My good friend ZI mentioned me in one of her posts a few weeks back. She was a little annoyed at how good I am at my job or how hard I work or something? Anyway, I'm not bad at my job and I do stay late to get things done sometimes, but I also procrastinate and bitch and moan and spend entire afternoons updating my iPod software.
Also, when the powersthatbe think you're doing a great job, they keep piling more and more work on you, so it's not all wine and roses. It's best to be better than mediocre (because you won't get axed), but not so great that you get noticed. The pay isn't better where I'm at, and the stress is a lot worse. Plus, neither of us give a shit about this work! Why do we spend so much time and energy on it?
Anyway, today I got to feel some jealousy/bitterness, too. ZI casually mentioned that she got tickets to see a band I really like play ACL this week. I think she got the tickets because she is friends with someone in the band, but maybe she went down to UT like the rest of the bungled and the botched and was just lucky. Either way, color me green. Imagine getting to see Explosions play before 1am and not at that club I hate.
I want to say, "dude, share the wealth." But then I'll feel like a mooch. So, I'm passive-agressively posting this instead. She'll have to read it to know I was feeling this way, and maybe by the time she does read it, I won't care anymore.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
revisiting those good old stages of grief
One of those weird fuct up dreams last night:
My husband, my close friend/coworker "ZI", and some other coworkers set sail on a cruise/adventure voyage. It wasn't really a cruise, because we slept in quarters that had exposed pipes/strange passageways and there weren't any all-you-can-eat buffets, discos, or botulism outbreaks. My husband disappeared from the story line for awhile.
Sometime after that, one of my male coworkers asked me if I wanted to leave the cruise to go on his private sailboat for some real sailing. He told me we would see the Canary Islands, some famous archipelago, and other natural wonders. I was initially interested, but realized that he wouldn't be returning to the ship so ZI would have to cart all of my stuff around and apparently this male coworker and I would have to drive on land quite a bit to get home - it could take weeks, he said. It started to sound like a hassle, and it dawned on me that I would be completely alone with this dude and that he would probably be putting the moves on me. I politely declined.
Then my husband reappeared. Convenient timing. I was sharing a room with ZI, but when my husband came back, naturally I was sharing the luxury cabin (looked like a boiler room, with no real walls, but separate spaces for sleeping vs. stowage of trunks) with him.
Somehow we realized that we had a) taken our pet dog and cat along with us, and b) that we hadn't given them food or water since the trip began. We freaked out, first opening their cages, and only then running around trying to block exits from the room to the rest of the ship and entrances to weird crawl spaces they could get stuck in that we couldn't get them out of. Thankfully, while we did this, they seemed very listless and weren't giving chase.
I began a noble, but anxious, quest for kibble. I found a large yellow bag of some chow mix and tried to give some to my cat. She seemed uninterested at first, so then I took some to the dog, who devoured it. When I got back to my cat, she was laying limp on the cement floor of our room and she was sticky.
All of a sudden we were back home, in our actual house and there was a group of friends sitting at the kitchen table I had when I was growing up in Cambridge (but not in the red vinyl upholstered alcove it belonged in) smoking cigarettes just like in a picture I have of my mother and her circa-1965 friends. A phone rang. Someone I don't know (who might, upon morning's recollection, have been my "godfather" - a man named Peter who I don't think I ever met) answered the phone and offered it to my husband, saying "one of the animals died. I think it was Mina."
I began wailing and then woke myself up. When I'm in this state, after a bad dream, especially one where someone I love dies or my husband leaves me, I spend a minute or two in this weird limbo between consciousness and subconsciousness. I tend to seek my husband's body warmth and to whimper. He usually extends a groggy, but well-intentioned arm around my back and I hug a pillow. It's sort of pitiful.
Once fully awake, I looked for Mina, the cat. She was alive and well, naturally and noisily cleaning her privates, as cats are often wont to do. I checked her food and water. While she had plenty of kibble, her water dish was a quite low and the bottom of the bowl felt slimy, like I hadn't cleaned it in days. I felt an awful pang of guilt, cleaned it and filled it in the dark bathroom, and headed back to bed.
My husband, my close friend/coworker "ZI", and some other coworkers set sail on a cruise/adventure voyage. It wasn't really a cruise, because we slept in quarters that had exposed pipes/strange passageways and there weren't any all-you-can-eat buffets, discos, or botulism outbreaks. My husband disappeared from the story line for awhile.
Sometime after that, one of my male coworkers asked me if I wanted to leave the cruise to go on his private sailboat for some real sailing. He told me we would see the Canary Islands, some famous archipelago, and other natural wonders. I was initially interested, but realized that he wouldn't be returning to the ship so ZI would have to cart all of my stuff around and apparently this male coworker and I would have to drive on land quite a bit to get home - it could take weeks, he said. It started to sound like a hassle, and it dawned on me that I would be completely alone with this dude and that he would probably be putting the moves on me. I politely declined.
Then my husband reappeared. Convenient timing. I was sharing a room with ZI, but when my husband came back, naturally I was sharing the luxury cabin (looked like a boiler room, with no real walls, but separate spaces for sleeping vs. stowage of trunks) with him.
Somehow we realized that we had a) taken our pet dog and cat along with us, and b) that we hadn't given them food or water since the trip began. We freaked out, first opening their cages, and only then running around trying to block exits from the room to the rest of the ship and entrances to weird crawl spaces they could get stuck in that we couldn't get them out of. Thankfully, while we did this, they seemed very listless and weren't giving chase.
I began a noble, but anxious, quest for kibble. I found a large yellow bag of some chow mix and tried to give some to my cat. She seemed uninterested at first, so then I took some to the dog, who devoured it. When I got back to my cat, she was laying limp on the cement floor of our room and she was sticky.
All of a sudden we were back home, in our actual house and there was a group of friends sitting at the kitchen table I had when I was growing up in Cambridge (but not in the red vinyl upholstered alcove it belonged in) smoking cigarettes just like in a picture I have of my mother and her circa-1965 friends. A phone rang. Someone I don't know (who might, upon morning's recollection, have been my "godfather" - a man named Peter who I don't think I ever met) answered the phone and offered it to my husband, saying "one of the animals died. I think it was Mina."
I began wailing and then woke myself up. When I'm in this state, after a bad dream, especially one where someone I love dies or my husband leaves me, I spend a minute or two in this weird limbo between consciousness and subconsciousness. I tend to seek my husband's body warmth and to whimper. He usually extends a groggy, but well-intentioned arm around my back and I hug a pillow. It's sort of pitiful.
Once fully awake, I looked for Mina, the cat. She was alive and well, naturally and noisily cleaning her privates, as cats are often wont to do. I checked her food and water. While she had plenty of kibble, her water dish was a quite low and the bottom of the bowl felt slimy, like I hadn't cleaned it in days. I felt an awful pang of guilt, cleaned it and filled it in the dark bathroom, and headed back to bed.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
it's a family affair ...
Today I'm going to attend my cousin's daughter's (does that make her my second-cousin?) wedding. I am doing this because I'm supposed to, which feels odd, because doing things because you are supposed to is not something to which my family ever willingly surrendered.
For example, my maternal grandmother did not attend my wedding. I was told "she doesn't do weddings." (She also didn't "do" Christmas, graduation, etc.) Well, apparently she changed, because she is doing this one - but she's 10 years older now, has buried both of her children, and maybe she recognizes the importance of ritual, even if this one usually is an awkward, saccharine parade of bad clothes, hair, makeup, music, and uncomfortable moments when you run out of chit-chat at a table full of strangers. That or she had nothing better to do today.
To be fair, I didn't invite my uncle to my wedding. You are probably supposed to invite uncles of all stripes. I didn't want to invite either of mine. The short hand version of why is that one of them was rude to my mother and sister on multiple occasions and the other one made jokes about being attracted to me when I was 10 and then put a gun to my head when I was 14. So, I gave in and invited the rude one, but not the other one.
This is the crazy thing. The same woman who didn't do weddings has lobbied over the years for me to forgive her son. I don't think you are supposed to forgive people who put guns to your head or who joke about incest within hearing distance of the proposed victim. I think they should be shunned as a form of societal punishment so that people think twice about behaving that way. But, even though this woman and most of her family tree boycott doing things because you are supposed to, they also frequently extol the virtues of "family" and how we're supposed to stick together.
I've thought about why they have these opposing views - don't do things just because you are supposed to, but stick with family, because you are supposed to (except you don't have to go to your family weddings, but you do have to invite all of your family - jeesh!) - and I think it must have come from necessity, because in the case of my maternal grandmother, grandfather, and uncle -- if they didn't brainwash people to stick with them, no one would. Harsh, but true.
So today I get to see my grandmother and my cousins. Thinking about my cousins and my sister and me makes me realize we have all tried to get as far away from the family as we could. I think that all of us moved out of our parent's houses by no later than 17 years old, some went back out of financial necessity for a year or so, but then scattered to the four winds.
Most of my cousins do the requisite amount of attendance at family gatherings (which are increasingly rare), but I am curious to see whether my cousin, whose daughter is getting married today, actually shows up. It is possible that he carries on the family-tradition of eschewing tradition. I could see him saying "in my eyes you're already married, so why should I be there?" Hopefully, he will give in and do what he's supposed to.
There's something more interesting in here, something about the folklore passed down to my generation by my grandmother, mother, and uncle, that was used to try to make us think that the way we were being treated was normal. It might have been subconsciously executed, but they definitely wove a tall tale, about how we were all so very special, how our family all had genius IQs, and were all so creative, blah, blah, blah. And if you raised your hand and said, "but, I don't like the way it feels when you do this or say that," they said, "oh, you, you're soooo normal. I'm really disappointed because you had such potential."
I have to let that stew for awhile. Maybe I'll find the jewel. I realize this post was a page-long gripe, but I needed to get it out before I see them. :)
For example, my maternal grandmother did not attend my wedding. I was told "she doesn't do weddings." (She also didn't "do" Christmas, graduation, etc.) Well, apparently she changed, because she is doing this one - but she's 10 years older now, has buried both of her children, and maybe she recognizes the importance of ritual, even if this one usually is an awkward, saccharine parade of bad clothes, hair, makeup, music, and uncomfortable moments when you run out of chit-chat at a table full of strangers. That or she had nothing better to do today.
To be fair, I didn't invite my uncle to my wedding. You are probably supposed to invite uncles of all stripes. I didn't want to invite either of mine. The short hand version of why is that one of them was rude to my mother and sister on multiple occasions and the other one made jokes about being attracted to me when I was 10 and then put a gun to my head when I was 14. So, I gave in and invited the rude one, but not the other one.
This is the crazy thing. The same woman who didn't do weddings has lobbied over the years for me to forgive her son. I don't think you are supposed to forgive people who put guns to your head or who joke about incest within hearing distance of the proposed victim. I think they should be shunned as a form of societal punishment so that people think twice about behaving that way. But, even though this woman and most of her family tree boycott doing things because you are supposed to, they also frequently extol the virtues of "family" and how we're supposed to stick together.
I've thought about why they have these opposing views - don't do things just because you are supposed to, but stick with family, because you are supposed to (except you don't have to go to your family weddings, but you do have to invite all of your family - jeesh!) - and I think it must have come from necessity, because in the case of my maternal grandmother, grandfather, and uncle -- if they didn't brainwash people to stick with them, no one would. Harsh, but true.
So today I get to see my grandmother and my cousins. Thinking about my cousins and my sister and me makes me realize we have all tried to get as far away from the family as we could. I think that all of us moved out of our parent's houses by no later than 17 years old, some went back out of financial necessity for a year or so, but then scattered to the four winds.
Most of my cousins do the requisite amount of attendance at family gatherings (which are increasingly rare), but I am curious to see whether my cousin, whose daughter is getting married today, actually shows up. It is possible that he carries on the family-tradition of eschewing tradition. I could see him saying "in my eyes you're already married, so why should I be there?" Hopefully, he will give in and do what he's supposed to.
There's something more interesting in here, something about the folklore passed down to my generation by my grandmother, mother, and uncle, that was used to try to make us think that the way we were being treated was normal. It might have been subconsciously executed, but they definitely wove a tall tale, about how we were all so very special, how our family all had genius IQs, and were all so creative, blah, blah, blah. And if you raised your hand and said, "but, I don't like the way it feels when you do this or say that," they said, "oh, you, you're soooo normal. I'm really disappointed because you had such potential."
I have to let that stew for awhile. Maybe I'll find the jewel. I realize this post was a page-long gripe, but I needed to get it out before I see them. :)
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
something selfish and stupid this way comes?
Reading about the declining bird species, the lost bees, and the war (pick one; no link required) has me in a mood.
Oh, no, Polly Anna. Not a good one. The mood comes from feeling completely at a loss as to what, if anything, I can DO about it and being certain that I should.
I could donate $100, maybe even $200, dollars to someone who is devoting the majority of their time to doing something about it. Would that help? Does anyone know how to help the bees find their way home? Can someone stop us from developing every spare inch of this planet so that the little bob-whites can have babies at the same rate that a Westlake soccermom can? Can anyone stop the war(s)?
I start thinking about this shit and first I start to feel heavy and trapped, my brain gets foggy(er), my vocabulary shrinks, and eventually I begin to inventory my own possessions and to mentally enter the bunker.
"That lamp? It's mine. I have 2 lbs of rice. I have $489 in my savings account. I own 12 pairs of shoes. When the shit really hits the fan, I'll need those shoes. Maybe I should go get some jeans while I still can. I should have reserves of cash. I need a gun."
As soon as I get to the gun, I switch to Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, only I'm riding the shame spiral on my way to hell in a handbasket.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Jeans? Reserves of cash? There are little kid prostitutes in Africa who eat nothing but dick all day so their parents can buy drugs for AIDS. What you need to do is get your lazy ass involved, concerned, and active. You need to write letters. You need to stop this foolish blogging, quit your pointless, soul-less job, sell your Tivo and move to fucking Africa, you PIECE OF PAMPERED SHIT!"
So, I'm stuck in the safe, established neighborhood located between fear and self-loathing. And guess what? I will probably buy property here, and if the property tax keeps rising I will probably suck dick for a living to pay it. Because, I'll let you in on a little secret about me ... I don't want to move to Africa to save the world. Or I do, but I'd like to do it Jolie-style. I'd like to make sacrifices, but still be able to fly home to air conditioning and Wild Copper-River Salmon.
I saw Constant Gardener. Africa looks like a beautiful, amazing place. It is also looks like it is full of war, disease, famine, politics, desperation and pain. It makes me long to taste it for a minute - believing that it is raw and real in a way that my UnitedStatesian, middle-class existence will never be. But something holds me back from ever stepping over the line to be the person who does something truly unexpected or important. What is it?
If I was just selfish or stupid, like so many UnitedStatesians, like our president for example, or Jessica Simpson (I don't know that she is selfish, but it does seem like an actual deer caught in the headlights could beat her at chess), I bet I wouldn't care. Unfortunately, I'm generous and selfish and intermittently intelligent, and that adds up to a life of self-scrutiny and disappointment.
Or does it?
I don't want to go into this too much right now, but the shrink I used to see said a few wise things. She said them over and over again -- I'm not sure if that was purposeful or because she, too, had limits -- and some of them stuck with me. One was that all of us humans have the capacity for the full range of human behavior. Every one of us, under the right conditions, could be a Martin Luther King, a Jeffrey Dahmer, or a Linda Johnson (Linda Johnson is an unknown 40-something receptionist with 2 kids, who loves cats, votes republican because they believe in God, reads romance novels, and will die alone never having left her home-state when she's 75, more from boredom and loneliness than pathology).
The point of that is that I could change. I could start being more of a humming being. That's what my mom said she wanted to be (before she forgot and blew out her brains*). I guess I always thought that meant someone who vibrates with life. Someone engaged. Someone who has found their niche or niches (bitches) and who fully encompasses that space until she burns out (not fade away). Someone who leaves a mark, and not a bruise, more like a lipstick smear, an engraving, or a blood-sweat-or-cum stain.
*P.S. A sign of my emotional growth is that I almost left out the suicide-aside.
Oh, no, Polly Anna. Not a good one. The mood comes from feeling completely at a loss as to what, if anything, I can DO about it and being certain that I should.
I could donate $100, maybe even $200, dollars to someone who is devoting the majority of their time to doing something about it. Would that help? Does anyone know how to help the bees find their way home? Can someone stop us from developing every spare inch of this planet so that the little bob-whites can have babies at the same rate that a Westlake soccermom can? Can anyone stop the war(s)?
I start thinking about this shit and first I start to feel heavy and trapped, my brain gets foggy(er), my vocabulary shrinks, and eventually I begin to inventory my own possessions and to mentally enter the bunker.
"That lamp? It's mine. I have 2 lbs of rice. I have $489 in my savings account. I own 12 pairs of shoes. When the shit really hits the fan, I'll need those shoes. Maybe I should go get some jeans while I still can. I should have reserves of cash. I need a gun."
As soon as I get to the gun, I switch to Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, only I'm riding the shame spiral on my way to hell in a handbasket.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Jeans? Reserves of cash? There are little kid prostitutes in Africa who eat nothing but dick all day so their parents can buy drugs for AIDS. What you need to do is get your lazy ass involved, concerned, and active. You need to write letters. You need to stop this foolish blogging, quit your pointless, soul-less job, sell your Tivo and move to fucking Africa, you PIECE OF PAMPERED SHIT!"
So, I'm stuck in the safe, established neighborhood located between fear and self-loathing. And guess what? I will probably buy property here, and if the property tax keeps rising I will probably suck dick for a living to pay it. Because, I'll let you in on a little secret about me ... I don't want to move to Africa to save the world. Or I do, but I'd like to do it Jolie-style. I'd like to make sacrifices, but still be able to fly home to air conditioning and Wild Copper-River Salmon.
I saw Constant Gardener. Africa looks like a beautiful, amazing place. It is also looks like it is full of war, disease, famine, politics, desperation and pain. It makes me long to taste it for a minute - believing that it is raw and real in a way that my UnitedStatesian, middle-class existence will never be. But something holds me back from ever stepping over the line to be the person who does something truly unexpected or important. What is it?
If I was just selfish or stupid, like so many UnitedStatesians, like our president for example, or Jessica Simpson (I don't know that she is selfish, but it does seem like an actual deer caught in the headlights could beat her at chess), I bet I wouldn't care. Unfortunately, I'm generous and selfish and intermittently intelligent, and that adds up to a life of self-scrutiny and disappointment.
Or does it?
I don't want to go into this too much right now, but the shrink I used to see said a few wise things. She said them over and over again -- I'm not sure if that was purposeful or because she, too, had limits -- and some of them stuck with me. One was that all of us humans have the capacity for the full range of human behavior. Every one of us, under the right conditions, could be a Martin Luther King, a Jeffrey Dahmer, or a Linda Johnson (Linda Johnson is an unknown 40-something receptionist with 2 kids, who loves cats, votes republican because they believe in God, reads romance novels, and will die alone never having left her home-state when she's 75, more from boredom and loneliness than pathology).
The point of that is that I could change. I could start being more of a humming being. That's what my mom said she wanted to be (before she forgot and blew out her brains*). I guess I always thought that meant someone who vibrates with life. Someone engaged. Someone who has found their niche or niches (bitches) and who fully encompasses that space until she burns out (not fade away). Someone who leaves a mark, and not a bruise, more like a lipstick smear, an engraving, or a blood-sweat-or-cum stain.
*P.S. A sign of my emotional growth is that I almost left out the suicide-aside.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I can't think of another poop joke
This post is going to be about poop.
Dookie. Shit. Crap. Number 2. Scat. Feces. Like I said, poop.
If you don't like to read about poop - go read a different blog today. Might I suggest one that caters to pussies who can't accept that we, all of us, mankind, have to dump-out on a regular basis or die.
Oh no. I've just made my first hypocriticism of the day. Guess what? I'm a pussy who can't accept that we all have to shit or die. So now you know the real subject of this post. It's about one of my hangups.
("Um, excuse me Ms. Uumellmahaye, which of your posts has not been about your hangups?" asks that pesky little lone reader o' mine. Well, while I'm being schizophrenic, I might as well play name-that-personality. This one, the pesky lone reader, shall be christened "Polly Purefart" for her tendency to float stinky little self-censorship in my general direction.)
Anyway, back to me. My number one hang up about number two is that I cannot do my business in public. By "in public," I don't mean "on stage" or that I want to go "do it in the road." I just mean sitting in a sterile stall in a public restroom when other people, male or female, are milling about in the same said restroom.
Why do they call it a "rest"room? I am not going to nap in there.
I recently tried to explain to my friend of 10+ years (who is also my co-worker) why I can't do it. Here's the best I could produce: I am afraid that my efforts on this front have the potential to be best-case: noisy, worst-case: odorous. I imagine someone will look under the stall, see my shoes, somehow associate my shoes with me, know that I am a foul and gassy beast, and then, I don't know, maybe think bad thoughts about me.
My friend of 10+ years, let's just call her Z.I., said, "when I'm in the bathroom and I hear farting and smell shit, I never look under the stall to see the shoes of the pooper. I just think, 'i gotta get out of here.'"
Z.I. is a wise, some would say "sage," woman. She is practical and earthy. I have always envied her these traits.
Reading over my shoulder, my husband informs me that when he hears or smells the evidence of a gaseous shit-bag in a public John, he feels challenged to one-up-man-shit as a form of squatter's rights. If he can somehow out-doo the pooer, he will get the person to turn tail and run so that he can have the can to himself.
This is evidence of a personality so well-endowed with Id that I am dumbstruck.
Unfortunately, I am neither logical nor hegemonic about my pooping. And today, I caught a whiff of just how stupid I am.
Before I tell you, let me first thank you for making it this far. I apologize for the scatalogical nature of this post. I feel like that fly character in Meet the Feebles right now. Even typing about this subject makes me feel dirty.
So. Today.
Background: If you have paid any attention to my posts thus far, you know that I have a few food allergies/intolerances. (Yes. That's me. If I had to find my personality in pop-culture, I would say I am a cross between Clementine from Endless Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Joyce from American Splendor.) Anyway, I have had amazing will-power as of late in the dairy-department. Today I picked up a fast-food lunch from Chipotle without caving in to the sour-cream and cheese that I love like crack-cocaine but know is rotting my insides like an insidious cancer.
30 minutes after eating my burrito-bowl (which just sounds like the name of a food from Idiocracy, doesn't it?), nature, that rabid telemarketer, began to call. I was talking to a coworker about how to deploy our on-line help system and despite the bone-chilling boringness of that subject, he seemed like he might never let me end the chat. My stomach roiled and rumbled and I started to bloat like a highland-bagpipe in the hands of my kilt-wearing red-headed Scot ancestors. I tried to end the conversation by turning my body sideways and stepping away, but then he asked an open-ended question (deft ploy) and I was forced to retreat. At one point, oddly enough, I had to press ham to prevent an expulsion and while I am 99.99 % sure I was successful, I smelled evidence of raspberries. Is it possible said co-worker was also stifling himself, and if so, what horrible synchronicity!
Finally, I was able to tear myself away without being rude. I stepped to my cubicle to grab my access card exactly as Z.I. ran to her cube and informed me that she had to go to the bathroom.
Were we all caught in the eye of a shit-storm? Was it some sort of post-lunch phenomenon?
Anyway, I felt caught between a rock and a hard-place. Should I follow her to the bathroom, inform her honestly of my intentions, laugh it off and then go for it? In a fantasy world, yes. (Well, actually, in my fantasy world, there isn't a biological need to shit. Or shave. Or pop zits. The rest of the physical annoyances associated with human life don't bother me, but I could lose those three.) In this world, I gave her a head start, hoping she had to pee, and then quickly walked to the lavatory, accompanied by an emerging turtle.
I made my way for the furthest stall. It's the handicapped one, and in my book, it is "door #2" or "the brown room." I think everyone should shit there. Not because of some animus toward the physically challenged, but because it is farthest away from the door, thus affording the most privacy and lebensraum.
Z.I. was stalling. There was a lot of rustling of clothes, like she'd worn some sort of special underthings that required origami-like precision to refashion. I started to sweat. Despite the fact that I have known this woman since the mid-nineties, have laughed and cried with her, attended both of her weddings, and have worked with her more times than either one of us can count, I could NOT bear the thought that she would hear me poop/see my shoes/think ill of me.
I considered just saying "hey, it's me, and you might want to get out of here soon" or "it's me. Don't look at my shoes" and then singing the National Anthem with my intestines. But then I thought, "what if it isn't Z.I.? What if it's a TOTAL STRANGER or worse yet, an ACQUAINTANCE?" So, I zipped it, inhaled, and prayed that she would skip the handwashing, despite all the OCD that would cause me later, so that I could have a moment alone with my bodily functions.
She flushed. I tried to eek out a prologue under cover of the flushing noise but I was too tightly wound to relax. She washed her hands (good girl!), maybe even lathering/lingering longer than normal. Finally, I heard the door and let go.
Ahhhh. Total silence. And, honestly, I think my shit smelled like roses ("like Guns and Roses" the husband would say.)
As I completed my affairs, someone else walked in and I worried that they would hear the sound of the toilet paper roll and rip, put 2 and 2 together and figure out that the number of wipes required meant poop and would think ill of me. But this worry was fleeting, and I flushed/washed/and high-tailed it outta there before my anyone could have fingered me.
So, that's it. If you made it this far, you are a real gem. I think this is some sort of self-sabotage because over the last two days, two friends have told me they have been reading my posts (one even said she liked them) and so maybe I'm testing the limits of your patience. Whatevs. It's a big step toward normalcy for me to write in such a ribald manner, despite my non-anonymity, and so I feel like toasting.
So, here's mud in your eye!
Dookie. Shit. Crap. Number 2. Scat. Feces. Like I said, poop.
If you don't like to read about poop - go read a different blog today. Might I suggest one that caters to pussies who can't accept that we, all of us, mankind, have to dump-out on a regular basis or die.
Oh no. I've just made my first hypocriticism of the day. Guess what? I'm a pussy who can't accept that we all have to shit or die. So now you know the real subject of this post. It's about one of my hangups.
("Um, excuse me Ms. Uumellmahaye, which of your posts has not been about your hangups?" asks that pesky little lone reader o' mine. Well, while I'm being schizophrenic, I might as well play name-that-personality. This one, the pesky lone reader, shall be christened "Polly Purefart" for her tendency to float stinky little self-censorship in my general direction.)
Anyway, back to me. My number one hang up about number two is that I cannot do my business in public. By "in public," I don't mean "on stage" or that I want to go "do it in the road." I just mean sitting in a sterile stall in a public restroom when other people, male or female, are milling about in the same said restroom.
Why do they call it a "rest"room? I am not going to nap in there.
I recently tried to explain to my friend of 10+ years (who is also my co-worker) why I can't do it. Here's the best I could produce: I am afraid that my efforts on this front have the potential to be best-case: noisy, worst-case: odorous. I imagine someone will look under the stall, see my shoes, somehow associate my shoes with me, know that I am a foul and gassy beast, and then, I don't know, maybe think bad thoughts about me.
My friend of 10+ years, let's just call her Z.I., said, "when I'm in the bathroom and I hear farting and smell shit, I never look under the stall to see the shoes of the pooper. I just think, 'i gotta get out of here.'"
Z.I. is a wise, some would say "sage," woman. She is practical and earthy. I have always envied her these traits.
Reading over my shoulder, my husband informs me that when he hears or smells the evidence of a gaseous shit-bag in a public John, he feels challenged to one-up-man-shit as a form of squatter's rights. If he can somehow out-doo the pooer, he will get the person to turn tail and run so that he can have the can to himself.
This is evidence of a personality so well-endowed with Id that I am dumbstruck.
Unfortunately, I am neither logical nor hegemonic about my pooping. And today, I caught a whiff of just how stupid I am.
Before I tell you, let me first thank you for making it this far. I apologize for the scatalogical nature of this post. I feel like that fly character in Meet the Feebles right now. Even typing about this subject makes me feel dirty.
So. Today.
Background: If you have paid any attention to my posts thus far, you know that I have a few food allergies/intolerances. (Yes. That's me. If I had to find my personality in pop-culture, I would say I am a cross between Clementine from Endless Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Joyce from American Splendor.) Anyway, I have had amazing will-power as of late in the dairy-department. Today I picked up a fast-food lunch from Chipotle without caving in to the sour-cream and cheese that I love like crack-cocaine but know is rotting my insides like an insidious cancer.
30 minutes after eating my burrito-bowl (which just sounds like the name of a food from Idiocracy, doesn't it?), nature, that rabid telemarketer, began to call. I was talking to a coworker about how to deploy our on-line help system and despite the bone-chilling boringness of that subject, he seemed like he might never let me end the chat. My stomach roiled and rumbled and I started to bloat like a highland-bagpipe in the hands of my kilt-wearing red-headed Scot ancestors. I tried to end the conversation by turning my body sideways and stepping away, but then he asked an open-ended question (deft ploy) and I was forced to retreat. At one point, oddly enough, I had to press ham to prevent an expulsion and while I am 99.99 % sure I was successful, I smelled evidence of raspberries. Is it possible said co-worker was also stifling himself, and if so, what horrible synchronicity!
Finally, I was able to tear myself away without being rude. I stepped to my cubicle to grab my access card exactly as Z.I. ran to her cube and informed me that she had to go to the bathroom.
Were we all caught in the eye of a shit-storm? Was it some sort of post-lunch phenomenon?
Anyway, I felt caught between a rock and a hard-place. Should I follow her to the bathroom, inform her honestly of my intentions, laugh it off and then go for it? In a fantasy world, yes. (Well, actually, in my fantasy world, there isn't a biological need to shit. Or shave. Or pop zits. The rest of the physical annoyances associated with human life don't bother me, but I could lose those three.) In this world, I gave her a head start, hoping she had to pee, and then quickly walked to the lavatory, accompanied by an emerging turtle.
I made my way for the furthest stall. It's the handicapped one, and in my book, it is "door #2" or "the brown room." I think everyone should shit there. Not because of some animus toward the physically challenged, but because it is farthest away from the door, thus affording the most privacy and lebensraum.
Z.I. was stalling. There was a lot of rustling of clothes, like she'd worn some sort of special underthings that required origami-like precision to refashion. I started to sweat. Despite the fact that I have known this woman since the mid-nineties, have laughed and cried with her, attended both of her weddings, and have worked with her more times than either one of us can count, I could NOT bear the thought that she would hear me poop/see my shoes/think ill of me.
I considered just saying "hey, it's me, and you might want to get out of here soon" or "it's me. Don't look at my shoes" and then singing the National Anthem with my intestines. But then I thought, "what if it isn't Z.I.? What if it's a TOTAL STRANGER or worse yet, an ACQUAINTANCE?" So, I zipped it, inhaled, and prayed that she would skip the handwashing, despite all the OCD that would cause me later, so that I could have a moment alone with my bodily functions.
She flushed. I tried to eek out a prologue under cover of the flushing noise but I was too tightly wound to relax. She washed her hands (good girl!), maybe even lathering/lingering longer than normal. Finally, I heard the door and let go.
Ahhhh. Total silence. And, honestly, I think my shit smelled like roses ("like Guns and Roses" the husband would say.)
As I completed my affairs, someone else walked in and I worried that they would hear the sound of the toilet paper roll and rip, put 2 and 2 together and figure out that the number of wipes required meant poop and would think ill of me. But this worry was fleeting, and I flushed/washed/and high-tailed it outta there before my anyone could have fingered me.
So, that's it. If you made it this far, you are a real gem. I think this is some sort of self-sabotage because over the last two days, two friends have told me they have been reading my posts (one even said she liked them) and so maybe I'm testing the limits of your patience. Whatevs. It's a big step toward normalcy for me to write in such a ribald manner, despite my non-anonymity, and so I feel like toasting.
So, here's mud in your eye!
Friday, June 15, 2007
A crack on the head is what you get for asking ...
I took a vacation. From everything that has been weighing on me. My two-in-one job, my other little job, my family, my pets, my town. I flew to Seattle and tried to relax.
Do you see the problem already?
Yeah, I tried. I tried to relax. I have to try now because I have recently forgotten how to relax without trying. And I have also forgotten how to be happy without restrictions.
Like I can feel sorta happy, BUT. But something. Like, but I'm drunk. Or, but I'm just vegging out watching the Wire. Or, but I was sleeping. Never, I'm experiencing total, unadulterated bliss.
So I tried to relax and feel bliss and I failed. But I still had fun. We saw the sights. (In Russian, the word for "to see the sights" sounds a little like dostapreemachatelnosty. It's a great word - so much sturm und drang for such a frivolous verb.) We ate "northwestern fare" and hiked in a ferny, mossy wood. We listened to grunge - if only because the radio stations there suck as much as they do in Austin and 15-year-old grunge is still better than most of the crap played on shitty radio nowadays. We waited for the bus next to the dilapitated old building where Nirvana recorded Bleach and took our picture on the Freemont troll. We saw fish tossed. We did the thing. And it was good.
But we had to come back.
Back to the job(s), the family, the town, and the realization that for me, at least, the ennui has little to do with being overworked and underlaid. It is something inside of me. And I know what it takes for me to be happy again, or at least occasionally so, and I have to take the reins and drive those doggies, rawhide.
I was so looking forward to a few days to contemplate that shit when I returned. A few days to relax, write, exercise, not worry, not work. And then I went and did a stupid thing.
I went tubing, which, in and of itself, is not a stupid thing. It can be an immensely dense thing, if you are drunk, which I wasn't. Or if you forget to apply sunscreen. Which I didn't. I did everything right. I forked over a few dolla's to the local Lion's Club and sat my ass down in a cool river for 40 minutes of mindless relaxation (as opposed to Sivasana, which is supposed to be mindful relaxation). My husband, my sister and I comprised the scant flotilla. We splashed each other (or rather, they splashed and I did not deign to retaliate for I find it distastefully childish) and floated and mused. I closed my eyes and let the eerie, calm motion occur without my navigatory intention. I opened my eyes and leaned my head back to joy in the shimmer of light between leaf-cover. I horrored at the site of a day-dwelling raccoon (rabid?) who swam across the water for cover from 3 circling hawks.
And I started to relax.
It was Wednesday. I knew I had that day and a full Thursday and Friday to revel in my freedom. (Saturday and Sunday didn't count, because a) I had to do some work for the little side-job and b) because I have those days "off" when I work at the real two-in-one job, too.)
Those days seemed like they would be long.
And then I decided to float over the rapid. Not the rapids, for that would imply there were many.
The one rapid. The lone rapid. It beckoned. I saw children floating over it unaccompanied by tubes. I saw my husband and sister eschewing the rapid for safer, calmer waters. I remembered times past, when I felt the brief danger, the quick fear, and the rush of conquering it as I sailed over the drop and over the eddy.
But not that day. No. This is what happened instead:
I had no actual fear. I saw the outcome and it was simple fun. I encouraged my tube in the direction of the rapid, for the waters around it were retarding my progress with tenaciously lax and lazy entropy. I approached and waited, internally impatient at the teenagers who cut in front of me. And then it was my turn.
In one/two seconds I went from a thawing 30-something who has finally achieved relaxation to a flailing, ass-over-tea-kettle nearly-drowning nellie.
I sailed over the crest of the rapid effortlessly and without tremor. But the eddy. Oh, the eddy. It exacted quick and deft revenge. It sucked my tube from under me and flipped me over 360 degrees. At 180, the back of my head thwacked against a lurking rock and send the fear of God through me. I actually had the thought, "is this how I'm going to die?" Followed by, "fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is the air? Have I passed out?" Two struggling seconds and then the air, the sun, discombobulated exuberance fueled by my fair-share of adrenaline.
A nice little boy noticed my plight and went after my tube. All I could think of to say to him was "I hit my head hard." He nodded.
I looked for Clint. I still felt like I was in danger until I could get my body next to his. When our eyes met across the river, I motioned to him that I'd hit my head. He made an empathetic face and then I shakily navigated the slippery rocks until I found a launching point well away from the now frightening rapid so that I could paddle across to safety.
48 plus hours later, and I've had a CT scan (no results yet) but no signs of real damage/concussion. No double-vision, no vomiting. I should thank my lucky stars. And yet. I know it was a threat from Geezus. Relax? You? That's not what I have in store for you, biatch. Just you wait and see.
Do you see the problem already?
Yeah, I tried. I tried to relax. I have to try now because I have recently forgotten how to relax without trying. And I have also forgotten how to be happy without restrictions.
Like I can feel sorta happy, BUT. But something. Like, but I'm drunk. Or, but I'm just vegging out watching the Wire. Or, but I was sleeping. Never, I'm experiencing total, unadulterated bliss.
So I tried to relax and feel bliss and I failed. But I still had fun. We saw the sights. (In Russian, the word for "to see the sights" sounds a little like dostapreemachatelnosty. It's a great word - so much sturm und drang for such a frivolous verb.) We ate "northwestern fare" and hiked in a ferny, mossy wood. We listened to grunge - if only because the radio stations there suck as much as they do in Austin and 15-year-old grunge is still better than most of the crap played on shitty radio nowadays. We waited for the bus next to the dilapitated old building where Nirvana recorded Bleach and took our picture on the Freemont troll. We saw fish tossed. We did the thing. And it was good.
But we had to come back.
Back to the job(s), the family, the town, and the realization that for me, at least, the ennui has little to do with being overworked and underlaid. It is something inside of me. And I know what it takes for me to be happy again, or at least occasionally so, and I have to take the reins and drive those doggies, rawhide.
I was so looking forward to a few days to contemplate that shit when I returned. A few days to relax, write, exercise, not worry, not work. And then I went and did a stupid thing.
I went tubing, which, in and of itself, is not a stupid thing. It can be an immensely dense thing, if you are drunk, which I wasn't. Or if you forget to apply sunscreen. Which I didn't. I did everything right. I forked over a few dolla's to the local Lion's Club and sat my ass down in a cool river for 40 minutes of mindless relaxation (as opposed to Sivasana, which is supposed to be mindful relaxation). My husband, my sister and I comprised the scant flotilla. We splashed each other (or rather, they splashed and I did not deign to retaliate for I find it distastefully childish) and floated and mused. I closed my eyes and let the eerie, calm motion occur without my navigatory intention. I opened my eyes and leaned my head back to joy in the shimmer of light between leaf-cover. I horrored at the site of a day-dwelling raccoon (rabid?) who swam across the water for cover from 3 circling hawks.
And I started to relax.
It was Wednesday. I knew I had that day and a full Thursday and Friday to revel in my freedom. (Saturday and Sunday didn't count, because a) I had to do some work for the little side-job and b) because I have those days "off" when I work at the real two-in-one job, too.)
Those days seemed like they would be long.
And then I decided to float over the rapid. Not the rapids, for that would imply there were many.
The one rapid. The lone rapid. It beckoned. I saw children floating over it unaccompanied by tubes. I saw my husband and sister eschewing the rapid for safer, calmer waters. I remembered times past, when I felt the brief danger, the quick fear, and the rush of conquering it as I sailed over the drop and over the eddy.
But not that day. No. This is what happened instead:
I had no actual fear. I saw the outcome and it was simple fun. I encouraged my tube in the direction of the rapid, for the waters around it were retarding my progress with tenaciously lax and lazy entropy. I approached and waited, internally impatient at the teenagers who cut in front of me. And then it was my turn.
In one/two seconds I went from a thawing 30-something who has finally achieved relaxation to a flailing, ass-over-tea-kettle nearly-drowning nellie.
I sailed over the crest of the rapid effortlessly and without tremor. But the eddy. Oh, the eddy. It exacted quick and deft revenge. It sucked my tube from under me and flipped me over 360 degrees. At 180, the back of my head thwacked against a lurking rock and send the fear of God through me. I actually had the thought, "is this how I'm going to die?" Followed by, "fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is the air? Have I passed out?" Two struggling seconds and then the air, the sun, discombobulated exuberance fueled by my fair-share of adrenaline.
A nice little boy noticed my plight and went after my tube. All I could think of to say to him was "I hit my head hard." He nodded.
I looked for Clint. I still felt like I was in danger until I could get my body next to his. When our eyes met across the river, I motioned to him that I'd hit my head. He made an empathetic face and then I shakily navigated the slippery rocks until I found a launching point well away from the now frightening rapid so that I could paddle across to safety.
48 plus hours later, and I've had a CT scan (no results yet) but no signs of real damage/concussion. No double-vision, no vomiting. I should thank my lucky stars. And yet. I know it was a threat from Geezus. Relax? You? That's not what I have in store for you, biatch. Just you wait and see.
Friday, June 01, 2007
the day I held aloft my magic sword
I won free-cell twice in a row. That warrants a second post.
My life has come to this?
Wait, why am I hatin'? I'm almost forty. If I want to play cyber-solitaire and drink too much red wine on a Friday night, I've earned that right.
While we're on the subject of what my life has come to - let me say something about the old life-line. I think mine forks at about age 60. Does that mean I will vote Republican in the year 2031?
My life has come to this?
Wait, why am I hatin'? I'm almost forty. If I want to play cyber-solitaire and drink too much red wine on a Friday night, I've earned that right.
While we're on the subject of what my life has come to - let me say something about the old life-line. I think mine forks at about age 60. Does that mean I will vote Republican in the year 2031?
there's a monster at the end of this book ...
I want to live without fear. I want to dive in, to embrace life, to take risks. I know that is the way to a life worth living. I know this deeply, like it was written onto my DNA.
And yet.
What if? What if I die? What if I kill someone else, either accidentally, or gasp, purposefully when I change into Mr. Hyde?
What if I'm driving on a twisty mountain road, in awe of the natural beauty that surrounds me, and then, suddenly, on the other side of the tunnel I see the canyon floor, 1000 feet below me (and my poor unsuspecting passengers). This time, instead of pulling over, hands trembling, red-facedly admitting that I'm struck with vertigo - what if this time I cannot stop myself and I point the nose of the car at the tiny, metal guardrail - our government's nod toward protecting drivers - built to a spec that never imagined the height of an H2 or even an Escalade or the power of their engines?
What if I rub my eye and get an infection that rots out my eyeball?
What if I have diabetes?
What if I eat something, anything, that I didn't know I was deathly allergic to?
What if someone breaks into my house and rapes me? What if I like it? What if he murders me for being a horrible slut?
What if I get pulled over and I have a panic attack because I'm afraid of being arrested, but the rookie isn't familiar with panic disorder and thinks I'm on drugs and arrests me? What if my cellmate shivs me?
What if that couple reading the Bible in the airport before they board the same plane I'm taking are religious terrorists who want judgement day to come and have decided to hurry it along?
What if I left the stove on and one of my pets knocks over a candle I also carelessly left lit and then they frantically paw at the door as the flames engulf them?
What if I left the dolmas out in the car and my sister ate one and got food poisoning and nearly died?
What if none of this happens but I spend my life paralyzed by stupid fear?
What if I decide to say "fuck you" to all the checking the stove and planning things and worrying and then one day, a rapist leaves my stove on, rubs my eye with his bible and then drives off the mountainside, a trail of rotten dolmas exploding out of the car when it crashes on the canyon floor?
And yet.
What if? What if I die? What if I kill someone else, either accidentally, or gasp, purposefully when I change into Mr. Hyde?
What if I'm driving on a twisty mountain road, in awe of the natural beauty that surrounds me, and then, suddenly, on the other side of the tunnel I see the canyon floor, 1000 feet below me (and my poor unsuspecting passengers). This time, instead of pulling over, hands trembling, red-facedly admitting that I'm struck with vertigo - what if this time I cannot stop myself and I point the nose of the car at the tiny, metal guardrail - our government's nod toward protecting drivers - built to a spec that never imagined the height of an H2 or even an Escalade or the power of their engines?
What if I rub my eye and get an infection that rots out my eyeball?
What if I have diabetes?
What if I eat something, anything, that I didn't know I was deathly allergic to?
What if someone breaks into my house and rapes me? What if I like it? What if he murders me for being a horrible slut?
What if I get pulled over and I have a panic attack because I'm afraid of being arrested, but the rookie isn't familiar with panic disorder and thinks I'm on drugs and arrests me? What if my cellmate shivs me?
What if that couple reading the Bible in the airport before they board the same plane I'm taking are religious terrorists who want judgement day to come and have decided to hurry it along?
What if I left the stove on and one of my pets knocks over a candle I also carelessly left lit and then they frantically paw at the door as the flames engulf them?
What if I left the dolmas out in the car and my sister ate one and got food poisoning and nearly died?
What if none of this happens but I spend my life paralyzed by stupid fear?
What if I decide to say "fuck you" to all the checking the stove and planning things and worrying and then one day, a rapist leaves my stove on, rubs my eye with his bible and then drives off the mountainside, a trail of rotten dolmas exploding out of the car when it crashes on the canyon floor?
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