my brain to keep the stress away....but I have my days. Today was one of those days. I attribute it to the fact that even though I'm on my 89th course of antibiotics, they are not really helping me completely. I was brought up to think that once you had the "good stuff," the Keflex, the Amoxicillin, what have you, you will be cured. With me, not so much. I have basically been sick since September with brief patches of wellness nuzzled in places.
Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...
On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.
I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.
I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.
Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...
On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.
I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.
I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.
Monday, February 14, 2011
An unconventional Valentine's...am I capable of any other kind??
As I have recently mentioned, Smitty and I are not big on Valentine's Day. We subscribe to being loving all year long and not just one commercially-induced day of the year. That being said, we "celebrated" last night, making dinner together and gazing lovingly into each others' eyes..Well, actually, we made dinner together, watched our favorite DVR's shows, and then did some other things I'm not at liberty to discuss...but pants were off..
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.
I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)
On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.
This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.
So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...
So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.
So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...
"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning
Friday, February 11, 2011
Slip slidin' away
I am a strange person. Yes, it's like a Strange Person Anonymous meeting, "Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm strange." I have weird physical issues, like being allergic to everything they test you for, sinus infections can quickly turn into pneumonia, flu, or strep throat for me because it takes at least 2 rounds of antibiotics to cure anything I have, just tonight, my left hand and the side of my face broke out in hives for no apparent reason, and any prescription meds tend to do the opposite to me that they do to normal folks. This really only started to happen about 3 years ago, and let me say, it is not fun at all; yet, I have to laugh at it or I would be on Thorazine.
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.
First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)
Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.
I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.
I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
So, does rock bottom involve licking a CD?
I had a strong urge for Janis Joplin this morning. I was yelled at last night for having insomnia, and I wanted to sing out any remaining hostility before I got to work. My really, really old Janis Joplin CD was, however, stuck to another CD by an undetermined substance. I'm pretty sure it was coffee, I hope it was coffee, because when the CD kept skipping, I took it out, licked it, and then remembered the sticky substance. On a bright note, I got to hear all of "Bye, Bye Baby" and "Mercedes Benz," which was the goal. If I start to lose vision in either eye, I'll probably have to take a sample of whatever that was with me to the ER.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.
Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....
I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?
"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau
I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
What do I do?
After roughly two weeks of the sinus infection that will not die, I believe to be on the road to recovery. Or as on that road as I get, a pox on my immune system! I've been in a marvelous, albeit disconnected mood -- this is the Zen Emily to which I sometimes refer.
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.
To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.
I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"
My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.
Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...
"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Friday, January 28, 2011
Needs a band-aid supply, a first-aid kit, and soon, pre-natal vitamins...oooohh
So, here's the thing. Sometimes, I don't eat responsibly. This is not so much a revelation as a rhetorical statement. Obviously, I don't eat that well. I'm creeping closely toward 200 lbs, and I am not proud of this. When I graduated from high school 15 1/2 years ago, I weighed 98 lbs, which was no more responsible on the other end of the spectrum, but still.
When I'm in a hurry in the mornings, and there are no leftovers to take for lunch, I will, indeed grab a Chef Boyardee treat. My favorites are ABCs and Meatballs, any form of ravioli, and Spaghettios with meatballs. In light of what happened today, I think my psyche or the cholesterol Muses are trying to tell me that 33-year-old women shouldn't eat pasta out of a can.
I heated the mini-ravioli in one of our poor, misshapen Tupperware containers that we use for tomato-based products, as they stain ridiculously, and waited patiently. When I pulled it out, because we've heated this container to the point that the plastic has shrunk and piece on the side has chipped, I burned the middle finger on my left hand to the point that I clearly said the F-bomb conversationally loud so that anyone in earshot heard. Immediately, a blister formed, and within an hour, atmosphere-sensitive pain ensued to the point that had to beg for a band-aid and explain the ridicularity. Sigh...
On a completely unrelated note, for about two weeks, I've been having random bouts of nausea. One minute I feel great, and the next minute, suddenly...BLEGGGGHHHH. That reminds me of my ex-boyfriend who once proposed to me over the phone while he was vomiting...touching, yes, but I did not accept that offer. I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. As I explained it to Smitty, I was 70% glad it was negative, but the other 30% has been working at my brain for a bit. We are not currently "planning" for kids, but I think my uterus is starting to yearn for a little occupant. I know that I do want to wait as much as possible until Smitty finishes his Master's, but as my mother put it earlier tonight, "You don't need to wait too long. Y'all might need to get the show on the road. How old are you anyway?" Yes, I did say "my mother."
My brief freak-out thoughts yesterday when I blackmailed Smitty into going to get pregnancy tests in exchange to my typing his paper were, as follows:
1. How can we be someone's parents? I have to quit taking Cymbalta, and allergy shots, to which he responded, "If you stop taking Cymbalta, I'll rent an apartment for one of us, but we don't need to interact."
2. I can't smoke or drink anymore. That's fine, but I wanted to plan. I wanted to be able to say that was my last drink/cigarette, and now I'm making a temple out of my body or vaginal lily pad or whatever you do for babies. My point being, that I set the goals, not some Winston Churchill-lookalike.
3. When I really started to think about it, before he left to get the test, I said, "Holy fuck." Then I said, "You see, you can't say things like 'Holy fuck' when you have kids around, or at least when they're old enough to talk; I have no business being anyone's mother."
My point of all this is that I honestly didn't know that I really wanted kids that badly until yesterday, so I'm hoping to get all of my bad habits in check with my Ides of March resolutions so that I can healthfully conceive in the fall-ish. And let me tell you, fellow readers, boy will I need help. I so want to be a good parent, but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I want to, and will, raise children that are well-behaved, but that are free to pursue whatever makes them the happiest. You hear that, antechrist Tiger Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?
" Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
-- Shel Silverstein
When I'm in a hurry in the mornings, and there are no leftovers to take for lunch, I will, indeed grab a Chef Boyardee treat. My favorites are ABCs and Meatballs, any form of ravioli, and Spaghettios with meatballs. In light of what happened today, I think my psyche or the cholesterol Muses are trying to tell me that 33-year-old women shouldn't eat pasta out of a can.
I heated the mini-ravioli in one of our poor, misshapen Tupperware containers that we use for tomato-based products, as they stain ridiculously, and waited patiently. When I pulled it out, because we've heated this container to the point that the plastic has shrunk and piece on the side has chipped, I burned the middle finger on my left hand to the point that I clearly said the F-bomb conversationally loud so that anyone in earshot heard. Immediately, a blister formed, and within an hour, atmosphere-sensitive pain ensued to the point that had to beg for a band-aid and explain the ridicularity. Sigh...
On a completely unrelated note, for about two weeks, I've been having random bouts of nausea. One minute I feel great, and the next minute, suddenly...BLEGGGGHHHH. That reminds me of my ex-boyfriend who once proposed to me over the phone while he was vomiting...touching, yes, but I did not accept that offer. I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. As I explained it to Smitty, I was 70% glad it was negative, but the other 30% has been working at my brain for a bit. We are not currently "planning" for kids, but I think my uterus is starting to yearn for a little occupant. I know that I do want to wait as much as possible until Smitty finishes his Master's, but as my mother put it earlier tonight, "You don't need to wait too long. Y'all might need to get the show on the road. How old are you anyway?" Yes, I did say "my mother."
My brief freak-out thoughts yesterday when I blackmailed Smitty into going to get pregnancy tests in exchange to my typing his paper were, as follows:
1. How can we be someone's parents? I have to quit taking Cymbalta, and allergy shots, to which he responded, "If you stop taking Cymbalta, I'll rent an apartment for one of us, but we don't need to interact."
2. I can't smoke or drink anymore. That's fine, but I wanted to plan. I wanted to be able to say that was my last drink/cigarette, and now I'm making a temple out of my body or vaginal lily pad or whatever you do for babies. My point being, that I set the goals, not some Winston Churchill-lookalike.
3. When I really started to think about it, before he left to get the test, I said, "Holy fuck." Then I said, "You see, you can't say things like 'Holy fuck' when you have kids around, or at least when they're old enough to talk; I have no business being anyone's mother."
My point of all this is that I honestly didn't know that I really wanted kids that badly until yesterday, so I'm hoping to get all of my bad habits in check with my Ides of March resolutions so that I can healthfully conceive in the fall-ish. And let me tell you, fellow readers, boy will I need help. I so want to be a good parent, but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I want to, and will, raise children that are well-behaved, but that are free to pursue whatever makes them the happiest. You hear that, antechrist Tiger Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?
" Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
-- Shel Silverstein
Monday, January 24, 2011
Two days in a row; how'd the Interwebs get so lucky?
I'm trying to make a concerted effort to update the blog more often. How long this endeavor will last is another matter, but let's give it a go.
I've recently confirmed, against my will, Smitty's assertion that people often "mess with me," because I give a trigger reaction, either returning the favor with a barrage of expletives or just engaging in a pointless back and forth until the other person is satisfied they've made me angry. Smitty has helpfully explained to me that this is a "Gaither" trait, because my people have to have the last word. Interesting theory...and shamefully, true.
Any argument involving any member of my family is an exercise in futility. Sometimes I view it as a war, meaning I must train, prepare, and head into battle with a logical game plan that must not be changed, or the carnage is multiplied. Logically, this works. In reality, something unexpected is said, and the game plan is destroyed. Grrr..
I'm really trying to work on, not just with family, how I react to things. I feel like it would save blood pressure spikes, being accused of having "PMS" (I simply adore that label), and a lot of unnecessary agitation. I'm not quite sure how long this transformation will take. I am, in fact, exercising restraint right now. No, really. A snarky comment was made to me by someone who has literally no idea about what they're talking and rather than respond with my first instinct, "F#$k your mother," I'm choosing to rise above it and visit my cave, a la "Fight Club."
The thing is, I think with these knee-jerk reactions, not only am I self-generating a tizzy, I'm usually arguing with people who are just not that smart, like Sarah Palin supporters. It's like being the sane person in a mental hospital. Yes, you know you're sane, but when those around you are making imaginary muffins and eating their shoelaces, does proclaiming it really matter? Not so much.
So, Zen Emily, I call you forth. I dub you my new method of dealing with things that are trivial and silly and completely inconsequential. In my head, I'm running through a meadow..only in my head, though, because in real life, I would be one giant hive if I ran through a meadow. No hives in Zenville, no dysfunction or snarkiness coming from unhealthy people. There is only sitar music and sunshine and monkey butlers.
“We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?”
-- Nick Hornby
I've recently confirmed, against my will, Smitty's assertion that people often "mess with me," because I give a trigger reaction, either returning the favor with a barrage of expletives or just engaging in a pointless back and forth until the other person is satisfied they've made me angry. Smitty has helpfully explained to me that this is a "Gaither" trait, because my people have to have the last word. Interesting theory...and shamefully, true.
Any argument involving any member of my family is an exercise in futility. Sometimes I view it as a war, meaning I must train, prepare, and head into battle with a logical game plan that must not be changed, or the carnage is multiplied. Logically, this works. In reality, something unexpected is said, and the game plan is destroyed. Grrr..
I'm really trying to work on, not just with family, how I react to things. I feel like it would save blood pressure spikes, being accused of having "PMS" (I simply adore that label), and a lot of unnecessary agitation. I'm not quite sure how long this transformation will take. I am, in fact, exercising restraint right now. No, really. A snarky comment was made to me by someone who has literally no idea about what they're talking and rather than respond with my first instinct, "F#$k your mother," I'm choosing to rise above it and visit my cave, a la "Fight Club."
The thing is, I think with these knee-jerk reactions, not only am I self-generating a tizzy, I'm usually arguing with people who are just not that smart, like Sarah Palin supporters. It's like being the sane person in a mental hospital. Yes, you know you're sane, but when those around you are making imaginary muffins and eating their shoelaces, does proclaiming it really matter? Not so much.
So, Zen Emily, I call you forth. I dub you my new method of dealing with things that are trivial and silly and completely inconsequential. In my head, I'm running through a meadow..only in my head, though, because in real life, I would be one giant hive if I ran through a meadow. No hives in Zenville, no dysfunction or snarkiness coming from unhealthy people. There is only sitar music and sunshine and monkey butlers.
“We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?”
-- Nick Hornby
Sunday, January 23, 2011
So, I killed a cop and got a headache..it's the Mafia way
I don't play video games that often. Yes, I will play "American Idol" all day long, but I don't really consider that to be a video game, more like karaoke with a goal. Smitty plays a lot of video games. In his defense, he only plays an hour here or there when he has free time, but he plays "more" games than I do. We get games from Gamefly, which is Netflix for games, and I think I may've played two in the year we've had the subscription.
I've been in Gamers Anonymous for about 10 years because I used to turn into a psycho when playing games. When the Playstation first came out, I can remember holing up in my dorm room when my roommate's boyfriend lent us Crash Bandicoot. I literally skipped an entire day of classes trying to beat the game, which I don't think I did, and she made me stop and go outside because it was "unhealthy" or something. I did the same thing with "Abe's Odyssey" or some game where you were this alien worker thing that had to set all your co-workers free before they got turned into Taco Bell meat or something.
I remember when we got Nintendo. I was about 11, because my sister was still living at home, and I set my alarm for 3 a.m., got my Barbie flashlight and sneaked downstairs to see what Santa brought. When I saw the Nintendo, I woke my sister up, scream-whispering "We got Nintendo; we got Nintendo!" And I really do miss Atari. I don't care what new, fancy games they come up with, nothing beats "Frogger," "Pitfall," and "Kaboom."
My point? Often I have no point, but today, I do. Smitty got a game from GameFly called "Mafia 2." Perhaps you've experienced my soliloquy on how awesome I find the Mafia. I had a brief, fleeting idea when I moved to Philly, that if the campaign job didn't work out, I would become a gumar (mobster's girlfriend), because there is actually quite the active Philly Mafia. Alas, I did not. For one thing, the campaign job did work out, and for another thing, when I actually saw alleged Mafioso, they were quite different from the Hollywood version. Imagine Tony Soprano with about 100 extra pounds and an excess of sweat and hair grease...so, I decided to get my Mafia fix only through "Casino" and all things Martin Scorcese.
I digress; I just spent 2 1/2 hours playing "Mafia 2," where you get to beat up and shoot cops, be a gun runner, fix up really sweet cars for your getaways, and whack people named Fat Freddy. Other than the fact that I can't drive on those games, and it's one of those where you have to move your point of view every time you walk, and I can't quite get that down either, it's great fun. I got to shoot an Irish gang with an Uzi in a distillery. However, Smitty can't understand why my hand-eye coordination is so bad, and kept yelling instructions at me, which only made it worse, as I kept forgetting which button did what, and finally I had played so long, the game and his instruction-barking gave me a headache.
But now I have a taste for blood lust and the underbelly of the law. That's right. Not only do we have new games to buy now (Mafia 2, and obviously the original Mafia...also, there is a Godfather game which I now must have), I sense a renewed interest in my old Italian pals. I have a book written by Donnie Brasco's children and one written by Henry Hill's children about growing up in the Witness Protection Program, we have a Sopranos cookbook and every Sopranos episode ever made on DVD, and I sense a ricotta pie or homemade meatballs coming while we watch "Goodfellas." Salute!
I've been in Gamers Anonymous for about 10 years because I used to turn into a psycho when playing games. When the Playstation first came out, I can remember holing up in my dorm room when my roommate's boyfriend lent us Crash Bandicoot. I literally skipped an entire day of classes trying to beat the game, which I don't think I did, and she made me stop and go outside because it was "unhealthy" or something. I did the same thing with "Abe's Odyssey" or some game where you were this alien worker thing that had to set all your co-workers free before they got turned into Taco Bell meat or something.
I remember when we got Nintendo. I was about 11, because my sister was still living at home, and I set my alarm for 3 a.m., got my Barbie flashlight and sneaked downstairs to see what Santa brought. When I saw the Nintendo, I woke my sister up, scream-whispering "We got Nintendo; we got Nintendo!" And I really do miss Atari. I don't care what new, fancy games they come up with, nothing beats "Frogger," "Pitfall," and "Kaboom."
My point? Often I have no point, but today, I do. Smitty got a game from GameFly called "Mafia 2." Perhaps you've experienced my soliloquy on how awesome I find the Mafia. I had a brief, fleeting idea when I moved to Philly, that if the campaign job didn't work out, I would become a gumar (mobster's girlfriend), because there is actually quite the active Philly Mafia. Alas, I did not. For one thing, the campaign job did work out, and for another thing, when I actually saw alleged Mafioso, they were quite different from the Hollywood version. Imagine Tony Soprano with about 100 extra pounds and an excess of sweat and hair grease...so, I decided to get my Mafia fix only through "Casino" and all things Martin Scorcese.
I digress; I just spent 2 1/2 hours playing "Mafia 2," where you get to beat up and shoot cops, be a gun runner, fix up really sweet cars for your getaways, and whack people named Fat Freddy. Other than the fact that I can't drive on those games, and it's one of those where you have to move your point of view every time you walk, and I can't quite get that down either, it's great fun. I got to shoot an Irish gang with an Uzi in a distillery. However, Smitty can't understand why my hand-eye coordination is so bad, and kept yelling instructions at me, which only made it worse, as I kept forgetting which button did what, and finally I had played so long, the game and his instruction-barking gave me a headache.
But now I have a taste for blood lust and the underbelly of the law. That's right. Not only do we have new games to buy now (Mafia 2, and obviously the original Mafia...also, there is a Godfather game which I now must have), I sense a renewed interest in my old Italian pals. I have a book written by Donnie Brasco's children and one written by Henry Hill's children about growing up in the Witness Protection Program, we have a Sopranos cookbook and every Sopranos episode ever made on DVD, and I sense a ricotta pie or homemade meatballs coming while we watch "Goodfellas." Salute!
Monday, January 17, 2011
My underwear is being held hostage at a UPS facility...
There are things in life that I highly anticipate: my birthday, our anniversary, 3-day weekends, that first glass of wine from a new bottle, and last, but not least, the Victoria's Secret semi-annual clearance sale. On a somewhat related note, if something is twice a year, it's "semi" annual, but "semi" is not really a finite measurement. I understand "bi-annual," but that means every two years, so why don't we have a better prefix to indicate twice a year?? Also, what's the deal with "lie" and "lay?" There are far too many conjugations of that verb set..Okay, I am done with my tangent.
How ever many times a damn year they do it, I love Victoria's Secret's clearance sale. This is largely because that is the only time of year I can afford their lingerie. I think that it is insane and part of a right-wing conspiracy that a good bra costs around $45. However, I don't actually order bras via mail due to the girls (my boobs' nickname) being so finnicky and particular. They have to be courted and wooed and measured before they'll agree to any satin or cotton companion. What I do enjoy ordering via mail is VS' 5/$25 or $7/$30 underwear. They make really good underwear and that way, I can force myself to throw out old underwear that I keep for some unknown reason. But after a nasty incident with the Salvation Army in Philly, I know not to donate underwear to charity. In my defense, it had not been worn and was a mistaken shipment involving thongs; apparently they still don't want you to donate it. Don't even get me started on thongs. If someone gives me the whole "you get used to them" speech again, I will counter it with, "Okay, then you wear glasses that aren't your prescription for a week. You'll get used to them."
I placed an order almost three weeks ago and didn't really think much about it until the snow and ice drama had ended, and I thought, "Hmm..I wonder where my order is." Turns out because Atlanta was nearly completely shut down for almost a week, and everything, be it airplane, package, or auto-tuned singer, must travel through Atlanta before it can get to anywhere else, my order is in limbo. I got an e-mail apologizing for the delay, a promise to refund my shipping costs, and a vague reassurance that my order will be here before next Christmas.
I understand; obviously, these things happen, but for some reason I got this image of my underwear surrounded by items in bigger packages threatening them. They have little knives and guns drawn, and dance fighting breaks out while they try to defend themselves and keep their quality intact before they can arrive. There's the striped pair in the corner rocking back and forth, obviously in shock, and singing "Let My People Go." But the red pair in charge of morale, is keeping spirits up and making sure hope stays alive. I'm confident they'll be here eventually. I pray for their safe arrival.
So, I cannot get the song "Islands in the Stream" out of my head. I heard it on "Saturday Night Live" the other night, and all I can hear in my head is "and we rely on each other...uh-huh..." The duet thing was huge in the 80s. For example, around Christmas, Smitty and I heard "To All the Girls I've Loved Before," with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. Basically, this was a ballad about how many women the two of them had slept with...EW. I love Willie Nelson as much as the next person, but when I actually thought about the lyrics of the song and in my mind's eye pictured him and Julio Iglesias with a bunch of Aqua Net-ed women from the 80s doing the naked lambada, I felt a little sick. Try to get THAT image of your head. You're welcome.
How ever many times a damn year they do it, I love Victoria's Secret's clearance sale. This is largely because that is the only time of year I can afford their lingerie. I think that it is insane and part of a right-wing conspiracy that a good bra costs around $45. However, I don't actually order bras via mail due to the girls (my boobs' nickname) being so finnicky and particular. They have to be courted and wooed and measured before they'll agree to any satin or cotton companion. What I do enjoy ordering via mail is VS' 5/$25 or $7/$30 underwear. They make really good underwear and that way, I can force myself to throw out old underwear that I keep for some unknown reason. But after a nasty incident with the Salvation Army in Philly, I know not to donate underwear to charity. In my defense, it had not been worn and was a mistaken shipment involving thongs; apparently they still don't want you to donate it. Don't even get me started on thongs. If someone gives me the whole "you get used to them" speech again, I will counter it with, "Okay, then you wear glasses that aren't your prescription for a week. You'll get used to them."
I placed an order almost three weeks ago and didn't really think much about it until the snow and ice drama had ended, and I thought, "Hmm..I wonder where my order is." Turns out because Atlanta was nearly completely shut down for almost a week, and everything, be it airplane, package, or auto-tuned singer, must travel through Atlanta before it can get to anywhere else, my order is in limbo. I got an e-mail apologizing for the delay, a promise to refund my shipping costs, and a vague reassurance that my order will be here before next Christmas.
I understand; obviously, these things happen, but for some reason I got this image of my underwear surrounded by items in bigger packages threatening them. They have little knives and guns drawn, and dance fighting breaks out while they try to defend themselves and keep their quality intact before they can arrive. There's the striped pair in the corner rocking back and forth, obviously in shock, and singing "Let My People Go." But the red pair in charge of morale, is keeping spirits up and making sure hope stays alive. I'm confident they'll be here eventually. I pray for their safe arrival.
So, I cannot get the song "Islands in the Stream" out of my head. I heard it on "Saturday Night Live" the other night, and all I can hear in my head is "and we rely on each other...uh-huh..." The duet thing was huge in the 80s. For example, around Christmas, Smitty and I heard "To All the Girls I've Loved Before," with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. Basically, this was a ballad about how many women the two of them had slept with...EW. I love Willie Nelson as much as the next person, but when I actually thought about the lyrics of the song and in my mind's eye pictured him and Julio Iglesias with a bunch of Aqua Net-ed women from the 80s doing the naked lambada, I felt a little sick. Try to get THAT image of your head. You're welcome.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Shatner......is.......tired.....of......the.......ice
Smitty has taken to calling me William Shatner in the last couple of years due to a verbal tic where I pause for no apparent reason while talking. I thought he was making it up until recently when my cube mate pointed out that it sounds like I've forgotten my name every time I answer the phone. Apparently, it was "discussed." So, I've picked up the mantle and run with it, as I like to think it gives me character.
I love cold weather, really, I do, but when every time I leave the house, I feel as though I'm taking my life into my hands, I'm over it. Our back stairs have remained a solid sheet of ice since Sunday night. Have we met? I'm not graceful. I fell into a hole in the yard and tore a ligament, I trip over carpet, walk into doorjambs; I don't need extra obstacles in my path.
And even if I make it safely to the car, then I have to contend with the dreaded "black ice" and the knowledge that my fellow motorists are not that bright. Everyone drove really slowly and cautiously for two days, and despite the fact that there is still ice hiding on the roadways, they have now taken to slamming on brakes, edging into my lane, and not letting me merge off the part of the highway they couldn't sand. I put on my hat with ear flaps and gave my most pitiful look to one guy until he let me merge. I'm sure he thought I had missed the short bus, but the Aveo doesn't handle ice well.
Also, I determined the number of days that Smitty and I can spend in one place together is 4. After that, we resort to a certain level of primitive/Cops-like behavior where a fight could break out over the remote control or the last piece of cake. At one point Tuesday, I envisioned myself standing over him with a club in my hand wondering how we got to that point. We dearly love each other, don't get me wrong, but we need our outside-the-house time...like, a lot.
It's funny, when you're little, snow/ice days are so much fun, and now, after the initial "huh," it gets old pretty fast. Plus, we're trapped like the guy in "Misery" anytime it ices over due to our deathtrap-like driveway, so knowing that you can't go anywhere is also kind of a bummer. I remember a time when I was younger and it iced over, my dad made the brilliant calculation to back his '77 powder blue Chevette down our monster-hill driveway. It promptly drove off the side of the driveway, which is where it stayed for about 36 hours. I remember him being extremely pissed and us laughing, which caused further pissiness. I was not allowed to mimic this feat. Smitty wouldn't even let me attempt to walk down the driveway while he checked it...(see above mention of gracefulness)
On a completely unrelated note, I've been thinking a lot about this Arizona shooting for some reason. I think initially I was just irritated that Sarah Palin would put sights on a map of opposing politicians. I'm honestly not saying the shooting was her fault, but I think that very action is a perfect example of how completely "off" politics has become. No one really wants to become moderate, no one really wants to try to see the other's point of view. It's become "let's follow the loudest one or the one that's on TV the most because that must mean they're right."
The people who opposed Obama were never going to give any of his ideas a chance, and the same will be true if/when he gets re-elected, and the same will be true of the next President. I used to be so immersed in politics, that it's all I could think and breathe, and I genuinely am so disgusted with all of it, that I consciously try to block it out now. Even when I try to have conversations with friends, some of the things that are said make me lose respect for those friends, and we're never going to agree, so I've resolved, more or less, not to talk about it. I don't even have to respond to what's being said, and I get called names, or the negative rhetoric about Obama is the first thing out of the gate. I can be in church, of all places, and the message is basically, if you're a Democrat, you couldn't possibly be saved or religious or have a relationship with God. That one really infuriates me.
My take on it is this: A. I'm not interested in arguing; actual, constructive debate is what is needed by everyone, and B. I'm smarter than you, so just stop. (partially kidding on that last part) But I will say, that I purposely restrain what I could say to avoid sinking to their level because I don't see the merit in attacking another person, strictly based on their point of view.
I love cold weather, really, I do, but when every time I leave the house, I feel as though I'm taking my life into my hands, I'm over it. Our back stairs have remained a solid sheet of ice since Sunday night. Have we met? I'm not graceful. I fell into a hole in the yard and tore a ligament, I trip over carpet, walk into doorjambs; I don't need extra obstacles in my path.
And even if I make it safely to the car, then I have to contend with the dreaded "black ice" and the knowledge that my fellow motorists are not that bright. Everyone drove really slowly and cautiously for two days, and despite the fact that there is still ice hiding on the roadways, they have now taken to slamming on brakes, edging into my lane, and not letting me merge off the part of the highway they couldn't sand. I put on my hat with ear flaps and gave my most pitiful look to one guy until he let me merge. I'm sure he thought I had missed the short bus, but the Aveo doesn't handle ice well.
Also, I determined the number of days that Smitty and I can spend in one place together is 4. After that, we resort to a certain level of primitive/Cops-like behavior where a fight could break out over the remote control or the last piece of cake. At one point Tuesday, I envisioned myself standing over him with a club in my hand wondering how we got to that point. We dearly love each other, don't get me wrong, but we need our outside-the-house time...like, a lot.
It's funny, when you're little, snow/ice days are so much fun, and now, after the initial "huh," it gets old pretty fast. Plus, we're trapped like the guy in "Misery" anytime it ices over due to our deathtrap-like driveway, so knowing that you can't go anywhere is also kind of a bummer. I remember a time when I was younger and it iced over, my dad made the brilliant calculation to back his '77 powder blue Chevette down our monster-hill driveway. It promptly drove off the side of the driveway, which is where it stayed for about 36 hours. I remember him being extremely pissed and us laughing, which caused further pissiness. I was not allowed to mimic this feat. Smitty wouldn't even let me attempt to walk down the driveway while he checked it...(see above mention of gracefulness)
On a completely unrelated note, I've been thinking a lot about this Arizona shooting for some reason. I think initially I was just irritated that Sarah Palin would put sights on a map of opposing politicians. I'm honestly not saying the shooting was her fault, but I think that very action is a perfect example of how completely "off" politics has become. No one really wants to become moderate, no one really wants to try to see the other's point of view. It's become "let's follow the loudest one or the one that's on TV the most because that must mean they're right."
The people who opposed Obama were never going to give any of his ideas a chance, and the same will be true if/when he gets re-elected, and the same will be true of the next President. I used to be so immersed in politics, that it's all I could think and breathe, and I genuinely am so disgusted with all of it, that I consciously try to block it out now. Even when I try to have conversations with friends, some of the things that are said make me lose respect for those friends, and we're never going to agree, so I've resolved, more or less, not to talk about it. I don't even have to respond to what's being said, and I get called names, or the negative rhetoric about Obama is the first thing out of the gate. I can be in church, of all places, and the message is basically, if you're a Democrat, you couldn't possibly be saved or religious or have a relationship with God. That one really infuriates me.
My take on it is this: A. I'm not interested in arguing; actual, constructive debate is what is needed by everyone, and B. I'm smarter than you, so just stop. (partially kidding on that last part) But I will say, that I purposely restrain what I could say to avoid sinking to their level because I don't see the merit in attacking another person, strictly based on their point of view.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Snowpallooza '11
I love snow; I don't care if it causes my place of business to close, I just love snow and winter weather. This is one of the main aspects of Philadelphia I loved. There was actual winter. Yes, you would freeze your ass off, but you would know, by God, that winter had come and gone. I dug my car out in Philly about 7 times in the one winter I was there, that I think was actually a mild winter. My favorite memory of that winter was walking to the bars with my friend and eventual roommate Rachel, meeting up with some folks, and watching her snowboard down the main street of Conshohocken (I cannot remember the street name) looking like a badass. Then, we hot-tubbed in the snow, which is utterly awesome. It's freezing outside, but you're in this awesome hot tub that you don't want to leave. Ahhhh.
To me, snow brings out the child-like delight in all of us. Even if we have to go to work if it snows, we love to see an actual blanket of snow. Maybe this is South-restricted. I know the first time it snowed when I lived in Philly, they projected about 6 inches. If they projected 6 inches of snow in the South, everything would be closed for 3 days. In Philly, when that was projected, I said, "Ooh, a snow day, " and was laughed at and patted on the head like a little kid. They don't close anything unless it's a freaking blizzard...hence, digging my car out on numerous occasions to go to work...booo
All day, I've been having bizarre hot flashes due to probably being off Cymbalta and then back on it, plus I have fever from something. It's sad, but I generally assume on any given day that my nose is completely stopped up and that I have a little bit of fever..That's how I roll.
I've been walking around outside periodically in Uggs and shorts so I can cool off; I hope by the time I go through menopause, they can discover a way to curb hot flashes, because I cannot deal with them. I will have to sleep in the freezer. I digress....
I tried to envision a '10 blog. It didn't quite happen. 2010 is the year my father died, and I had to learn how to exist in a universe without him, I got to spend time with some of his dearest friends, which I enjoyed so much, I learned that you can't live in denial about some people, no matter how much you're pressured, and how my family, Team Smittily, me and Smitty, is the most important thing to me in the world.
I don't make New Year's resolutions because I find them to be trite and a little bullshit-ty, but in the following year, I would like to become more healthy (this does not include deleting wine from my diet), learn how to deal with toxic situations in a more productive manner, and write, write, write. I need to get published or be somewhere that people can see that I'm Tina Fey + David Sedaris. Can you imagine if they had a surrogate child?
As snow and ice accumulate everywhere around us, I sincerely hope that we don't lose power, because I kid you not, Smitty and I will either kill each other or resort to behavior that will end up on the news. Because as romantic as lost power and such would seem, as a married couple, you can occupy like an hour of a power outage with naked shenanigans, and then you're just freezing and bored, and when the other one starts to breathe on you, you want to punch them...and pray for power and cable..
I leave you with our song, "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol:
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
To me, snow brings out the child-like delight in all of us. Even if we have to go to work if it snows, we love to see an actual blanket of snow. Maybe this is South-restricted. I know the first time it snowed when I lived in Philly, they projected about 6 inches. If they projected 6 inches of snow in the South, everything would be closed for 3 days. In Philly, when that was projected, I said, "Ooh, a snow day, " and was laughed at and patted on the head like a little kid. They don't close anything unless it's a freaking blizzard...hence, digging my car out on numerous occasions to go to work...booo
All day, I've been having bizarre hot flashes due to probably being off Cymbalta and then back on it, plus I have fever from something. It's sad, but I generally assume on any given day that my nose is completely stopped up and that I have a little bit of fever..That's how I roll.
I've been walking around outside periodically in Uggs and shorts so I can cool off; I hope by the time I go through menopause, they can discover a way to curb hot flashes, because I cannot deal with them. I will have to sleep in the freezer. I digress....
I tried to envision a '10 blog. It didn't quite happen. 2010 is the year my father died, and I had to learn how to exist in a universe without him, I got to spend time with some of his dearest friends, which I enjoyed so much, I learned that you can't live in denial about some people, no matter how much you're pressured, and how my family, Team Smittily, me and Smitty, is the most important thing to me in the world.
I don't make New Year's resolutions because I find them to be trite and a little bullshit-ty, but in the following year, I would like to become more healthy (this does not include deleting wine from my diet), learn how to deal with toxic situations in a more productive manner, and write, write, write. I need to get published or be somewhere that people can see that I'm Tina Fey + David Sedaris. Can you imagine if they had a surrogate child?
As snow and ice accumulate everywhere around us, I sincerely hope that we don't lose power, because I kid you not, Smitty and I will either kill each other or resort to behavior that will end up on the news. Because as romantic as lost power and such would seem, as a married couple, you can occupy like an hour of a power outage with naked shenanigans, and then you're just freezing and bored, and when the other one starts to breathe on you, you want to punch them...and pray for power and cable..
I leave you with our song, "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol:
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Friday, January 07, 2011
And the new year starts with a bang, not a whimper
I have been experiencing a case of blog block. I haven't seen a cure that wouldn't cause a 4-hour erection, and nobody wants that. The holidays brought so many emotions out of me, that I think I haven't been able to express myself without being wildly all over the place. How that's different from any other communique with me, I don't know, but I've felt unfocused.
Part of that has been due to the fact that I went about 4 days without Cymbalta. Through no fault of my own, in fact, it involved theft, I ran out of Cymbalta before my refill could be processed. Do you know what it costs without insurance? About $340. Not only is that utterly ridiculous, it made me think about unemployed people who suffer from depression that don't have insurance. Not all of those people have the luxury of sitting on their asses while someone supports them...I have to change topic slightly before I unleash some Jerry Springer on the world...I will say this and leave it at this; my dad used to say constantly that he and my mother could not have imagined creating three more different children. And in most ways, he wasn't necessarily proud of this fact.
My brother-in-law had surgery on Tuesday. They found a tumor in his throat, which they are 90% is benign, but we won't know for a few days. For a period in November, another doctor told him it was malignant, which made this surgery all the more nerve-wracking. Most of you that have known me for a while have heard me talk about Gib. It dawned on me the other day at the hospital, that essentially he's been my brother for 16 years, and I've probably known him for 21 years or so.
I remember one day when I was about 15, my friend Bebe and I and my sister and Gib were going to the Country Club or maybe we had already been, but Gib wanted to show off in front of us, so he picked my sister up over his head and squatted like he was doing that crappy exercise all coaches make you do like you're sitting in a chair with your back straight....anyway, he did this, and ripped the back of his swim trunks, like wide open...he turned red, ran away, and we all died laughing.
I'll fully admit, we did not always get along, I got on his nerves, he got on mine, but in the last 10 years or so, we've settled into a brother/sister relationship. I'm sorry to sound callous, but I consider him more of a brother than the brother I actually have. And so while at one time, I might have thought it weird that I teared up when they told us he came through the surgery fine and was being moved to a room, after the last year of loss and hurt and heartbreak and coming to terms with the fact that you can't will people to care about you and understand what you need, I'm not really surprised I was tearfully relieved. I have a strong support system that works for me, and he's a big part of it. Plus, my niece and nephew are like my siblings almost, and I don't want to see them suffer either. So, the horrible part is mostly over until we get the biopsy results, and I have faith in God that he has a plan that doesn't include my sister losing the heart of her family.
On another note, I think I understand why depression and suicide rates spike during the holidays. It's not the people who are alone, it's the rest of us, the ones with straight crazy running through the leaves of our family tree. When people say I'm a pessimist or that I'm negative, I eventually find that amusing, because if you knew what I know, that I genuinely root for things to have a positive outcome, and when they don't, I'm crushed like ice in a frozen margarita, that I am in remarkably good spirits for someone who's experienced some of the things I have. I will never understand why those who are supposed to love you the most are the ones with the greatest capability of destroying you.
I don't really make New Year's resolutions because I don't agree with setting myself up for failure and making stupid self-improvement goals that if I need to implement, I should've made in May or August or whenever, but I make these commitments to myself:
1. I will figure out how to better cope with stress and shut out the toxic personalities that stalk me
2. I will become healthier; I will NOT become a crazy exercise junkie weirdo, but I will eat better and exercise when I want to, doing what I want to, and I believe that feeling better and being healthier will naturally follow. It's not rocket science.
So, there, thank you for allowing my wildly erratic blog to start off 2011. Sometimes, I just need to write.
And from my deceased partial namesake:
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all. "
-- Emily Dickinson
Part of that has been due to the fact that I went about 4 days without Cymbalta. Through no fault of my own, in fact, it involved theft, I ran out of Cymbalta before my refill could be processed. Do you know what it costs without insurance? About $340. Not only is that utterly ridiculous, it made me think about unemployed people who suffer from depression that don't have insurance. Not all of those people have the luxury of sitting on their asses while someone supports them...I have to change topic slightly before I unleash some Jerry Springer on the world...I will say this and leave it at this; my dad used to say constantly that he and my mother could not have imagined creating three more different children. And in most ways, he wasn't necessarily proud of this fact.
My brother-in-law had surgery on Tuesday. They found a tumor in his throat, which they are 90% is benign, but we won't know for a few days. For a period in November, another doctor told him it was malignant, which made this surgery all the more nerve-wracking. Most of you that have known me for a while have heard me talk about Gib. It dawned on me the other day at the hospital, that essentially he's been my brother for 16 years, and I've probably known him for 21 years or so.
I remember one day when I was about 15, my friend Bebe and I and my sister and Gib were going to the Country Club or maybe we had already been, but Gib wanted to show off in front of us, so he picked my sister up over his head and squatted like he was doing that crappy exercise all coaches make you do like you're sitting in a chair with your back straight....anyway, he did this, and ripped the back of his swim trunks, like wide open...he turned red, ran away, and we all died laughing.
I'll fully admit, we did not always get along, I got on his nerves, he got on mine, but in the last 10 years or so, we've settled into a brother/sister relationship. I'm sorry to sound callous, but I consider him more of a brother than the brother I actually have. And so while at one time, I might have thought it weird that I teared up when they told us he came through the surgery fine and was being moved to a room, after the last year of loss and hurt and heartbreak and coming to terms with the fact that you can't will people to care about you and understand what you need, I'm not really surprised I was tearfully relieved. I have a strong support system that works for me, and he's a big part of it. Plus, my niece and nephew are like my siblings almost, and I don't want to see them suffer either. So, the horrible part is mostly over until we get the biopsy results, and I have faith in God that he has a plan that doesn't include my sister losing the heart of her family.
On another note, I think I understand why depression and suicide rates spike during the holidays. It's not the people who are alone, it's the rest of us, the ones with straight crazy running through the leaves of our family tree. When people say I'm a pessimist or that I'm negative, I eventually find that amusing, because if you knew what I know, that I genuinely root for things to have a positive outcome, and when they don't, I'm crushed like ice in a frozen margarita, that I am in remarkably good spirits for someone who's experienced some of the things I have. I will never understand why those who are supposed to love you the most are the ones with the greatest capability of destroying you.
I don't really make New Year's resolutions because I don't agree with setting myself up for failure and making stupid self-improvement goals that if I need to implement, I should've made in May or August or whenever, but I make these commitments to myself:
1. I will figure out how to better cope with stress and shut out the toxic personalities that stalk me
2. I will become healthier; I will NOT become a crazy exercise junkie weirdo, but I will eat better and exercise when I want to, doing what I want to, and I believe that feeling better and being healthier will naturally follow. It's not rocket science.
So, there, thank you for allowing my wildly erratic blog to start off 2011. Sometimes, I just need to write.
And from my deceased partial namesake:
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all. "
-- Emily Dickinson
Thursday, December 30, 2010
She never mentions the word addiction....in certain company....
The other day, Smitty said he was addicted to a brand of popcorn we get at Wal-Mart. I can't remember the name, it's in a red bag and in the chips aisle, but it is quite spectacular for a bagged treat. They have white cheddar (my personal favorite), movie theater butter, cinnamon (BLECH), and buffalo-flavored, which is so spicy, it makes my throat hurt. Nonetheless, I thought for a bit about the word "addiction."
It posed the question, "what am I addicted to?" Anyone have a spare Trapper Keeper? Seriously and honestly, I'm addicted to caffeine, nicotine, lip balm, Facebook, and having the last word. Yes, I drink alcohol, and I've had my share of unfavorable alcohol-fueled moments, but if someone said if I took another drink, I could die, I'd have no problem stopping that. As a child of co-dependency, what I have is a problem with self-control and overindulgence. Luckily, I've had a couple of wake-up calls and a monumentally supportive husband that keeps me from going cuckoo cachoo, and destructive addiction is not a problem for me anymore...unless you count a delicious food addiction and an aversion to exercise..but I don't, so shut up.
As the child of an alcoholic father, (I love and miss him dearly, but he was) I've had an up-close relationship with addiction and co-dependency, and unfortunately, that cycle continues. Sometimes, you don't notice these things until you have a little distance, or until you get some free, well-needed therapy, which I am unashamed to admit I've had.
Besides familiar experience with this, I have had friends I dearly love and have more in common and a more loving relationship with than members of my family struggle with addiction to the point of near death. And I've cut myself off from those people until they got help and demonstrated an actual change in their lives. Then, I let them back into my life. And thank God I made that decision to let them get help without my enabling, and thank God, they got the help they needed, and if they need a vital organ, now, J.C. or B.T.W., bail money, or a sympathetic ear, I am always available to them. Those people are among my best friends and people that I love unconditionally because they had inner strength to ask for and receive help.
However, there's always the flip side and when it comes to family, complication ensues. Bottom line, a family member has stolen from my parents, my sister, and myself most recently, and while I am perfectly capable of forgiveness, I also have the logical fortitude to recognize that, for myself and the health of my familial unit (Smitty + me = Team Smith), I cannot continue to entertain lies, denial, and multiple hurts at the hand of this person. They need help, a team of white-coated people, possibly, and until they agree to that, they don't exist to me. In theory, it makes me sound cold-hearted, maybe, but in the real world, where things are not lollipops and butterflies, it's how I choose to deal with this situation.
More than one person has told me recently that I "have issues" or "am a downer," and I'm really actually surprised by this characterization. Considering some things I've been through recently, I really do try to stay positive. My sense of humor is always intact. If you don't get it, maybe you're a moron, I dunno...but on the whole, I really do try to stay positive in the face of the black clouds that occasionally invade my monkey DJ's and my happy place. I've been sarcastic and outspoken since I was 9 years old. Don't confuse sass with negativity. Some thoughts? Do you think I'm negative?
It posed the question, "what am I addicted to?" Anyone have a spare Trapper Keeper? Seriously and honestly, I'm addicted to caffeine, nicotine, lip balm, Facebook, and having the last word. Yes, I drink alcohol, and I've had my share of unfavorable alcohol-fueled moments, but if someone said if I took another drink, I could die, I'd have no problem stopping that. As a child of co-dependency, what I have is a problem with self-control and overindulgence. Luckily, I've had a couple of wake-up calls and a monumentally supportive husband that keeps me from going cuckoo cachoo, and destructive addiction is not a problem for me anymore...unless you count a delicious food addiction and an aversion to exercise..but I don't, so shut up.
As the child of an alcoholic father, (I love and miss him dearly, but he was) I've had an up-close relationship with addiction and co-dependency, and unfortunately, that cycle continues. Sometimes, you don't notice these things until you have a little distance, or until you get some free, well-needed therapy, which I am unashamed to admit I've had.
Besides familiar experience with this, I have had friends I dearly love and have more in common and a more loving relationship with than members of my family struggle with addiction to the point of near death. And I've cut myself off from those people until they got help and demonstrated an actual change in their lives. Then, I let them back into my life. And thank God I made that decision to let them get help without my enabling, and thank God, they got the help they needed, and if they need a vital organ, now, J.C. or B.T.W., bail money, or a sympathetic ear, I am always available to them. Those people are among my best friends and people that I love unconditionally because they had inner strength to ask for and receive help.
However, there's always the flip side and when it comes to family, complication ensues. Bottom line, a family member has stolen from my parents, my sister, and myself most recently, and while I am perfectly capable of forgiveness, I also have the logical fortitude to recognize that, for myself and the health of my familial unit (Smitty + me = Team Smith), I cannot continue to entertain lies, denial, and multiple hurts at the hand of this person. They need help, a team of white-coated people, possibly, and until they agree to that, they don't exist to me. In theory, it makes me sound cold-hearted, maybe, but in the real world, where things are not lollipops and butterflies, it's how I choose to deal with this situation.
More than one person has told me recently that I "have issues" or "am a downer," and I'm really actually surprised by this characterization. Considering some things I've been through recently, I really do try to stay positive. My sense of humor is always intact. If you don't get it, maybe you're a moron, I dunno...but on the whole, I really do try to stay positive in the face of the black clouds that occasionally invade my monkey DJ's and my happy place. I've been sarcastic and outspoken since I was 9 years old. Don't confuse sass with negativity. Some thoughts? Do you think I'm negative?
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Things you can tell just by looking at her
Christmas has come and gone. It turns out I didn't need to be committed to an asylum for missing my dad or for other sins of the family that tend to descend during the holidays. Cymbalta, you are worth every penny. "Jingle bells, pills are swell, cheaper than a shrink..."...you get the idea.
I've decided the key to enjoyment in life is to set your expectations low. While this sounds pessimistic, it's actually an optimistic approach, or it's about as optimistic as I get. That way, I can always be delighted with the outcome. For instance, I chose to laugh my way through Christmas. As aforementioned, Cymbalta helps us (the royal me) find the humor in the dreaded, but I did really find things funny this Christmas.
Overheard at family gatherings:
1. "Ever since I had my fall, my equilibrium has been off....whatever that is." -- my grandmother, who fell about two months ago at McDonald's due to the fact their toilet seat wasn't properly fastened. She cracked her tailbone, the second time she's actually done this, and have I mentioned, she's 90. The woman is an institution.
2. "But, we can just open presents now. Dad won't care." -- my nephew Drew, dying from the fact he had to wait until his dad got off work before we could open presents. Children have a way of making everything sound perfectly logical.
3. "What size hat does Smitty wear?" -- my mom, who could not be convinced that baseball hats are pretty much one size fits all. I tried, in vain, to explain they're adjustable, they come in one size, and that she was making me question the validity of her master's degree. She bought Smitty a hat, which.......was one size fits all. This afforded an opportunity to do my "I was right, I was ri---iiight" chant while preparing Christmas dinner.
4. "You're going down, punk!" -- my nephew Matthew, who is a huge fan of superheroes and apparently has been watching "Die Hard" movies in his spare time.
5. "You've got my balls, I cannot see..." -- Smitty, singing to the first part of "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band in the car on the way to Mississippi. It's safe to say that diet Coke neared the point of shooting out my nose, but I resisted. That is one funny tall man.
6. "Do you just look for ways to look more retarded?" -- my brother-in-law Gib, because I got a wool hat with ear flaps that people might think such a dignified person as myself wouldn't wear in public. They would be wrong. It's too cold for me to care about how stupid I look. It was snowing on Christmas Day in Mississippi, a sure sign the end is near...I was cold. Slap my ass and call me Canadian, they know what they're doing when it comes to outerwear.
I heard the most beautiful song last week sung by Kate McGarrigle, mother of Rufus Wainwright, who passed away last year. It was called "I Eat Dinner," and while it is a fairly sad song, it is absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful. I'm getting that CD as soon as I can locate it. A sampling:
"Never thought that I'd end up like this
I who loved the light
Never thought I'd be without a kiss
No one to turn off the light
Turn off the light"
I've decided the key to enjoyment in life is to set your expectations low. While this sounds pessimistic, it's actually an optimistic approach, or it's about as optimistic as I get. That way, I can always be delighted with the outcome. For instance, I chose to laugh my way through Christmas. As aforementioned, Cymbalta helps us (the royal me) find the humor in the dreaded, but I did really find things funny this Christmas.
Overheard at family gatherings:
1. "Ever since I had my fall, my equilibrium has been off....whatever that is." -- my grandmother, who fell about two months ago at McDonald's due to the fact their toilet seat wasn't properly fastened. She cracked her tailbone, the second time she's actually done this, and have I mentioned, she's 90. The woman is an institution.
2. "But, we can just open presents now. Dad won't care." -- my nephew Drew, dying from the fact he had to wait until his dad got off work before we could open presents. Children have a way of making everything sound perfectly logical.
3. "What size hat does Smitty wear?" -- my mom, who could not be convinced that baseball hats are pretty much one size fits all. I tried, in vain, to explain they're adjustable, they come in one size, and that she was making me question the validity of her master's degree. She bought Smitty a hat, which.......was one size fits all. This afforded an opportunity to do my "I was right, I was ri---iiight" chant while preparing Christmas dinner.
4. "You're going down, punk!" -- my nephew Matthew, who is a huge fan of superheroes and apparently has been watching "Die Hard" movies in his spare time.
5. "You've got my balls, I cannot see..." -- Smitty, singing to the first part of "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band in the car on the way to Mississippi. It's safe to say that diet Coke neared the point of shooting out my nose, but I resisted. That is one funny tall man.
6. "Do you just look for ways to look more retarded?" -- my brother-in-law Gib, because I got a wool hat with ear flaps that people might think such a dignified person as myself wouldn't wear in public. They would be wrong. It's too cold for me to care about how stupid I look. It was snowing on Christmas Day in Mississippi, a sure sign the end is near...I was cold. Slap my ass and call me Canadian, they know what they're doing when it comes to outerwear.
I heard the most beautiful song last week sung by Kate McGarrigle, mother of Rufus Wainwright, who passed away last year. It was called "I Eat Dinner," and while it is a fairly sad song, it is absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful. I'm getting that CD as soon as I can locate it. A sampling:
"Never thought that I'd end up like this
I who loved the light
Never thought I'd be without a kiss
No one to turn off the light
Turn off the light"
Sunday, December 19, 2010
It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.
I will readily admit, I've been a bit of a jackass about Christmas this year. I didn't decorate anything, I bought all of my presents online so I wouldn't have to deal with any of the people in stores, and I've decided not to send Christmas cards. It's December 19, and I haven't wrapped anything. This is why I need people, like chefs and maids and personal valets.
Then I realized, this is the first Christmas without my dad, and I hate it. He's the one that first made me love the original "Grinch," and he actually sang the song. He used to put bells outside our windows to let us know Santa had been there. When we got a basketball goal, he wrote a letter from Santa, attached it to the basketball inside, with instructions of where to go to find the basketball goal. He put together trampolines, laid out Barbie bolls, and wrote letters from Santa next to eaten cookies.
When we opened gifts, he would sit on the hearth in a Mississippi State sweatshirt I bought him, drinking in the fact that all of his "chicks" were at home. All he wanted was to sit and enjoy family time, eating, and watching his favorite movies (George C. Scott's "A Christmas Carol"). I don't think I was prepared for how badly I would miss him this Christmas. For the past 4 years, I've bought him Mississippi State gear, and he was wearing the last hat I gave him when he died.
I really swear I'm not trying to depress anyone, I'm okay. I'm just having trouble dealing with change, and I'm typing through tears right now, but I spent the best day with Smitty today. I am so lucky to have someone like him to understand my crazy mood swings and know before I do that I miss my father and need to cry sometimes, and sometimes I need to have wine and sushi and talk about monkeys or the children's book I want to write about the farm where the animals wear pants..(oh, it's happening)
And as a result of my very pleasant day with my husband, I've begun to feel the vague sensation of what could be classified as Christmas spirit. I've felt very content today and at peace, and I have to think that my dad is probably pissed that I'm not feeling very elf-ish yet, and he sent me some heavenly pixie dust or whatever. I've had this sensation for weeks that he's with me, in the form of random Shakespeare quotes popping up, movies that he and I have specifically discussed being on TV, too many instances of coincidences that really aren't coincidences.
To the friends that I know that have lost parents in recent years, and the ones that I don't know, we're in this thing together. Thank God for our memories that sustain us during this time. And we are making new ones. They're just as good, they're just different.
“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” -- Barbara Kingsolver
Then I realized, this is the first Christmas without my dad, and I hate it. He's the one that first made me love the original "Grinch," and he actually sang the song. He used to put bells outside our windows to let us know Santa had been there. When we got a basketball goal, he wrote a letter from Santa, attached it to the basketball inside, with instructions of where to go to find the basketball goal. He put together trampolines, laid out Barbie bolls, and wrote letters from Santa next to eaten cookies.
When we opened gifts, he would sit on the hearth in a Mississippi State sweatshirt I bought him, drinking in the fact that all of his "chicks" were at home. All he wanted was to sit and enjoy family time, eating, and watching his favorite movies (George C. Scott's "A Christmas Carol"). I don't think I was prepared for how badly I would miss him this Christmas. For the past 4 years, I've bought him Mississippi State gear, and he was wearing the last hat I gave him when he died.
I really swear I'm not trying to depress anyone, I'm okay. I'm just having trouble dealing with change, and I'm typing through tears right now, but I spent the best day with Smitty today. I am so lucky to have someone like him to understand my crazy mood swings and know before I do that I miss my father and need to cry sometimes, and sometimes I need to have wine and sushi and talk about monkeys or the children's book I want to write about the farm where the animals wear pants..(oh, it's happening)
And as a result of my very pleasant day with my husband, I've begun to feel the vague sensation of what could be classified as Christmas spirit. I've felt very content today and at peace, and I have to think that my dad is probably pissed that I'm not feeling very elf-ish yet, and he sent me some heavenly pixie dust or whatever. I've had this sensation for weeks that he's with me, in the form of random Shakespeare quotes popping up, movies that he and I have specifically discussed being on TV, too many instances of coincidences that really aren't coincidences.
To the friends that I know that have lost parents in recent years, and the ones that I don't know, we're in this thing together. Thank God for our memories that sustain us during this time. And we are making new ones. They're just as good, they're just different.
“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” -- Barbara Kingsolver
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Riding through the desert on a blog with no name
Taylor on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has entirely too much top lip. I understand the theory of plastic surgery, but there has to be some point where maybe your friends tell you, "Hey, your lips overlap your chin when you're not using them," stop the implants. Also, Camille Grammar is/was/and will always be a trophy wife...that's it. She was a porn star, and she now looks like a porn star who married well. That's what you get for not building actual skills and having FOUR nannies.
I digress, or maybe not, this is not a structured post, but earlier today, I reminisced about my days on the pageant circuit. And by pageant circuit, I mean through the ages of 7 and 10, my mom insisted on cutting my hair short. It happened initially as a result of a girl in 1st grade cutting a big chunk of my hair to the point we had to cut it. But she KEPT cutting it. In addition, my grandmother gave me Ogilvie home perms that burned my eyes and scalp and gave me processed, blondish brown Michael Jackson hair. It was decided, because I would randomly break into song, (still do) that I should be in talent competitions. Oh, the shame. I was so incredibly awkward at that age, and while I could probably sing as well as any 7-year-old, my voice teacher explained, "There is a high Emily and a low Emily, I want to hear the high Emily." Well, the issue with that is that there is not, nor will there ever be, a high Emily.
I'm not kidding. Like 5 years ago, I went to my friend Jeff's birthday party and with my now dead-to-me Australian pal, I sang "Welcome to the Jungle," and his falsetto was way better than mine. I mean, he was a bit of a dandy, but seriously, mine sounded like when Ana Gasteyer and Will Ferrell used to do their version of the middle school choral teachers. It was very proper, like if an opera singer tried to sing Metallica.
I feel as though in youth, I did a lot of things I really didn't want to do. I think about these things as I think about raising kids and what I want them to participate in and how I don't want to force them into joining teams and clubs they don't want to. I was a Brownie for about 2 weeks (a pre-Girl Scout), but I didn't like the uniform, and I didn't care for people telling me what to do, so I quit. Then, I played basketball in middle school, which I wasn't crazy about, but I did it because all my friends were playing. I could shoot pretty well, but the running and blocking and stuff eluded me a bit. Plus, all of the middle school games were at like, 9 in the morning, 30 minutes away...no, thank you.
I also played softball, which, for a brief period, I was quite the little superstar. I could hit okay, at least to where I could get on base, I was an awesome catcher and fielder, and I ran really fast. Then, I started having this weird thing where I would be running and my left knee would just pop out of place, which would make me collapse in a little heap wherever I was. I had to be carried off the field at least twice, and in Macon, our softball games were pretty much the only game in town.
So, my coach became a psycho. I played tennis, which I loved, and he gave me an ultimatum that I would a. have to choose between tennis and softball and b. if I chose softball, I'd have to have surgery or he wouldn't play me. Yah, that was a real tough decision. I believe I went to the state tennis finals that year. Jackass...sports should be fun for children, period. If you are the Nick Saban of junior high softball, I'm sorry that you must've failed at many things, but don't take it out on teenage girls.
In conclusion, I love being married more than anything, honestly, I do. If Smitty and I were locked in a closet, we could make each other laugh, and I'm sorry, but if you can't make your significant other laugh, you are not going to make it. However, there are those days that I am in excellent spirits, and he is the complete opposite...not because of me, but those other folks are not around. I am not a fan of misplaced anger. I have dealt with it quite a bit, having been the product of a co-dependent household. The good news is, I know when it's displaced anger and when it's an actual thing, so rather than exercise my natural instinct to yell back "What do you want from me?:" I just kind of acquiesce and let the situation pass.
"Don't marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can't live without. Dr. James C. Dobson
I digress, or maybe not, this is not a structured post, but earlier today, I reminisced about my days on the pageant circuit. And by pageant circuit, I mean through the ages of 7 and 10, my mom insisted on cutting my hair short. It happened initially as a result of a girl in 1st grade cutting a big chunk of my hair to the point we had to cut it. But she KEPT cutting it. In addition, my grandmother gave me Ogilvie home perms that burned my eyes and scalp and gave me processed, blondish brown Michael Jackson hair. It was decided, because I would randomly break into song, (still do) that I should be in talent competitions. Oh, the shame. I was so incredibly awkward at that age, and while I could probably sing as well as any 7-year-old, my voice teacher explained, "There is a high Emily and a low Emily, I want to hear the high Emily." Well, the issue with that is that there is not, nor will there ever be, a high Emily.
I'm not kidding. Like 5 years ago, I went to my friend Jeff's birthday party and with my now dead-to-me Australian pal, I sang "Welcome to the Jungle," and his falsetto was way better than mine. I mean, he was a bit of a dandy, but seriously, mine sounded like when Ana Gasteyer and Will Ferrell used to do their version of the middle school choral teachers. It was very proper, like if an opera singer tried to sing Metallica.
I feel as though in youth, I did a lot of things I really didn't want to do. I think about these things as I think about raising kids and what I want them to participate in and how I don't want to force them into joining teams and clubs they don't want to. I was a Brownie for about 2 weeks (a pre-Girl Scout), but I didn't like the uniform, and I didn't care for people telling me what to do, so I quit. Then, I played basketball in middle school, which I wasn't crazy about, but I did it because all my friends were playing. I could shoot pretty well, but the running and blocking and stuff eluded me a bit. Plus, all of the middle school games were at like, 9 in the morning, 30 minutes away...no, thank you.
I also played softball, which, for a brief period, I was quite the little superstar. I could hit okay, at least to where I could get on base, I was an awesome catcher and fielder, and I ran really fast. Then, I started having this weird thing where I would be running and my left knee would just pop out of place, which would make me collapse in a little heap wherever I was. I had to be carried off the field at least twice, and in Macon, our softball games were pretty much the only game in town.
So, my coach became a psycho. I played tennis, which I loved, and he gave me an ultimatum that I would a. have to choose between tennis and softball and b. if I chose softball, I'd have to have surgery or he wouldn't play me. Yah, that was a real tough decision. I believe I went to the state tennis finals that year. Jackass...sports should be fun for children, period. If you are the Nick Saban of junior high softball, I'm sorry that you must've failed at many things, but don't take it out on teenage girls.
In conclusion, I love being married more than anything, honestly, I do. If Smitty and I were locked in a closet, we could make each other laugh, and I'm sorry, but if you can't make your significant other laugh, you are not going to make it. However, there are those days that I am in excellent spirits, and he is the complete opposite...not because of me, but those other folks are not around. I am not a fan of misplaced anger. I have dealt with it quite a bit, having been the product of a co-dependent household. The good news is, I know when it's displaced anger and when it's an actual thing, so rather than exercise my natural instinct to yell back "What do you want from me?:" I just kind of acquiesce and let the situation pass.
"Don't marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can't live without. Dr. James C. Dobson
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