I wonder sometimes...
How hard it must be to be pretty.
That's not facetious, sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek.
It must be. Hard, that is.
To have never had the need to develop beyond what people see until it, somehow, fails you. When the clothes, the face, the hair, the shoes are not enough to garner the attention necessary to reassure you that you are, in fact, all that...
and a bag of chips.
When you are pushed aside in a group of people who think what's hot is the ability to hold an intelligent conversation...whose hard ons are mass-produced by wit not what you wear or do not wear beneath that skirt.
But!
Never fear.
It's only a matter of time before each and every one catches a whiff of you sitting there...alone and "vulnerable"...in the trap of manipulation you've carefully laid. All it takes is one - just one - single, solitary tear.
Until you're 40, that is, and gravity has had its laugh, peri-menopause has set in, and the battle of time has waged war and won.
What will you do then?
Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl
But that was 30 years ago, when they used to have a show
Now it's a disco, but not for Lola
Still in the dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair
She sits there so refined, and drinks herself half-blind
She lost her youth and she lost her Tony
Now she's lost her mind!
Showing posts with label things that make me go hmmm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label things that make me go hmmm. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tolerance. Just Do It.
Dicky and I met when we were 12 the weekend his sister married my brother. Instant family. First, by marriage and then, later, after the divorce, by choice.
His name isn't really Dicky, by the way. I call him Dicky. He calls me Cassandra. The whys and wherefores are no longer relevant. I'm not quite sure myself why or wherefore anymore. It's just how it is...our pet names for each other.
Over the years, we've kept in touch even though we've not seen each other since we were 20. We read each others' blogs, we comment on each others' Facebook postings, we share a few secrets...some old, some relatively new. And while we are not close like I'm close to Acr0nym or the Divatologist or any number of friends, we are, you know, family and I don't mean that in an obligatory, eye rolling way.
Dicky, as he grew into adulthood, grew more and more conservative...some people might say fundamentally so. As a doctoral seminary student of orthodox Christianity, in fact, he's not only politically conservative but socially so. This means, as I'm sure you can guess, he and I disagree on nearly every social issue possible.
However. He loves me. I love him. And because we love each other, we have managed to maintain our relationship with one another, even though on more than one occasion had it been with any other person a heated, potentially explosive, harmful argument would have arisen, by always - and I mean ALWAYS - treating each other with respect. Dare I say, reverently so.
This morning, Dicky posted a link to an article about transgender people attempting to change their birth certificates to another sex...the sex with which they identify...with the following comment:
People who have removed or reconfigured their genitals think that they've changed their sex. They haven't. And now this?
*sigh*
Oh, Dicky.
Of course I commented. You KNOW I commented. Despite loving him, you have to know this comment upset me and I was unwilling to let it slide. He and I then had a thoughtful, respectful exchange about our beliefs without attacking one another personally and, overall, I felt good about our exchange.
However, many of you would ask me why I would continue to keep him a part of my life when his beliefs differ so very much from my own. You might question how in the world I can continue to love him when his outlook is so very rigid and would seem to have me doomed to his god's hell.
Because. I love him. He is a good person. A good man.
Kinda like I loved Andrew - a good person and a good man - despite our differences of opinion on everything. And if you think I didn't love Andrew, know that I nearly married him.
Dicky and I, we disagree on everything because of the religious line in the sand we've drawn. Yet, we can discuss quietly between the two of us our points of view, making our cases, and continuing to love each other even though we don't see eye to eye.
And you might think this is crazy but he's taught me tolerance. Tolerance of religiosity. Perhaps I am teaching him open-mindedness.
Through love.
That's why I keep him in my life. Because he teaches me and I teach him. And that's the only way we're going to win the fight against prejudice, People.
By tolerating everyone. Respecting everyone. Teaching everyone. And I do mean everyone.
Which fills me with profound sadness. Because it doesn't feel possible.
His name isn't really Dicky, by the way. I call him Dicky. He calls me Cassandra. The whys and wherefores are no longer relevant. I'm not quite sure myself why or wherefore anymore. It's just how it is...our pet names for each other.
Over the years, we've kept in touch even though we've not seen each other since we were 20. We read each others' blogs, we comment on each others' Facebook postings, we share a few secrets...some old, some relatively new. And while we are not close like I'm close to Acr0nym or the Divatologist or any number of friends, we are, you know, family and I don't mean that in an obligatory, eye rolling way.
Dicky, as he grew into adulthood, grew more and more conservative...some people might say fundamentally so. As a doctoral seminary student of orthodox Christianity, in fact, he's not only politically conservative but socially so. This means, as I'm sure you can guess, he and I disagree on nearly every social issue possible.
However. He loves me. I love him. And because we love each other, we have managed to maintain our relationship with one another, even though on more than one occasion had it been with any other person a heated, potentially explosive, harmful argument would have arisen, by always - and I mean ALWAYS - treating each other with respect. Dare I say, reverently so.
This morning, Dicky posted a link to an article about transgender people attempting to change their birth certificates to another sex...the sex with which they identify...with the following comment:
People who have removed or reconfigured their genitals think that they've changed their sex. They haven't. And now this?
*sigh*
Oh, Dicky.
Of course I commented. You KNOW I commented. Despite loving him, you have to know this comment upset me and I was unwilling to let it slide. He and I then had a thoughtful, respectful exchange about our beliefs without attacking one another personally and, overall, I felt good about our exchange.
However, many of you would ask me why I would continue to keep him a part of my life when his beliefs differ so very much from my own. You might question how in the world I can continue to love him when his outlook is so very rigid and would seem to have me doomed to his god's hell.
Because. I love him. He is a good person. A good man.
Kinda like I loved Andrew - a good person and a good man - despite our differences of opinion on everything. And if you think I didn't love Andrew, know that I nearly married him.
Dicky and I, we disagree on everything because of the religious line in the sand we've drawn. Yet, we can discuss quietly between the two of us our points of view, making our cases, and continuing to love each other even though we don't see eye to eye.
And you might think this is crazy but he's taught me tolerance. Tolerance of religiosity. Perhaps I am teaching him open-mindedness.
Through love.
That's why I keep him in my life. Because he teaches me and I teach him. And that's the only way we're going to win the fight against prejudice, People.
By tolerating everyone. Respecting everyone. Teaching everyone. And I do mean everyone.
Which fills me with profound sadness. Because it doesn't feel possible.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Awkward Facebook Moments
Technical Background Information: Awhile back, Facebook, in its infinite wisdom, decided to change the way users are required to handle friend requests.
No longer is it a simple choice of "Confirm" or "Deny" as it had been. Facebook began forcing a 2-step process whereby a user must decide to confirm or deny the request and then, if "Deny" is chosen, to either opt to handle the request later or deny this and all further requests from the person asking for online friendship.
Unfortunately, there is an often misunderstood consequence of opting to handle the request at a later time. If a person selects this option, their status updates and posts begin appearing in the requester's news feed leading the requester to believe the friendship request has been accepted.
I suppose this was a way to delay hurt feelings...or something. Except a requester can tell that a friend request has been denied in several ways:
A) the requester has no option to comment or "like" a post,
B) the requester cannot view profile information not available to the public, and
C) the requester's friend list does not include the person requested.
OK! Now that you (hopefully) understand this convoluted process, I will tell you recently I sent a friend request to someone I've met in person on several occasions, conversed with pleasantly at each meeting, and with whom I've interacted nearly daily via mutual friends on the ever dreaded Facebook.
So, when I saw a status update appear an hour or so after I'd sent the request in my news feed from this person, I thought, "Oh! My request must have been accepted and Facebook failed to notify me."
And then I read the status update. And the update was, in effect, a statement of how this person doesn't need or want anymore "friends" with several subsequent comments from people on this person's friends list basically laughing about how stupid people are.
Oh.
And, sure enough, when I checked to be sure, this person had not, in fact, accepted my request but did not follow through with the second part of the denial process. So now I'm privy to the person's posts in my own news feed but am not actually wanted there.
And this is how we (meaning I) have discovered another flaw in Facebook's interface. Now that I know my shy offering of the friendship cookie isn't wanted, I have no way of taking it back. I cannot retract the request.
If you've ever been THAT kid on the playground who was made fun of and laughed at, you might understand why this stings a little. And that's exactly what this feels like...walking up to a kid on the playground and asking them to play with me and being laughed at in front of all his/her friends.
It's silly. I know. I'm a grown up with grown up responsibilities. And it's not like I got called out by name or anything. Still...I'd much rather be quietly rejected and be none the wiser. It's likely I would have eventually forgotten I'd ever sent the request. But to understand the status update was likely, in part, in response to my request, is...embarrassing and hurtful.
Not earth shattering. I won't breathe a word of it outside of this blog entry. Our interactions offline, I'm sure, will continue to be pleasant. There is no need to attempt to contact this person to apologize or to say anything at all.
I just wish this was one change Facebook hadn't made. It was a terrible, terrible idea.
No longer is it a simple choice of "Confirm" or "Deny" as it had been. Facebook began forcing a 2-step process whereby a user must decide to confirm or deny the request and then, if "Deny" is chosen, to either opt to handle the request later or deny this and all further requests from the person asking for online friendship.
Unfortunately, there is an often misunderstood consequence of opting to handle the request at a later time. If a person selects this option, their status updates and posts begin appearing in the requester's news feed leading the requester to believe the friendship request has been accepted.
I suppose this was a way to delay hurt feelings...or something. Except a requester can tell that a friend request has been denied in several ways:
A) the requester has no option to comment or "like" a post,
B) the requester cannot view profile information not available to the public, and
C) the requester's friend list does not include the person requested.
OK! Now that you (hopefully) understand this convoluted process, I will tell you recently I sent a friend request to someone I've met in person on several occasions, conversed with pleasantly at each meeting, and with whom I've interacted nearly daily via mutual friends on the ever dreaded Facebook.
So, when I saw a status update appear an hour or so after I'd sent the request in my news feed from this person, I thought, "Oh! My request must have been accepted and Facebook failed to notify me."
And then I read the status update. And the update was, in effect, a statement of how this person doesn't need or want anymore "friends" with several subsequent comments from people on this person's friends list basically laughing about how stupid people are.
Oh.
And, sure enough, when I checked to be sure, this person had not, in fact, accepted my request but did not follow through with the second part of the denial process. So now I'm privy to the person's posts in my own news feed but am not actually wanted there.
And this is how we (meaning I) have discovered another flaw in Facebook's interface. Now that I know my shy offering of the friendship cookie isn't wanted, I have no way of taking it back. I cannot retract the request.
If you've ever been THAT kid on the playground who was made fun of and laughed at, you might understand why this stings a little. And that's exactly what this feels like...walking up to a kid on the playground and asking them to play with me and being laughed at in front of all his/her friends.
It's silly. I know. I'm a grown up with grown up responsibilities. And it's not like I got called out by name or anything. Still...I'd much rather be quietly rejected and be none the wiser. It's likely I would have eventually forgotten I'd ever sent the request. But to understand the status update was likely, in part, in response to my request, is...embarrassing and hurtful.
Not earth shattering. I won't breathe a word of it outside of this blog entry. Our interactions offline, I'm sure, will continue to be pleasant. There is no need to attempt to contact this person to apologize or to say anything at all.
I just wish this was one change Facebook hadn't made. It was a terrible, terrible idea.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Confiscate My Geek Cred Card...It's OK. I Don't Deserve It.
Geek FAIL.
I hear references to "soylent green". All. The. Time.
Usually, I tend to let the reference fly right over my head and not think twice about it. But when it was mentioned in relation to sushi tonight by Naked Jen on the Facebook, something clicked in my head and I said - out loud, "Hello, Google. It's time to know what the hell soylent green is."
Ahem.
Occasionally I amaze myself with what I don't know. How did I:
A) Not know about the movie Soylent Green and
B) Not think to Google it before now?
FAIL.
I mean really.
As an aside, what did we do before Google?
I hear references to "soylent green". All. The. Time.
Usually, I tend to let the reference fly right over my head and not think twice about it. But when it was mentioned in relation to sushi tonight by Naked Jen on the Facebook, something clicked in my head and I said - out loud, "Hello, Google. It's time to know what the hell soylent green is."
Ahem.
Occasionally I amaze myself with what I don't know. How did I:
A) Not know about the movie Soylent Green and
B) Not think to Google it before now?
 |
| Photo courtesy of IMDB |
FAIL.
I mean really.
As an aside, what did we do before Google?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I Did What for Love Now?
I was having a conversation with a friend this afternoon when the topic of "young and dumb" came up.
I believe my exact words were, "I used to drive from south of Parker to Boulder 3-4 times a week for a boy. I was young and dumb. And by young, I mean 36."
That got me to thinking...
What exactly is the dumbest thing I have ever done for love?
Because, you know? I've done some really dumb stuff. And by dumb? I mean horribly embarrassing...and some self-destructive...and some possibly bordering on illegal. *laughing*
Oddly, I had a hard time narrowing it down. Until I remembered (how quickly we try to forget) the California incident. Not only was this dumb, but it was terrifying for my mother, his mother...me. I am mortified by it and yet, some parts of this little adventure contain some of my most favorite memories.
So here's the situation: I had my own apartment, a job, a roommate (who I'd learned to despise), and was attending beauty school...a skill set for which I'd quickly discovered I was not cut out. My boyfriend lived 40 miles away.
I was 19. He was 17.
In the middle of one cold, February night, he and I, heat of the most passionate moment, decided to take off and go to California, Humboldt County. Yay.
Problem: He was 17. (This is the bordering on illegal part...a little something about transporting minors over state lines.)
He'd done this before so it wasn't any surprise to his mother. I mean, she was furious and so was my mom and I'm sure they were both scared to death...for awhile. But VC knew precisely where we were going and called ahead. Just after she called the Sheriff. *sigh*
Oh my! Did we ever have some adventures along the way. Adventures which, I'm sure you can understand, do not need to see the blogging light of day. But mostly what I remember is feeling scared, stupid, panicky, and physically ill.
I didn't sleep for the 3 days we were on the road. I don't remember the last couple of hours driving on the 101 before pulling into Arcata. I don't remember crashing into sleep on the living room floor. But I do remember waking up the next morning to two things:
A) The deputy sheriff standing over the two of us, nudging us awake with his boot, and telling us we were in big Big BIG trouble...especially with our mothers.
B) His father coming back to the house after having taken my road weary car to the car wash...and wrecking it.
There is, of course, more to the story. How we came back from California by way of Illinois and Indiana. How my sister-in-law, who we visited with before heading home, slept with her pocketbook under her pillow while we were there. How, upon returning home, we were strong armed into attending church - First Baptist Church - every Sunday. But I think you get the gist.
So. There you have it. The dumbest thing I ever did for love.
Will you tell me yours? Comment anonymously if you'd like. I can't tell who you are and wouldn't if I could. But I would love to know I'm not alone in my love-driven abandon of all senses.
Please?
I believe my exact words were, "I used to drive from south of Parker to Boulder 3-4 times a week for a boy. I was young and dumb. And by young, I mean 36."
That got me to thinking...
What exactly is the dumbest thing I have ever done for love?
Because, you know? I've done some really dumb stuff. And by dumb? I mean horribly embarrassing...and some self-destructive...and some possibly bordering on illegal. *laughing*
Oddly, I had a hard time narrowing it down. Until I remembered (how quickly we try to forget) the California incident. Not only was this dumb, but it was terrifying for my mother, his mother...me. I am mortified by it and yet, some parts of this little adventure contain some of my most favorite memories.
So here's the situation: I had my own apartment, a job, a roommate (who I'd learned to despise), and was attending beauty school...a skill set for which I'd quickly discovered I was not cut out. My boyfriend lived 40 miles away.
I was 19. He was 17.
In the middle of one cold, February night, he and I, heat of the most passionate moment, decided to take off and go to California, Humboldt County. Yay.
Problem: He was 17. (This is the bordering on illegal part...a little something about transporting minors over state lines.)
He'd done this before so it wasn't any surprise to his mother. I mean, she was furious and so was my mom and I'm sure they were both scared to death...for awhile. But VC knew precisely where we were going and called ahead. Just after she called the Sheriff. *sigh*
Oh my! Did we ever have some adventures along the way. Adventures which, I'm sure you can understand, do not need to see the blogging light of day. But mostly what I remember is feeling scared, stupid, panicky, and physically ill.
I didn't sleep for the 3 days we were on the road. I don't remember the last couple of hours driving on the 101 before pulling into Arcata. I don't remember crashing into sleep on the living room floor. But I do remember waking up the next morning to two things:
A) The deputy sheriff standing over the two of us, nudging us awake with his boot, and telling us we were in big Big BIG trouble...especially with our mothers.
B) His father coming back to the house after having taken my road weary car to the car wash...and wrecking it.
There is, of course, more to the story. How we came back from California by way of Illinois and Indiana. How my sister-in-law, who we visited with before heading home, slept with her pocketbook under her pillow while we were there. How, upon returning home, we were strong armed into attending church - First Baptist Church - every Sunday. But I think you get the gist.
So. There you have it. The dumbest thing I ever did for love.
Will you tell me yours? Comment anonymously if you'd like. I can't tell who you are and wouldn't if I could. But I would love to know I'm not alone in my love-driven abandon of all senses.
Please?
Monday, January 17, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Does Anybody Else Do This?
Thursday morning, I woke up with a toothache. It wasn't awful, my face unswollen - or, at least, not swollen from a hurty tooth, but it wasn't particularly pleasant.
I just ignored it.
Yesterday, the toothache was still there. Except worse. As the day progressed, so too did the tooth pain until even "chewing" yogurt or taking a swallow of water hurt...a lot.
At this point, I considered my options. Call the dentist? Call the doctor? I'm both doctor and dentist-resistant, just so you know. Most of the time, I opt to call Dr. Sid, the chiropractor and acupuncturist, for most of my ailments. As far as I know though, he's not a tooth guru.
My mind was aswirl with possible causes of my malady - a stuck pumpkin seed shell festering or the more likely sinus inflammation - and potential home remedies. Gargle? Floss? Nap?
I opted for nap. It was tooth-hurty after all (2:30), the napping hour, and that seemed like a plausible solution...or, at the very least, the best avoidance plan.
Didn't work.
Oh the nap was great! 2 hours of sleep-induced ignorant bliss is the best one can ask for, in my not-so-humble opinion. However, upon awaking, I discovered the toothache was more prominent than ever before.
As I stood in the bathroom, mouth opened wide, fingers poking and prodding at the tender areas, wincing in pain when I'd hit a particularly sore spot, my eyes wandered to the medicine cabinet.
Um...hmmm...perhaps a pill will help? It's not like we don't keep a well-stocked medicine cabinet, after all.
And I realized I do this a lot. And by "this" I mean forget there's a cure for what commonly ails me. I'll suffer through a headache, arthritic flare ups, sinusitis and never once have it occur to me I could simply take a little Advil and be done with it.
I don't know why this is or when it started. I just don't take pills. I don't have difficulty swallowing (get your minds out of the gutter) or any sensitivity to most medicines. There's no reason not to, I just don't.
But the tooth-hurty drove me to it finally.
600mg of Advil and 15 minutes later? Better. Much better. Nearly pain free. No doctor or dentist or magical chiropractor necessary.
*rolling eyes at myself* What a silly goose.
I just ignored it.
Yesterday, the toothache was still there. Except worse. As the day progressed, so too did the tooth pain until even "chewing" yogurt or taking a swallow of water hurt...a lot.
At this point, I considered my options. Call the dentist? Call the doctor? I'm both doctor and dentist-resistant, just so you know. Most of the time, I opt to call Dr. Sid, the chiropractor and acupuncturist, for most of my ailments. As far as I know though, he's not a tooth guru.
My mind was aswirl with possible causes of my malady - a stuck pumpkin seed shell festering or the more likely sinus inflammation - and potential home remedies. Gargle? Floss? Nap?
I opted for nap. It was tooth-hurty after all (2:30), the napping hour, and that seemed like a plausible solution...or, at the very least, the best avoidance plan.
Didn't work.
Oh the nap was great! 2 hours of sleep-induced ignorant bliss is the best one can ask for, in my not-so-humble opinion. However, upon awaking, I discovered the toothache was more prominent than ever before.
As I stood in the bathroom, mouth opened wide, fingers poking and prodding at the tender areas, wincing in pain when I'd hit a particularly sore spot, my eyes wandered to the medicine cabinet.
Um...hmmm...perhaps a pill will help? It's not like we don't keep a well-stocked medicine cabinet, after all.
And I realized I do this a lot. And by "this" I mean forget there's a cure for what commonly ails me. I'll suffer through a headache, arthritic flare ups, sinusitis and never once have it occur to me I could simply take a little Advil and be done with it.
I don't know why this is or when it started. I just don't take pills. I don't have difficulty swallowing (get your minds out of the gutter) or any sensitivity to most medicines. There's no reason not to, I just don't.
But the tooth-hurty drove me to it finally.
600mg of Advil and 15 minutes later? Better. Much better. Nearly pain free. No doctor or dentist or magical chiropractor necessary.
*rolling eyes at myself* What a silly goose.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Oh My Gawd, Becky! Look At Her Butt!
Someone googled "Big Ass" and they got my blog.
Seeing as I don't recall talking much about my big ass in this blog, I was a little curious just how far into the google search they had to go to wind up here.
For the record? I still don't know. Because I gave up after the first 50 pages of search results. Clearly, this was someone On. A. Mission. for big butts. I would love to know just how many links this person clicked through on those search results before clicking on me. Because wow. Just...I don't know. Wow!
And just so you know? Google returned over 97 MILLION results (in .17 seconds mind you) for "Big Ass". That's alotta big asses, people. There are some definitely interesting niche ass sites (or ass cracks if you prefer) and so, while I do not recommend conducting this search at, say, work, it is kind of a funny search...if you're bored on a Friday night...or, you know, really like big butts.
In my defense, I totally did not click through any of the links. But it's got me wondering...with all these obviously big butt hungry folks out there, how is it that I'm still single?
Seeing as I don't recall talking much about my big ass in this blog, I was a little curious just how far into the google search they had to go to wind up here.
For the record? I still don't know. Because I gave up after the first 50 pages of search results. Clearly, this was someone On. A. Mission. for big butts. I would love to know just how many links this person clicked through on those search results before clicking on me. Because wow. Just...I don't know. Wow!
And just so you know? Google returned over 97 MILLION results (in .17 seconds mind you) for "Big Ass". That's alotta big asses, people. There are some definitely interesting niche ass sites (or ass cracks if you prefer) and so, while I do not recommend conducting this search at, say, work, it is kind of a funny search...if you're bored on a Friday night...or, you know, really like big butts.
In my defense, I totally did not click through any of the links. But it's got me wondering...with all these obviously big butt hungry folks out there, how is it that I'm still single?
Friday, January 07, 2011
Do It Again. With Feeling.
I love it when I unlock an internal mystery and snippets snap snugly into place - a whole picture created and ready to be mounted, framed, and hung. Finished.
The particular mystery to which I'm referring tonight begins with the story I started to tell you all last night. The one about me and the piano and the realization I was no one in particular so I quit?
The thing is...the thing that's bugged me for 25 years...I was good. I didn't acknowledge this at the time but one doesn't get accepted to a camp like the one I went to or invited to participate in workshops and retreats like I was unless one is good in some capacity.
The evidence of talent was there. I just didn't see it.
And I couldn't figure out why I didn't think I was any good...until now.
Technically, I had problems. I had stiff wrists and fingers - a problem that's continued to plague me when I took up knitting - which caused hand fatigue which led to mistakes. My teacher gave me exercises to do to try and loosen up but nothing seemed to help. Adding to that, I also have smallish hands and, as the repertoire increased in difficulty, so too did the occurrences of playing octaves - no small feat when that was my maximum finger span. Additionally, I had a terrible "mental game". If I made a mistake - which I nearly always did - I'd be completely thrown, lose my place, freeze. My teacher gave me books to read about improving my mental game - The Inner Game of Tennis and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. At 13, I was certainly able to intellectually grasp the concepts in the books. I simply wasn't mature enough to apply them to myself.
I also lacked confidence.
Because, in my head, what made a pianist great was the ability to play every single note perfectly - performing a literal translation of the language of the notes on the page into beautiful music.
Except...
That's not why I was good. Talent isn't about literal translation or hitting every single note perfectly. Talent is about interpretation, letting the spirit of the thing move through and resonate. I was good because I inherently understood nuance and letting the spirit move through...which is probably why I would get stuck if I made a mistake - I was lost in translation because I was pulled into the interpretation.
But I didn't understand this, really, until today. Because of this video I watched (more than once) a few days ago:
"Do they every let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss?" - Stephen Fry
And then I remember reading this in the wiki about Liberace: Music critics were generally harsh in their assessment of his piano playing. Critic Lewis Funke wrote after the Carnegie Hall concert, Liberace's music "must be served with all the available tricks, as loud as possible, as soft as possible, and as sentimental as possible. It's almost all showmanship topped by whipped cream and cherries." Even worse was his lack of reverence and fealty to the great composers. "Liberace recreates—if that is the word—each composition in his own image. When it is too difficult, he simplifies it. When it is too simple, he complicates it". His sloppy technique included "slackness of rhythms, wrong tempos, distorted phrasing, an excess of prettification and sentimentality, a failure to stick to what the composer has written".
And yet, Liberace was, for a long time, one of the most beloved performers alive. Not because his translation was accurate but because his interpretation resonated with him and with his audience.
And then, finally, I re-read Diva's comment on last night's entry and this: But if you write for you - just for you - your joy in doing so comes across all on its own. That's one of the reasons I'm here, anyway. And remember, I don't like to read personal blogs. *smile*
So there it is. The understanding. The finished picture, framed and hung.
It's not about being perfect. In music or in writing or in photographs or in bowling.
It's about doing it with feeling. For me.
OH! I get it...now.
The particular mystery to which I'm referring tonight begins with the story I started to tell you all last night. The one about me and the piano and the realization I was no one in particular so I quit?
The thing is...the thing that's bugged me for 25 years...I was good. I didn't acknowledge this at the time but one doesn't get accepted to a camp like the one I went to or invited to participate in workshops and retreats like I was unless one is good in some capacity.
The evidence of talent was there. I just didn't see it.
And I couldn't figure out why I didn't think I was any good...until now.
Technically, I had problems. I had stiff wrists and fingers - a problem that's continued to plague me when I took up knitting - which caused hand fatigue which led to mistakes. My teacher gave me exercises to do to try and loosen up but nothing seemed to help. Adding to that, I also have smallish hands and, as the repertoire increased in difficulty, so too did the occurrences of playing octaves - no small feat when that was my maximum finger span. Additionally, I had a terrible "mental game". If I made a mistake - which I nearly always did - I'd be completely thrown, lose my place, freeze. My teacher gave me books to read about improving my mental game - The Inner Game of Tennis and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. At 13, I was certainly able to intellectually grasp the concepts in the books. I simply wasn't mature enough to apply them to myself.
I also lacked confidence.
Because, in my head, what made a pianist great was the ability to play every single note perfectly - performing a literal translation of the language of the notes on the page into beautiful music.
Except...
That's not why I was good. Talent isn't about literal translation or hitting every single note perfectly. Talent is about interpretation, letting the spirit of the thing move through and resonate. I was good because I inherently understood nuance and letting the spirit move through...which is probably why I would get stuck if I made a mistake - I was lost in translation because I was pulled into the interpretation.
But I didn't understand this, really, until today. Because of this video I watched (more than once) a few days ago:
"Do they every let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss?" - Stephen Fry
And then I remember reading this in the wiki about Liberace: Music critics were generally harsh in their assessment of his piano playing. Critic Lewis Funke wrote after the Carnegie Hall concert, Liberace's music "must be served with all the available tricks, as loud as possible, as soft as possible, and as sentimental as possible. It's almost all showmanship topped by whipped cream and cherries." Even worse was his lack of reverence and fealty to the great composers. "Liberace recreates—if that is the word—each composition in his own image. When it is too difficult, he simplifies it. When it is too simple, he complicates it". His sloppy technique included "slackness of rhythms, wrong tempos, distorted phrasing, an excess of prettification and sentimentality, a failure to stick to what the composer has written".
And yet, Liberace was, for a long time, one of the most beloved performers alive. Not because his translation was accurate but because his interpretation resonated with him and with his audience.
And then, finally, I re-read Diva's comment on last night's entry and this: But if you write for you - just for you - your joy in doing so comes across all on its own. That's one of the reasons I'm here, anyway. And remember, I don't like to read personal blogs. *smile*
So there it is. The understanding. The finished picture, framed and hung.
It's not about being perfect. In music or in writing or in photographs or in bowling.
It's about doing it with feeling. For me.
OH! I get it...now.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
How to Lose All Your Friends Without Really Trying
A couple of days ago, on Facebook, a smattering of friends began posting status updates about the death of yet another local person they'd known - a young woman in her 20's (I believe).
As I didn't know this girl at all - had no recollection of having even heard her name before - I wasn't much impacted beyond feeling bad for those who'd known her even a little and who seemed genuinely upset that they would lose another friend so closely on the heels of Moon. Of course, because I'm no different than anyone else who is fascinated by mortality - especially when the deceased is young - I did find myself mildly curious as to the nature of her death.
So I asked Peej who is nearly always in the know when it comes to community happenings.
And this is where it gets interesting.
From what I gather, this girl has not perished...at least, not literally.
Apparently - and this is all heresay, mind you - this girl had "decided life had become too dramatic" and so she...ahem..."faked" her own death with the aid of her sister in order to start anew.
Except...*hilarity strikes me*...the dumbass thought it'd be enough just to fake her death via Facebook.
OK, now remember, I know very few of the particulars. I don't know how the information was disseminated, what her motivation was, or how people came to find out that it was a hoax.
Best quote via Facebook I've seen from the Lovely Lelly's status comments. How do you fake your death on Facebook? Do you post a status update that reads "O, I am slain! [Falls.]" and then refuse to answer any replies or e-mails?
So I can't really speak intelligently to this specific situation.
But Hollywood has been making movies about faking one's own death for decades and none of them include utilizing social media in order to do so. So you don't need me to write you a guide on how to fake your own death. I can give you a list of movies to watch and take copious notes though, if you'd like. At the very least, one ought to consider leaving town. She may want to consider this anyway...now.
What I can offer you fine people though is advice on how to eliminate unwanted drama from your life without taking such...ahem...extreme steps.
Are you ready?
Are you sure?
Here goes:
Just. Stop. It.
If you continually find yourself in a whirlwind of drama - even though you purport to hate it - perhaps you ought to ask yourself, "Self? Am I the drama llama following everyone home?" And then, because the answer you full well know is "Yes", it's time to just stop it.
If you're tired of the drama via social media, there is a little feature in virtually every platform that allows you to delete your profile. Delete it. Walk away. Refuse to plug in. Get a hobby...a nice, mellow hobby...like finger painting or flame throwing.
If you're tired of all the gossipmongering and tired of finding yourself feeling angry about something so and so did to who-zee-whats-it even though you don't know either one of them...just stop it. Set a boundary or two. Stop listening. And stop spreading the news.
And if you realize you are fueled and sustained by drama, fantasizing about faking your own death to A) see how many people care, B) garner sympathetic attention, or C) to play a joke on people you allegedly love?
Seek help. You are not well.
Because after you do this and people find out you aren't, in fact, dead?
No one will care about you, there will be no sympathetic attention, and you may discover your deadpan (ha!) humor has fallen face down flat.
*shaking head*
Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids.
As I didn't know this girl at all - had no recollection of having even heard her name before - I wasn't much impacted beyond feeling bad for those who'd known her even a little and who seemed genuinely upset that they would lose another friend so closely on the heels of Moon. Of course, because I'm no different than anyone else who is fascinated by mortality - especially when the deceased is young - I did find myself mildly curious as to the nature of her death.
So I asked Peej who is nearly always in the know when it comes to community happenings.
And this is where it gets interesting.
From what I gather, this girl has not perished...at least, not literally.
Apparently - and this is all heresay, mind you - this girl had "decided life had become too dramatic" and so she...ahem..."faked" her own death with the aid of her sister in order to start anew.
Except...*hilarity strikes me*...the dumbass thought it'd be enough just to fake her death via Facebook.
OK, now remember, I know very few of the particulars. I don't know how the information was disseminated, what her motivation was, or how people came to find out that it was a hoax.
Best quote via Facebook I've seen from the Lovely Lelly's status comments. How do you fake your death on Facebook? Do you post a status update that reads "O, I am slain! [Falls.]" and then refuse to answer any replies or e-mails?
So I can't really speak intelligently to this specific situation.
But Hollywood has been making movies about faking one's own death for decades and none of them include utilizing social media in order to do so. So you don't need me to write you a guide on how to fake your own death. I can give you a list of movies to watch and take copious notes though, if you'd like. At the very least, one ought to consider leaving town. She may want to consider this anyway...now.
What I can offer you fine people though is advice on how to eliminate unwanted drama from your life without taking such...ahem...extreme steps.
Are you ready?
Are you sure?
Here goes:
Just. Stop. It.
If you continually find yourself in a whirlwind of drama - even though you purport to hate it - perhaps you ought to ask yourself, "Self? Am I the drama llama following everyone home?" And then, because the answer you full well know is "Yes", it's time to just stop it.
If you're tired of the drama via social media, there is a little feature in virtually every platform that allows you to delete your profile. Delete it. Walk away. Refuse to plug in. Get a hobby...a nice, mellow hobby...like finger painting or flame throwing.
If you're tired of all the gossipmongering and tired of finding yourself feeling angry about something so and so did to who-zee-whats-it even though you don't know either one of them...just stop it. Set a boundary or two. Stop listening. And stop spreading the news.
And if you realize you are fueled and sustained by drama, fantasizing about faking your own death to A) see how many people care, B) garner sympathetic attention, or C) to play a joke on people you allegedly love?
Seek help. You are not well.
Because after you do this and people find out you aren't, in fact, dead?
No one will care about you, there will be no sympathetic attention, and you may discover your deadpan (ha!) humor has fallen face down flat.
*shaking head*
Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids.
Monday, November 08, 2010
100 Days
If you've ever practiced a Western Christian religion, you are, no doubt, familiar with the concept of Lent.
Just in case you've never participated in a Christian religion or haven't had its doctrine laid out for you in several years though, Lent(il)1 is the 40-ish days leading up to Easter2 . It's a time of penitence, fasting3, and self-denial or abstinence.
There isn't a single thing about that paragraph I like...except for maybe my own reference to lentil soup. Mmmm...soup. But then, I'm not Christian so, you know, there's that.
Now, I know Lent isn't for another 4 months4 and so I'm sure you're wondering what's with all this religion and self-denial talk from a confirmed hedonist.
Well...a friend of mine, every year, imposes a 100-day period of some kind of self-improvement and/or self-denial phase upon himself. And it just so happens that he is a bit later getting started this year than usual and is thus getting ready to start his annual 100-day self-denial period free of...ALCOHOL very soon. Which, you know, is horrifying to me but it's his thing, not mine, and I'm in awe of his ability to commit to and stick to his plan.
I asked him once, "100 days? Why 100 days? Why not 40 like Lent?"
And he said something to the effect of, "Because it's hard. 40 days? That's nothing. Eyes closed. Hands behind my back easy. 100 days though? That's an accomplishment. Something I can be proud of."
So I pondered it. Would I be willing to give up all alcohol for 100 days? Certainly not 2 weeks before Beaujolais Nouveau Day. Certainly not before Thanksgiving. Certainly not before Christmas morning martinis...surely not before all THAT!
But...I understand his point. I understand why he does it. I also understand the amount of sheer determination (read stubbornness) and self-discipline he's got...you know, self-discipline. Something of which I could use more.
So I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about what I might give up or do for 100 days just to see if I could do it myself. You know, like character building except without power tools (sharp, pointy objects and I do not belong in the same room).
And, I think, I've landed on just the thing. I won't give up my wine. But I think I may commit to 100 consecutive days of exercise. At least 15 minutes 7 days a week for 100 days. That's a walk around the block. Every day. For 100 days.
Hmmm...
1: Hee hee. I know, I'm a dork. But I've got soup for brains today.
2: You know, the celebration of that alleged resurrection of christ?
3: From frivolity as well as interesting food...namely meat.
4: Fat Tuesday is March 8 - exactly 4 months from today.
A year ago: The Power of Women
How to Kill a Pepper While Looking Cool as a Cucumber
Just in case you've never participated in a Christian religion or haven't had its doctrine laid out for you in several years though, Lent(il)1 is the 40-ish days leading up to Easter2 . It's a time of penitence, fasting3, and self-denial or abstinence.
There isn't a single thing about that paragraph I like...except for maybe my own reference to lentil soup. Mmmm...soup. But then, I'm not Christian so, you know, there's that.
Now, I know Lent isn't for another 4 months4 and so I'm sure you're wondering what's with all this religion and self-denial talk from a confirmed hedonist.
Well...a friend of mine, every year, imposes a 100-day period of some kind of self-improvement and/or self-denial phase upon himself. And it just so happens that he is a bit later getting started this year than usual and is thus getting ready to start his annual 100-day self-denial period free of...ALCOHOL very soon. Which, you know, is horrifying to me but it's his thing, not mine, and I'm in awe of his ability to commit to and stick to his plan.
I asked him once, "100 days? Why 100 days? Why not 40 like Lent?"
And he said something to the effect of, "Because it's hard. 40 days? That's nothing. Eyes closed. Hands behind my back easy. 100 days though? That's an accomplishment. Something I can be proud of."
So I pondered it. Would I be willing to give up all alcohol for 100 days? Certainly not 2 weeks before Beaujolais Nouveau Day. Certainly not before Thanksgiving. Certainly not before Christmas morning martinis...surely not before all THAT!
But...I understand his point. I understand why he does it. I also understand the amount of sheer determination (read stubbornness) and self-discipline he's got...you know, self-discipline. Something of which I could use more.
So I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking about what I might give up or do for 100 days just to see if I could do it myself. You know, like character building except without power tools (sharp, pointy objects and I do not belong in the same room).
And, I think, I've landed on just the thing. I won't give up my wine. But I think I may commit to 100 consecutive days of exercise. At least 15 minutes 7 days a week for 100 days. That's a walk around the block. Every day. For 100 days.
Hmmm...
1: Hee hee. I know, I'm a dork. But I've got soup for brains today.
2: You know, the celebration of that alleged resurrection of christ?
3: From frivolity as well as interesting food...namely meat.
4: Fat Tuesday is March 8 - exactly 4 months from today.
A year ago: The Power of Women
How to Kill a Pepper While Looking Cool as a Cucumber
Friday, October 29, 2010
Food for Thought
I sometimes wonder if non-writers find it difficult having a writer in his/her life.
I mean, for one, is it annoying or terrifying or exhilarating to wonder if/when you might appear in, say, a blog entry or a story?
When Mom and I were on the cruise, there were a couple of times I said to her, "You so know I'm going to blog about this, don't you?"
And she would respond, "Yes. But please don't mention that I [redacted], OK?"
OK.
I try to be conscientious of how other people might feel about their lives being broadcast for the interwebz to read. At least, on the blog, I do. And when writing stories (I do write them, you know, I just don't show them to anyone...yet), while you may recognize yourself, I do my utmost best to protect identities and spare you embarrassment.
But seriously, Folks. Y'all are way too interesting not to write about or at least mention occasionally.
However, there's another thing I wonder. And, you know, maybe this is just me that does this so keep that in mind.
Sometimes, particularly when I can't muster up the courage to say things aloud, I'll write them down in a letter or an e-mail. A short explanation becomes a 3-page missive in a blink and that's, I believe, namely because I do write a lot and seem to forget not everyone cares to read my diarrhea of the verbiage kind.
There are times when even I, the author, cringe in the realization of an over-share moment. And I wonder if this is annoying to other people as seeing themselves in what I write for everyone else?
I have a twitter account. I don't use it. Because I don't have anything to say in 140 characters or less.
Maybe I ought to start using it as a writing exercise. Gooch used to tell me, "Eliminateall unnecessary words." Perhaps if I could learn to eliminate unnecessary words, I could learn to say what I needed and wanted to say in 140 characters or less.
Hmmm. Which then has me wondering if I can say everything that needs to be said in 140 characters or less, what's the point of writing anything at all?
Writing. Gift and curse.
I mean, for one, is it annoying or terrifying or exhilarating to wonder if/when you might appear in, say, a blog entry or a story?
When Mom and I were on the cruise, there were a couple of times I said to her, "You so know I'm going to blog about this, don't you?"
And she would respond, "Yes. But please don't mention that I [redacted], OK?"
OK.
I try to be conscientious of how other people might feel about their lives being broadcast for the interwebz to read. At least, on the blog, I do. And when writing stories (I do write them, you know, I just don't show them to anyone...yet), while you may recognize yourself, I do my utmost best to protect identities and spare you embarrassment.
But seriously, Folks. Y'all are way too interesting not to write about or at least mention occasionally.
However, there's another thing I wonder. And, you know, maybe this is just me that does this so keep that in mind.
Sometimes, particularly when I can't muster up the courage to say things aloud, I'll write them down in a letter or an e-mail. A short explanation becomes a 3-page missive in a blink and that's, I believe, namely because I do write a lot and seem to forget not everyone cares to read my diarrhea of the verbiage kind.
There are times when even I, the author, cringe in the realization of an over-share moment. And I wonder if this is annoying to other people as seeing themselves in what I write for everyone else?
I have a twitter account. I don't use it. Because I don't have anything to say in 140 characters or less.
Maybe I ought to start using it as a writing exercise. Gooch used to tell me, "Eliminate
Hmmm. Which then has me wondering if I can say everything that needs to be said in 140 characters or less, what's the point of writing anything at all?
Writing. Gift and curse.
Friday, October 08, 2010
You Have the Right to Remain Silent
Privacy.
No matter how you pronounce it - with a short "i" like you're some kind of Brit or with a long "i" like the American slaughterers of the English language - we all want it. Expect it. Are incensed when our right to it is infringed.
But, let's face it, privacy is getting harder and harder to keep.
By our own faults mostly.
That's because most of us cannot resist the temptation to digitally record some of the most minute details of our lives...on social network sites, smartphones...ahem...blogs.
Each of us is leaving an immense digital "paper" trail that can, and likely will, be used against us in some manner at some point. Whether that's in a court of law during a divorce/custody/criminal trial1, during a work evaluation or, perhaps worse, a job interview, or causing jealous rifts in personal relationships2, there are major ramifications we are only just beginning to understand as digital technology spreads.
There's another problem though that's being caused, in my opinion, by this open flow of readily available information.
Have you ever been standing over the shoulder of a friend as they looked for a picture they took on their phone to show you and you saw something...ahem...of a "private" nature? Or did you ever try to "help" them by reaching out to advance to the next picture so you could see what was next?
Have you ever sat down at someone else's computer without permission and scanned their recent documents or peeked at their e-mail?
Have you ever deliberately attempted/succeeded at cracking the password or taken advantage of knowing the password to someone's e-mail just to see what was in there?
The fact is most of us have, in fact, whether intentionally or unintentionally, snooped into the private lives of our friends and loved ones.
Have you ever had it happen to you? Have ever found out that someone, especially someone you trusted, surreptitiously invaded your private space and saw something not meant for anyone's eyes but your own?
I have. And it sucked. It broke every level of trust we had for one another. She was furious at what I'd written in my private journal - a place I used to vent irrational emotion as a way to solve problems more rationally - and I was furious for her having the nerve to read it and then be pissed.
But because this journal wasn't hard bound and handwritten, kept instead in a folder on my computer, she felt as though she had the right to read it simply because I'd given her permission to use the printer attached to that computer.
Who was right?
Does it seem like digital files are fair game? Public domain? Even if they are password protected?
Is there a difference between finding the brass key and using it to unlock the personal diary of someone as opposed to cracking the password to invade their typed thoughts?
What I mean is are digital boundaries less important than physical ones?
At the Grotto, neither Lex nor I would ever consider sitting down at the other's computer...particularly unattended. And that's not about porn...because, you know, door closed = porn in progress and that's really not something either of us want to delve into on any level. But it is all about personal space, boundaries, and knowing how much of ourselves is kept digitally.
And I respect him...as he respects me...as we both respect each other's privacy.
I would no sooner snoop on his computer than I would snoop through his books or his closet. He, I am confident, also wouldn't do those things to me.
Because we respect each other and we respect each others boundaries.
The rest of you though?
Forgive me but, my blog is one thing...I intentionally write what I would have my mother read3...the rest of it is just for me and is none of your business.
Hence, if you're ever invited to the Grotto and want to use my computer, it will be only under supervision. Period. Not because I've written nasty things about you but because I've written things about myself no one else needs to know.
1: Oh yes, I most certainly did see that your only Facebook interest listed was "beer pong". How's that vehicular homicide charge treating you?
2: "I don't want you to be friends with her on your Facebook. Why is she commenting on all your pictures?"
3: Because she actually does. Hi, Mom! I love you! 9 more days! I cannot wait!
No matter how you pronounce it - with a short "i" like you're some kind of Brit or with a long "i" like the American slaughterers of the English language - we all want it. Expect it. Are incensed when our right to it is infringed.
But, let's face it, privacy is getting harder and harder to keep.
By our own faults mostly.
That's because most of us cannot resist the temptation to digitally record some of the most minute details of our lives...on social network sites, smartphones...ahem...blogs.
Each of us is leaving an immense digital "paper" trail that can, and likely will, be used against us in some manner at some point. Whether that's in a court of law during a divorce/custody/criminal trial1, during a work evaluation or, perhaps worse, a job interview, or causing jealous rifts in personal relationships2, there are major ramifications we are only just beginning to understand as digital technology spreads.
There's another problem though that's being caused, in my opinion, by this open flow of readily available information.
Have you ever been standing over the shoulder of a friend as they looked for a picture they took on their phone to show you and you saw something...ahem...of a "private" nature? Or did you ever try to "help" them by reaching out to advance to the next picture so you could see what was next?
Have you ever sat down at someone else's computer without permission and scanned their recent documents or peeked at their e-mail?
Have you ever deliberately attempted/succeeded at cracking the password or taken advantage of knowing the password to someone's e-mail just to see what was in there?
The fact is most of us have, in fact, whether intentionally or unintentionally, snooped into the private lives of our friends and loved ones.
Have you ever had it happen to you? Have ever found out that someone, especially someone you trusted, surreptitiously invaded your private space and saw something not meant for anyone's eyes but your own?
I have. And it sucked. It broke every level of trust we had for one another. She was furious at what I'd written in my private journal - a place I used to vent irrational emotion as a way to solve problems more rationally - and I was furious for her having the nerve to read it and then be pissed.
But because this journal wasn't hard bound and handwritten, kept instead in a folder on my computer, she felt as though she had the right to read it simply because I'd given her permission to use the printer attached to that computer.
Who was right?
Does it seem like digital files are fair game? Public domain? Even if they are password protected?
Is there a difference between finding the brass key and using it to unlock the personal diary of someone as opposed to cracking the password to invade their typed thoughts?
What I mean is are digital boundaries less important than physical ones?
At the Grotto, neither Lex nor I would ever consider sitting down at the other's computer...particularly unattended. And that's not about porn...because, you know, door closed = porn in progress and that's really not something either of us want to delve into on any level. But it is all about personal space, boundaries, and knowing how much of ourselves is kept digitally.
And I respect him...as he respects me...as we both respect each other's privacy.
I would no sooner snoop on his computer than I would snoop through his books or his closet. He, I am confident, also wouldn't do those things to me.
Because we respect each other and we respect each others boundaries.
The rest of you though?
Forgive me but, my blog is one thing...I intentionally write what I would have my mother read3...the rest of it is just for me and is none of your business.
Hence, if you're ever invited to the Grotto and want to use my computer, it will be only under supervision. Period. Not because I've written nasty things about you but because I've written things about myself no one else needs to know.
1: Oh yes, I most certainly did see that your only Facebook interest listed was "beer pong". How's that vehicular homicide charge treating you?
2: "I don't want you to be friends with her on your Facebook. Why is she commenting on all your pictures?"
3: Because she actually does. Hi, Mom! I love you! 9 more days! I cannot wait!
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Second Chance
It's odd the way life twists and turns back on itself.
Not quite a year ago, I was confused and sad over the end of the beginning of a relationship at which I'd looked forward. A relationship that ended in a stupid explosion over hurt feelings.
I was so very sad at the time. Dealing with the death of Andy. It seemed as though everyone was leaving, one after the other, and life just kept getting harder.
But there was a glimmer of hope that perhaps, one day, everything would work itself out and we could, at the very least, be friends.
So I went on with life, doing what I do, whatever it is I do, meeting new people, exploring interesting side roads along my path, and just generally enjoying myself. Always though, there was a gnawing feeling of something left undone and a little bit of hope.
As time wore on, hope dissipated and I began to believe that the mini-explosion was, in fact, the end. Occasionally, I would find myself lost in reverie over the events leading up to the end and wondering where and how he was, but the thoughts began to come farther and farther apart.
Until last week.
After receiving an incredibly surreal text message in the middle of the night.
And I'm like all wait...what?
Because, I think, we may end up friends again. After all this time. After lost hope.
And this is happiness. I missed him.
Thanks.
A year ago: Wine sophisticate, I am not
Not quite a year ago, I was confused and sad over the end of the beginning of a relationship at which I'd looked forward. A relationship that ended in a stupid explosion over hurt feelings.
I was so very sad at the time. Dealing with the death of Andy. It seemed as though everyone was leaving, one after the other, and life just kept getting harder.
But there was a glimmer of hope that perhaps, one day, everything would work itself out and we could, at the very least, be friends.
So I went on with life, doing what I do, whatever it is I do, meeting new people, exploring interesting side roads along my path, and just generally enjoying myself. Always though, there was a gnawing feeling of something left undone and a little bit of hope.
As time wore on, hope dissipated and I began to believe that the mini-explosion was, in fact, the end. Occasionally, I would find myself lost in reverie over the events leading up to the end and wondering where and how he was, but the thoughts began to come farther and farther apart.
Until last week.
After receiving an incredibly surreal text message in the middle of the night.
And I'm like all wait...what?
Because, I think, we may end up friends again. After all this time. After lost hope.
And this is happiness. I missed him.
Thanks.
A year ago: Wine sophisticate, I am not
Thursday, September 16, 2010
WTF Does Man-ip-ute Even Mean?!
I'm sorry, Mom. But I'm getting ready to swear...a lot.
Yesterday, I was reading an article on a shall-remain-nameless web magazine entitled Ten Things You Should Know About Men.
Written by an alleged relationship "expert", this article laid out the most basic needs - I mean, besides beef and beer - of anyone. Not just men. Things like men need praise, respect, encouragement yadda yadda yadda.
A fourth grader who'd ever had a best friend could have written this article it was so basic.
It was the worst relationship article I believe I've ever read. But what got me, and when I say got me I mean steam coming out of my ears pissed off, aside from the recommendation to fake orgasms to boost his ego, was that this so-called relationship expert continually encouraged women to be manipulative to get what they want.
I shit you not.
These are 10 things EVERY woman needs to know so she can Man-ip-ute™ her man into getting the love she deserves and becoming the ultimate Man-ip-ulator™.
Direct fucking quote, y'all.
And whatever the hell does "Mani-ip-ute" mean anyway? I'm afraid to ask the author.
From Dictionary.com:
–verb (used with object), -lat·ed, -lat·ing.
Yesterday, I was reading an article on a shall-remain-nameless web magazine entitled Ten Things You Should Know About Men.
Written by an alleged relationship "expert", this article laid out the most basic needs - I mean, besides beef and beer - of anyone. Not just men. Things like men need praise, respect, encouragement yadda yadda yadda.
A fourth grader who'd ever had a best friend could have written this article it was so basic.
It was the worst relationship article I believe I've ever read. But what got me, and when I say got me I mean steam coming out of my ears pissed off, aside from the recommendation to fake orgasms to boost his ego, was that this so-called relationship expert continually encouraged women to be manipulative to get what they want.
I shit you not.
These are 10 things EVERY woman needs to know so she can Man-ip-ute™ her man into getting the love she deserves and becoming the ultimate Man-ip-ulator™.
Direct fucking quote, y'all.
And whatever the hell does "Mani-ip-ute" mean anyway? I'm afraid to ask the author.
From Dictionary.com:
–verb (used with object), -lat·ed, -lat·ing.
1. to manage or influence skillfully, esp. in an unfair manner: to manipulate people's feelings.
2.to negotiate, control, or influence (something or someone) cleverly, skillfully, or deviously
In essence, this "expert" is encouraging women to act in a deceitful manner and urging her readers to act deviously to strengthen her relationship.
Can you hear the screaming that's happening in my head?
Manipulation is in the top 5 behaviors no healthy relationship should contain! It's right up there with passive-aggression, physical abuse, cheating, and deception.
This is a magazine I'd like to have some respect for as one of the contributors is a personal friend - and frequent blog commenter! - of mine. It's also a magazine to which I'll be submitting a writing sample to, hopefully, get a steady writing gig.
So it was difficult for me not to post a scathing retort to the drivel the author was spewing.
I'd like to think I'll be able to contribute something that changes the direction of the advice given to readers. I'd like to think I'll be able to help some of the readers actually develop healthy relationships.
But, I'll be honest, it gave me pause, pissed me off, and had me thinking that this was not a publication with which I'd want to be affiliated.
And then I realized, the editor is reasonable and wants a direction for the mag toward which I could contribute. I do want to help people. And I do want to give really good advice to people who may need it.
But please, oh please, oh hell the fuck no, please do not place anything I write anywhere near this stupid relationship "expert". She's the Sarah Palin of relationship advice...setting women back 50 years one article at a time.
2.to negotiate, control, or influence (something or someone) cleverly, skillfully, or deviously
In essence, this "expert" is encouraging women to act in a deceitful manner and urging her readers to act deviously to strengthen her relationship.
Can you hear the screaming that's happening in my head?
Manipulation is in the top 5 behaviors no healthy relationship should contain! It's right up there with passive-aggression, physical abuse, cheating, and deception.
This is a magazine I'd like to have some respect for as one of the contributors is a personal friend - and frequent blog commenter! - of mine. It's also a magazine to which I'll be submitting a writing sample to, hopefully, get a steady writing gig.
So it was difficult for me not to post a scathing retort to the drivel the author was spewing.
I'd like to think I'll be able to contribute something that changes the direction of the advice given to readers. I'd like to think I'll be able to help some of the readers actually develop healthy relationships.
But, I'll be honest, it gave me pause, pissed me off, and had me thinking that this was not a publication with which I'd want to be affiliated.
And then I realized, the editor is reasonable and wants a direction for the mag toward which I could contribute. I do want to help people. And I do want to give really good advice to people who may need it.
But please, oh please, oh hell the fuck no, please do not place anything I write anywhere near this stupid relationship "expert". She's the Sarah Palin of relationship advice...setting women back 50 years one article at a time.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Stop the Insanity
I needed to go to the bank to cash a check and get laundry quarters.
So this morning, shortly after the bank by my work opened, I headed over to take care of my business.
As I was walking in and even as I was waiting for the next available teller, I was distracted, digging in my purse for my checkbook and ID, thinking about what was on my list of things to accomplish today.
The teller who assisted me was friendly. It took only a few moments for us to conduct our business so that I could be on my way. But I do remember she smiled warmly and thanked me for my business.
As I walked out into the parking lot, still distracted with now putting my wallet away, 5 Arapahoe Country Sheriff patrol cars swarmed the lot.
WTF?!
I half expected them all to leap from their vehicles with drawn guns, shouting for me to put my hands in the air.
Uhm...
A bank employee emerged - his name is John - he assisted me when I needed to exchange foreign currency - and I heard him tell one of the officers, "Everything is just fine".
I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation so I don't know what happened.
I hypothesize that someone accidentally triggered the silent alarm.
But it got me to thinking...
That's how it happens.
One minute we're going about our business...yapping at each other on our cell phones, texting, digging around in over-large pocketbooks for whatever it is we're hunting for...and BOOM!
We're hearing this:
That's more than a little disturbing.
Because I was distracted, not paying attention, I could have walked in on a highly volatile situation in which my life would have been in peril.
I imagined myself walking through the door of the bank, digging in my pocketbook, and having a gun thrust to my head...or worse, a bullet tearing through me and having no idea what was happening because I was too busy living in my own personal bubble.
I do it all the time.
Most of us do.
Have you ever driven somewhere and all of a sudden realized you had no idea how you arrived at your destination - literally no recall of the journey?
Often, particularly first thing in the morning as I'm headed toward work, and usually on the same stretch of University from the light at Speer to about Ohio, I realize I have absolutely no recollection of driving. I'll remember vaguely sitting at the light at Speer1 and can't remember anything else after that until I come to and realize I've been on autopilot for several minutes, listening to my music, thinking about the day ahead, planning what I'll fix for dinner or wear to an event.
And it hit me. We're on autopilot most of the time...especially when we're out in a public situation. Isolated, encapsulated in our own little blissfully ignorant bubbles - only concerned with what we're having for supper2.
The only thing that's capable of bursting that bubble is tragedy. An accident, a bullet.
I was struck again by the same thought this afternoon as I inched my way through the brutal Friday afternoon traffic.
When did we stop paying attention? When did we stop caring about what was happening around us and only giving a rat's ass about what was happening inside our cars?
I've long held the belief that technology - as wonderful as it is, as much as I embrace and love it - is fast becoming the downfall of society. We no longer know how to interact with one another, how to be courteous, how to pay attention to what's happening right in front of our faces...
Because we're plugged in...to something virtual. That doesn't actually exist outside of our computer screens and smartphones.
We've forgotten what it is to interact with each other outside of anonymous postings on websites.
We cannot function without "Like" buttons. We clamor for "Dislike" buttons.
We abbreviate our sentences to read like a song title from a Prince album circa 1984.
WTF, people?
We are rarely forced to interact with one another beyond work and internet. We can order our groceries online and have them delivered, for heaven's sake.
We are losing valuable skills as we live Second Lives or live our first lives3 in oblivion - foregoing common sense for selfish pursuits.
Emily Post is obsolete...isn't she?
Do we even know who that is anymore?
This terrifies me. That we will become so isolated - living in our own heads where everything is clearly "all about me", that we'll forget how to be courteous, how to survive in a world populated with many different personalities of which we each have no control of "hiding" when we don't like what they have to say or do - that we will no longer be able to function beyond the computer screen in front of us.
Robots.
Automatons.
Socially retarded.
Let's just stop it.
Before it becomes the death of us all.
1: I've never hit that light on green as long as I've lived at The Grotto. Never.
2: Steak. It's what's for dinner.
3: Whether this is your primary life is up to you.
So this morning, shortly after the bank by my work opened, I headed over to take care of my business.
As I was walking in and even as I was waiting for the next available teller, I was distracted, digging in my purse for my checkbook and ID, thinking about what was on my list of things to accomplish today.
The teller who assisted me was friendly. It took only a few moments for us to conduct our business so that I could be on my way. But I do remember she smiled warmly and thanked me for my business.
As I walked out into the parking lot, still distracted with now putting my wallet away, 5 Arapahoe Country Sheriff patrol cars swarmed the lot.
WTF?!
I half expected them all to leap from their vehicles with drawn guns, shouting for me to put my hands in the air.
Uhm...
A bank employee emerged - his name is John - he assisted me when I needed to exchange foreign currency - and I heard him tell one of the officers, "Everything is just fine".
I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation so I don't know what happened.
I hypothesize that someone accidentally triggered the silent alarm.
But it got me to thinking...
That's how it happens.
One minute we're going about our business...yapping at each other on our cell phones, texting, digging around in over-large pocketbooks for whatever it is we're hunting for...and BOOM!
We're hearing this:
That's more than a little disturbing.
Because I was distracted, not paying attention, I could have walked in on a highly volatile situation in which my life would have been in peril.
I imagined myself walking through the door of the bank, digging in my pocketbook, and having a gun thrust to my head...or worse, a bullet tearing through me and having no idea what was happening because I was too busy living in my own personal bubble.
I do it all the time.
Most of us do.
Have you ever driven somewhere and all of a sudden realized you had no idea how you arrived at your destination - literally no recall of the journey?
Often, particularly first thing in the morning as I'm headed toward work, and usually on the same stretch of University from the light at Speer to about Ohio, I realize I have absolutely no recollection of driving. I'll remember vaguely sitting at the light at Speer1 and can't remember anything else after that until I come to and realize I've been on autopilot for several minutes, listening to my music, thinking about the day ahead, planning what I'll fix for dinner or wear to an event.
And it hit me. We're on autopilot most of the time...especially when we're out in a public situation. Isolated, encapsulated in our own little blissfully ignorant bubbles - only concerned with what we're having for supper2.
The only thing that's capable of bursting that bubble is tragedy. An accident, a bullet.
I was struck again by the same thought this afternoon as I inched my way through the brutal Friday afternoon traffic.
When did we stop paying attention? When did we stop caring about what was happening around us and only giving a rat's ass about what was happening inside our cars?
I've long held the belief that technology - as wonderful as it is, as much as I embrace and love it - is fast becoming the downfall of society. We no longer know how to interact with one another, how to be courteous, how to pay attention to what's happening right in front of our faces...
Because we're plugged in...to something virtual. That doesn't actually exist outside of our computer screens and smartphones.
We've forgotten what it is to interact with each other outside of anonymous postings on websites.
We cannot function without "Like" buttons. We clamor for "Dislike" buttons.
We abbreviate our sentences to read like a song title from a Prince album circa 1984.
WTF, people?
We are rarely forced to interact with one another beyond work and internet. We can order our groceries online and have them delivered, for heaven's sake.
We are losing valuable skills as we live Second Lives or live our first lives3 in oblivion - foregoing common sense for selfish pursuits.
Emily Post is obsolete...isn't she?
Do we even know who that is anymore?
This terrifies me. That we will become so isolated - living in our own heads where everything is clearly "all about me", that we'll forget how to be courteous, how to survive in a world populated with many different personalities of which we each have no control of "hiding" when we don't like what they have to say or do - that we will no longer be able to function beyond the computer screen in front of us.
Robots.
Automatons.
Socially retarded.
Let's just stop it.
Before it becomes the death of us all.
1: I've never hit that light on green as long as I've lived at The Grotto. Never.
2: Steak. It's what's for dinner.
3: Whether this is your primary life is up to you.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Excuse Me, Dear, But Your Paranoia is Showing
I can't say I care for the company of many women much.
There is a reason why women are stereotyped as sneaky, emotional, manipulative, insecure shrews.
This I learned in junior high.
I think it has something to do with hormones.
Because once the hormones hit during puberty, girls turn into creatures. Weird, crazy creatures from the deep.
And so often women don't grow out of it.
For years after having been hurt excessively by the behavior of 3 women in particular, I surrounded myself with male friends and did not have any women friends to speak of...acquaintances certainly but not close girlfriends.
Now I've managed to surround myself with several lovely women friends - women who are smart, funny, and, above all, secure in themselves and unlikely to try to manipulate the people in their lives.
However, I've been burned...badly.
And while I have most certainly moved on from the "I hate her" stage to the "I couldn't give a rat's ass less about her" stage, I don't forget.
So, when my hackles get raised - in essence, start witnessing behavior that is similar - I have a tendency to rush to paranoia...to protect myself...to close myself off...to become guarded, weary, tight.
Deserved?
Time will tell.
But the warning bells resounded and I am on guard.
There is a reason why women are stereotyped as sneaky, emotional, manipulative, insecure shrews.
This I learned in junior high.
I think it has something to do with hormones.
Because once the hormones hit during puberty, girls turn into creatures. Weird, crazy creatures from the deep.
And so often women don't grow out of it.
For years after having been hurt excessively by the behavior of 3 women in particular, I surrounded myself with male friends and did not have any women friends to speak of...acquaintances certainly but not close girlfriends.
Now I've managed to surround myself with several lovely women friends - women who are smart, funny, and, above all, secure in themselves and unlikely to try to manipulate the people in their lives.
However, I've been burned...badly.
And while I have most certainly moved on from the "I hate her" stage to the "I couldn't give a rat's ass less about her" stage, I don't forget.
So, when my hackles get raised - in essence, start witnessing behavior that is similar - I have a tendency to rush to paranoia...to protect myself...to close myself off...to become guarded, weary, tight.
Deserved?
Time will tell.
But the warning bells resounded and I am on guard.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Blog Disclaimer
Recently, I testified in a particularly ugly child custody case. During my cross-examination, the attorney for the other side made a particular point about a blog my friend had been keeping to keep her family and friends updated. It went a little something like this...1
Attorney: Ms. T. You work in broadcasting...in JOURNALISM! Surely you must agree Ms. N's disparaging remarks made against Mr. H in her blog were inappropriate and irresponsible particularly without giving Mr. H an opportunity to present his side of the story?
Me: (laughing) No, Sir. I do not agree. Blogs are, by their very nature, personal, subjective, biased accounts of experiences and emotions. They would not be subject to the same high ethical standards in news reporting because they are not news. And if Mr. H is so concerned with presenting me with his side of the story, please, by all means, have him share the link to his own blog and I, as an avid blog reader, will be happy to oblige him.
The following is the entry for blog according to Dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon:
Main Entry: blog
Part of Speech: n
Definition: an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called Weblog, Web log
Example: Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology: shortened form of Weblog
Usage: blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
However, since this seemed to be a major point of contention and since I never know when my blog might be used against me in a court of law, here is my disclaimer:
This is MY blog. These are my thoughts and these are my works - content owned by me. This blog is not intended to be a representative of any news or journalism source. It is, with my full knowledge and intent, to present only my piece of reality as I see it, when I see it. I reserve the right to change my mind at any time about any thought I have. I reserve the right to moderate all comments 2. I reserve the right to delete any comment I don't like. I reserve the right to ramble about my side with no consideration to the other side. If someone wants to present his side, he can get his own blog3. If he wants to share the link to said blog, I'll be happy to read it at my leisure.
Thank you.
1: I honestly doubt I was quite this eloquent but this was the gist...including the laughter.
2: Anyone, including anonymous readers, are currently allowed to comment but all comments are moderated and published after review.
3: Blogs are even free.
Attorney: Ms. T. You work in broadcasting...in JOURNALISM! Surely you must agree Ms. N's disparaging remarks made against Mr. H in her blog were inappropriate and irresponsible particularly without giving Mr. H an opportunity to present his side of the story?
Me: (laughing) No, Sir. I do not agree. Blogs are, by their very nature, personal, subjective, biased accounts of experiences and emotions. They would not be subject to the same high ethical standards in news reporting because they are not news. And if Mr. H is so concerned with presenting me with his side of the story, please, by all means, have him share the link to his own blog and I, as an avid blog reader, will be happy to oblige him.
The following is the entry for blog according to Dictionary.com's 21st Century Lexicon:
Main Entry: blog
Part of Speech: n
Definition: an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called Weblog, Web log
Example: Typically updated daily, blogs often reflect the personality of the author.
Etymology: shortened form of Weblog
Usage: blog, blogged, blogging v, blogger n
However, since this seemed to be a major point of contention and since I never know when my blog might be used against me in a court of law, here is my disclaimer:
This is MY blog. These are my thoughts and these are my works - content owned by me. This blog is not intended to be a representative of any news or journalism source. It is, with my full knowledge and intent, to present only my piece of reality as I see it, when I see it. I reserve the right to change my mind at any time about any thought I have. I reserve the right to moderate all comments 2. I reserve the right to delete any comment I don't like. I reserve the right to ramble about my side with no consideration to the other side. If someone wants to present his side, he can get his own blog3. If he wants to share the link to said blog, I'll be happy to read it at my leisure.
Thank you.
1: I honestly doubt I was quite this eloquent but this was the gist...including the laughter.
2: Anyone, including anonymous readers, are currently allowed to comment but all comments are moderated and published after review.
3: Blogs are even free.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Do Not Do
I was just washing the carafe to my coffeemaker and noticed some warnings printed on it.
Not unusual.
Typical warnings like:
"Do not drop."
"Do not clean with abrasives."
However, about halfway through the list of "Do Not Do's", I came to this one...
"Do not hold over a person's head."
Uhm, wait, what?
I don't really think the type of person who would hold a carafe of hot coffee over someone else's head is much in a place of heeding warning labels.
Or maybe the warning is not a literal one but a figurative as in "Do not hold it over someone's head that you have coffee and they don't."
Perhaps I ought to contact Mr. Coffee and ask for clarification.
In either case, it's not nice to hold coffee over anyone's head.
Not unusual.
Typical warnings like:
"Do not drop."
"Do not clean with abrasives."
However, about halfway through the list of "Do Not Do's", I came to this one...
"Do not hold over a person's head."
Uhm, wait, what?
I don't really think the type of person who would hold a carafe of hot coffee over someone else's head is much in a place of heeding warning labels.
Or maybe the warning is not a literal one but a figurative as in "Do not hold it over someone's head that you have coffee and they don't."
Perhaps I ought to contact Mr. Coffee and ask for clarification.
In either case, it's not nice to hold coffee over anyone's head.
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