So here's what I want for Christmas:
1 - 12 hours to act the fool (like I did before the Nibblet)
2 - the Pessimist Mug
3 - the body I had when I was 26 years old
4 - did I say 12 hours, let's make it 18 hours
5 - the friends/friendships I had a year ago
6 - a digital projector
7 - a bit of wall to project on
8 - a new tattoo
9 - 3 extra hours every day
10 - did I say 18 hours?
11 - the ability to stop time, and/or a small wallet with limitless supplies of cash
12 - a better . . . shite, that thing that you can use to think of things, um, to remind yourself about that thing that happened . . . um, you use it to remember things . . . damn
10 November 2008
09 November 2008
My NY Times Modern Love
I spent the first twenty-five years of my life avoiding love. Sometimes it was conscious, but most of the time I just didn’t put that much care into my family, my friends, my relationships. I found that there was an advantage to not being heartbroken. My friends poured their woes and aches onto my sturdy unencumbered shoulders, and I was proud to be the logical, clear-minded one. I didn’t understand those “true love” and “end-of-the-world” romances that swept away my friends, removing them, for a time, from my social circles and long nights of freedom.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.
The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.
13 October 2008
Searching for a four leaf clover
I would not call myself superstitious. I wouldn't call myself that, but I carry many odd and contrary beliefs and actions, so much so that I should just cowboy up and admit it.
I throw spilt salt over my left shoulder.
But I revel in walking under ladders and Friday the 13ths.
I always leave a swallow of my drink for Dionysus.
But I grudgingly love the black cat that constantly crosses my path at home.
I believe in the spiritually cleansing properties of sage and sea salt.
But I open umbrellas in the house.
And I think bad things come in threes.
1. Last Monday Indy had a small but traumatizing car accident (traumatizing to our wallets . . . and to the pristine condition of his ridiculously bright yellow car).
2. Friday the Nibblet had a mysterious allergic reaction to something that has lead to special food arrangements, constant back-and-forth with the daycare, expensive specialist doctors, and unending butterflies in my belly (which is large to enough to house several colonies of butterflies).
so that leaves #3, and the third member of the household, which coincidentally is . . . me.
I am absurdly paranoid. I was awake half the night with horrendous fantasies of household accidents, brain aneurysms, broken bones, blue screens of death, and pregnancy.
I'd like to count the fact that my phone died (stupidly and through no fault of my own), but it seems too simple. Even though it led to an epic battle with My Network, but after six days without it, losing all my phone numbers and photos, it ended with a free phone. Of course, I'm now tied to the damned thing again. Still, it happened almost two weeks ago. I figure I have 12 hours left before SOMETHING happens, so . . .
I am currently accepting donations of four leaf clovers, those little squishy ball things you can squeeze (um, not those ones, the other ones), prayers to any and all gods (although perhaps not The Lady), and all good wishes.
Please, no C.O.D.
I throw spilt salt over my left shoulder.
But I revel in walking under ladders and Friday the 13ths.
I always leave a swallow of my drink for Dionysus.
But I grudgingly love the black cat that constantly crosses my path at home.
I believe in the spiritually cleansing properties of sage and sea salt.
But I open umbrellas in the house.
And I think bad things come in threes.
1. Last Monday Indy had a small but traumatizing car accident (traumatizing to our wallets . . . and to the pristine condition of his ridiculously bright yellow car).
2. Friday the Nibblet had a mysterious allergic reaction to something that has lead to special food arrangements, constant back-and-forth with the daycare, expensive specialist doctors, and unending butterflies in my belly (which is large to enough to house several colonies of butterflies).
so that leaves #3, and the third member of the household, which coincidentally is . . . me.
I am absurdly paranoid. I was awake half the night with horrendous fantasies of household accidents, brain aneurysms, broken bones, blue screens of death, and pregnancy.
I'd like to count the fact that my phone died (stupidly and through no fault of my own), but it seems too simple. Even though it led to an epic battle with My Network, but after six days without it, losing all my phone numbers and photos, it ended with a free phone. Of course, I'm now tied to the damned thing again. Still, it happened almost two weeks ago. I figure I have 12 hours left before SOMETHING happens, so . . .
I am currently accepting donations of four leaf clovers, those little squishy ball things you can squeeze (um, not those ones, the other ones), prayers to any and all gods (although perhaps not The Lady), and all good wishes.
Please, no C.O.D.
05 August 2008
10 things
10 things I did not know we would need during the Nibblet's first year
1. 2 large jars of vaseline
2. 25 washcloths
3. ## cases of beer (totally not admitting the real number, ask me my weight instead)
4. baby shoes
5. 32 adults (a million thanks to the 8 babysitters - aka lifesavers)
6. 7 sushi dinners
7. $400 designer shoes (not that I got them . . . ahem)
8. 3 food processors
9. 2 cellphones for the 67 worried phone calls to our moms
10. 36,792,000 heart palpitations
1. 2 large jars of vaseline
2. 25 washcloths
3. ## cases of beer (totally not admitting the real number, ask me my weight instead)
4. baby shoes
5. 32 adults (a million thanks to the 8 babysitters - aka lifesavers)
6. 7 sushi dinners
7. $400 designer shoes (not that I got them . . . ahem)
8. 3 food processors
9. 2 cellphones for the 67 worried phone calls to our moms
10. 36,792,000 heart palpitations
05 July 2008
caught again
damn. I like Death Cab for Cutie.
I should never have gone onto amazon's download page.
I should never have gone onto amazon's download page.
03 July 2008
Word of the Day : Shittastic
you know those days that start out so wonderful? you wake up actually refreshed, and head to work early, not because you have to, but because everything goes smoothly. the drive is easy and it all seems to be going so well. and then it all turns to shite.
today was my day.
a simple work project fell to pieces before I even logged onto my computer. bosses were annoyed. managers on holiday were called in. and were brief to the point of pain. co-workers bounced between helpful and mocking. and in the end, which granted hasn't even arrived yet, stress was high.
I have always thought that I was smart. but it seems almost daily in my current job that I am rivaling Dubya for idiocy. it's killing my ego. and maybe I would be better at this job if I didn't have any outside interests, like, oh I don't know, my man and kid and desperate attempts at having a life.
I feel wrung out and sad and disappointed in myself. it's no way to go through life.
it makes me wonder if I shouldn't quit my job, if only to give them the opportunity to hire someone worth having.
and the poor Nibblet. she has a rash and cries with pain and confusion that the people who love her cause that pain. this is one of the hardest parts of parenthood, hurting the most beloved thing you've ever created because you have to. it's worse than the shots.
I had high hopes for today, and I have an afternoon packed with visitors and responsibilities, and all I want to do is crawl into a bottle of something semi-legal and mind-numbing.
today was my day.
a simple work project fell to pieces before I even logged onto my computer. bosses were annoyed. managers on holiday were called in. and were brief to the point of pain. co-workers bounced between helpful and mocking. and in the end, which granted hasn't even arrived yet, stress was high.
I have always thought that I was smart. but it seems almost daily in my current job that I am rivaling Dubya for idiocy. it's killing my ego. and maybe I would be better at this job if I didn't have any outside interests, like, oh I don't know, my man and kid and desperate attempts at having a life.
I feel wrung out and sad and disappointed in myself. it's no way to go through life.
it makes me wonder if I shouldn't quit my job, if only to give them the opportunity to hire someone worth having.
and the poor Nibblet. she has a rash and cries with pain and confusion that the people who love her cause that pain. this is one of the hardest parts of parenthood, hurting the most beloved thing you've ever created because you have to. it's worse than the shots.
I had high hopes for today, and I have an afternoon packed with visitors and responsibilities, and all I want to do is crawl into a bottle of something semi-legal and mind-numbing.
07 May 2008
Sponsored by the Letter "S"
So tonight I caught up on some internet reading, mostly the blog of an outlaw. Her writing really brings into perspective my shallow and petty ruminations. She writes of trouble and pain and about facing personal trials that I don't know I would survive. At least not without preparing a PMS defense for court.
I went out to talk to Indy about it, in general terms, which led to a random and fascinating conversation about family and the way parents can create an atmosphere of failure and competition without even being aware of it. This is on my mind too because of the impending visit of Indy's father and my own spiky relationship with my mum and siblings.
And then, in our tangential way, we started talking about the things we wanted to accomplish, or rather, the things we did not want to become. Indy said, "I don't want to end up all old and wrinkly thinking I shoulda/coulda/woulda." But I think we must all end up with shoulda's at the end. The real question becomes "What could I do now?" or rather, "What will I do?"
We all lose track of things, at least I hope it's not just me. I had plans before I got knocked-up, plans of going to school full-time. I had a fantasy of going to visit the German in London (hereafter referred, lovingly, as Gil) and somehow staying in Europe. Becoming an ex-pat who writes scathing things that end up changing America into a place I want to live.
Of course, I put all that away gladly in exchange for what I have now, but I remember it all. The dreams still float around, popping up on nights when I've lost my temper and punched the wall, or discovered just how hard I can throw a book. I realize that all that traveling, sleeping with inappropriate men in foreign countries, finding lost treasures, and being witty and smart in Parisian cafes, all of that is not going to happen. Instead I love my man, put the dishes away, sleep soundly and safely, and laugh as my kid learns to walk
I look out the window, at Indy and the Nib sitting in a lawn chair, sharing leaves and bottle caps, and I wonder why I am discontent. Most likely because I didn't choose 100% of this life. The Nib chose most of it, the little brat. And we make up the rest as we go. I'm not one of those people that can walk away from my possessions and feather pillows. I don't want to be. But part of me wants to be able to walk out of the house for several hours without responsibility or accountability. Looking like, oh I don't know, someone hot and talented. Looking like danger and a feeling like a new Jones Soda flavor. I want to speak sparks, invigorate idleness, perpetuate politics, and maybe even break a few hearts. I want to feel smart for a few hours, and interesting, and know what's hip with the cool cats.
Ya know, I'm gonna end up eating fish & chips tonight, watching a movie while I crochet, and nudging Indy when he starts to snore. Right now this is a good night. But don't think for a second that other me isn't buzzing in the back of my mind, whispering about stolen cars, stiletto heels, and sipping Syrah on the Seine.
I went out to talk to Indy about it, in general terms, which led to a random and fascinating conversation about family and the way parents can create an atmosphere of failure and competition without even being aware of it. This is on my mind too because of the impending visit of Indy's father and my own spiky relationship with my mum and siblings.
And then, in our tangential way, we started talking about the things we wanted to accomplish, or rather, the things we did not want to become. Indy said, "I don't want to end up all old and wrinkly thinking I shoulda/coulda/woulda." But I think we must all end up with shoulda's at the end. The real question becomes "What could I do now?" or rather, "What will I do?"
We all lose track of things, at least I hope it's not just me. I had plans before I got knocked-up, plans of going to school full-time. I had a fantasy of going to visit the German in London (hereafter referred, lovingly, as Gil) and somehow staying in Europe. Becoming an ex-pat who writes scathing things that end up changing America into a place I want to live.
Of course, I put all that away gladly in exchange for what I have now, but I remember it all. The dreams still float around, popping up on nights when I've lost my temper and punched the wall, or discovered just how hard I can throw a book. I realize that all that traveling, sleeping with inappropriate men in foreign countries, finding lost treasures, and being witty and smart in Parisian cafes, all of that is not going to happen. Instead I love my man, put the dishes away, sleep soundly and safely, and laugh as my kid learns to walk
I look out the window, at Indy and the Nib sitting in a lawn chair, sharing leaves and bottle caps, and I wonder why I am discontent. Most likely because I didn't choose 100% of this life. The Nib chose most of it, the little brat. And we make up the rest as we go. I'm not one of those people that can walk away from my possessions and feather pillows. I don't want to be. But part of me wants to be able to walk out of the house for several hours without responsibility or accountability. Looking like, oh I don't know, someone hot and talented. Looking like danger and a feeling like a new Jones Soda flavor. I want to speak sparks, invigorate idleness, perpetuate politics, and maybe even break a few hearts. I want to feel smart for a few hours, and interesting, and know what's hip with the cool cats.
Ya know, I'm gonna end up eating fish & chips tonight, watching a movie while I crochet, and nudging Indy when he starts to snore. Right now this is a good night. But don't think for a second that other me isn't buzzing in the back of my mind, whispering about stolen cars, stiletto heels, and sipping Syrah on the Seine.
27 April 2008
ARGH
"There is always room for improvement - in my case, that is all the room there is."
I had such grand intentions for this space. I know the internet is wide-open (at least for now) and that I can't really be wasting space, but I still feel like I am. I have so many things to say, but the procrastination and perfectionism get in the way.
I have a friend (at least I consider her a friend) who blogs deeply personal and powerful things. She writes of her inner struggle, her awakening and how it changes her and her life. To top it off it's intertwined with yoga that I can only pretend to dream of, much less imagine doing.
I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, who not only finds time to write her books/memoirs (who has that kind of memory?) and live a dynamic and interesting life, but she blogs regularly about said life and it's always funny and interesting.
I can barely find time to keep up with Fark.com, much less find the words to interest even myself. (and no Duckie, this isn't one of the blogs I promised).
I've been sick this past week, which would be a great excuse if I hadn't been silent for months. It's the first big illness I've had since the Nibblet was born. So I've been wretched and mean and snarky and flying off the handle at the slightest thing. Oh, you want dinner? Well, I hope your appetite survives after I've slammed every pan in the house and broken two plates. Oh, there are no clean clothes? Enjoy the ones I finally managed to do, because I'll be an awful bitch about folding them and then I won't even put them away, just leave them on the bed accusingly. Oh, you're going to be nice and forgiving and helpful? Good luck keeping that up as I snipe and moan and cough very pointedly in your direction.
Gods, I am terrible. I don't even know what I want, I just know that I don't have it. The worst part is that Indy has been an angel, even as he fights off the bubonic plague I'm trying to spread.
The Nibblet is showing her personality, and at eight months old she's already a better person than I am. On my worst day she would sympathy cough with me, curl up on the sofa while I stole naps, and I swear she's been reading to me instead of the other way around. Unfortunately she caught whatever I have (something about proximity between mother & child is fraught with shared germs). I don't know what we have, but we cough and snot and basically make each other miserable. I can't keep up with her schedule - is she hungry? tired? just sick? bored? She comes and pats my face while I cry at the hopelessness of it, and coos at me. At her worst she cries for comfort, and I barely provide it. Bad mother? I'm gonna go with yes.
Indy tries to fulfill desires that change more than Democrats. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of the Nib, he gives me time to sleep or read or play WOW (what?). He hovers over me, and I curse. He leaves the room and I grouse. He couldn't win if he were George Bush. The fact that he sticks around and put up with me over and over again should prove something to those who doubted this relationship working. Or maybe they just knew me too well.
So I finally get an evening free to write and think deep thoughts, or at least wonder why the fuck Amy Winehouse doesn't fix her shit, and I spend it whinging. Hence the Argh.
Cross your fingers for me, because I do have things to say about the Landmark program, the movie Lions for Lambs, the worst part of being a parent, and the newsflash that I'm strongly certain about who I'm going to vote for in the primaries (I think).
Until another significant moment,
I had such grand intentions for this space. I know the internet is wide-open (at least for now) and that I can't really be wasting space, but I still feel like I am. I have so many things to say, but the procrastination and perfectionism get in the way.
I have a friend (at least I consider her a friend) who blogs deeply personal and powerful things. She writes of her inner struggle, her awakening and how it changes her and her life. To top it off it's intertwined with yoga that I can only pretend to dream of, much less imagine doing.
I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, who not only finds time to write her books/memoirs (who has that kind of memory?) and live a dynamic and interesting life, but she blogs regularly about said life and it's always funny and interesting.
I can barely find time to keep up with Fark.com, much less find the words to interest even myself. (and no Duckie, this isn't one of the blogs I promised).
I've been sick this past week, which would be a great excuse if I hadn't been silent for months. It's the first big illness I've had since the Nibblet was born. So I've been wretched and mean and snarky and flying off the handle at the slightest thing. Oh, you want dinner? Well, I hope your appetite survives after I've slammed every pan in the house and broken two plates. Oh, there are no clean clothes? Enjoy the ones I finally managed to do, because I'll be an awful bitch about folding them and then I won't even put them away, just leave them on the bed accusingly. Oh, you're going to be nice and forgiving and helpful? Good luck keeping that up as I snipe and moan and cough very pointedly in your direction.
Gods, I am terrible. I don't even know what I want, I just know that I don't have it. The worst part is that Indy has been an angel, even as he fights off the bubonic plague I'm trying to spread.
The Nibblet is showing her personality, and at eight months old she's already a better person than I am. On my worst day she would sympathy cough with me, curl up on the sofa while I stole naps, and I swear she's been reading to me instead of the other way around. Unfortunately she caught whatever I have (something about proximity between mother & child is fraught with shared germs). I don't know what we have, but we cough and snot and basically make each other miserable. I can't keep up with her schedule - is she hungry? tired? just sick? bored? She comes and pats my face while I cry at the hopelessness of it, and coos at me. At her worst she cries for comfort, and I barely provide it. Bad mother? I'm gonna go with yes.
Indy tries to fulfill desires that change more than Democrats. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of the Nib, he gives me time to sleep or read or play WOW (what?). He hovers over me, and I curse. He leaves the room and I grouse. He couldn't win if he were George Bush. The fact that he sticks around and put up with me over and over again should prove something to those who doubted this relationship working. Or maybe they just knew me too well.
So I finally get an evening free to write and think deep thoughts, or at least wonder why the fuck Amy Winehouse doesn't fix her shit, and I spend it whinging. Hence the Argh.
Cross your fingers for me, because I do have things to say about the Landmark program, the movie Lions for Lambs, the worst part of being a parent, and the newsflash that I'm strongly certain about who I'm going to vote for in the primaries (I think).
Until another significant moment,
14 April 2008
Shallowness
maybe it's just me, but sometimes I think I would sell my soul for a pair of Manolo Blahniks and an opportunity to wear them.
or maybe it's just the spring fashion magazine in the NYTimes.
I don't wear nice clothes (desk job/8mo old), and I don't get out much (desk job pay/8mo old), and I'm not particularly fond of my body right now (hmm, desk job/8mo old), but I do so love to look at fashion and I have a dangerous obsession with high heels. they've always made me feel powerful and sexy.
plus looking at the skeletons the magazines consider beautiful cracks me up. colt legs, flat chests, concave bellies, no ass? this is attractive? plus it appears that junky chic is back in, along with huge glossy red lips. I have as many self-image problems as the next girl, but I've never wanted to look like the Olsen twins, who look like they've been mummified. I do miss the Greta Garbo's, Marilyn's, and Betty Page's - still thin, but with va-voom, if ya know what I mean (wink wink). women that I'd do if I did women.
so, the point I'm getting to is - am I the only shallow enough to considered shoes worth my soul? everyone has their price, right, but I'm starting to wonder if mine is too low . . . .
or maybe it's just the spring fashion magazine in the NYTimes.
I don't wear nice clothes (desk job/8mo old), and I don't get out much (desk job pay/8mo old), and I'm not particularly fond of my body right now (hmm, desk job/8mo old), but I do so love to look at fashion and I have a dangerous obsession with high heels. they've always made me feel powerful and sexy.
plus looking at the skeletons the magazines consider beautiful cracks me up. colt legs, flat chests, concave bellies, no ass? this is attractive? plus it appears that junky chic is back in, along with huge glossy red lips. I have as many self-image problems as the next girl, but I've never wanted to look like the Olsen twins, who look like they've been mummified. I do miss the Greta Garbo's, Marilyn's, and Betty Page's - still thin, but with va-voom, if ya know what I mean (wink wink). women that I'd do if I did women.
so, the point I'm getting to is - am I the only shallow enough to considered shoes worth my soul? everyone has their price, right, but I'm starting to wonder if mine is too low . . . .
03 April 2008
Bobby
I wish that I could meet or just talk to someone who was still interested in politics.
And I don't mean the shite they call politics today. A waste of time, a colossal waste of money, and essentially a waste of thought. I'll ask again, who really wants to be president for the next four years? Do the current candidates know what they face? Do they care? It's become a ridiculous farce of democracy and has degenerated into a popularity contest.
Did the Baby Boomers turn politics into high school? Maybe. It's all been downhill since Nixon. How did that man get elected? I don't know, and I'm not sure I could find someone who could tell me. Even the poli-sci professors seem confused on this point. Perhaps I could find a class that would explain what happened to politics, but I don't know if I have the stomach to really learn.
All I know is that I haven't been moved much by politics since, well, since ever. I was so interested in voting when I was underaged, but when I couldn't vote in 1992, those damned two months shy of my eighteenth, I stopped caring. Well, until Dumbass ran, but if anything it proved that votes don't actually count.
And what happened to the movements? What happened to civil rights? What happened to Americans caring more about Americans than about cash, cheap tabloid fame, or incentive checks? Yeah, I dream rose-colored dreams, but I know more than I care to. I see the inequality. I see the dearth of interest in bettering the people that surround us. I see the laziness, the apathy, the inconsiderate and prejudice biases.
Amazingly I still think politics could change that. That there is a way to have a government that actually is of and for the people. Who are those people? Admittedly a lot that I don't care to know. Perhaps it is a government of the people and I'm such a stranger in my own land that I would willing leave it. But it is all I know, and somewhere I am a patriot. Somewhere I think that it's worth saving. But as Eddie Izzard so perfectly pointed out, America is the modern Rome. And we can all see where that ended up. People on scooters.
I just wish I could talk to someone, seriously, about politics. Not about young black dude versus strident white woman versus old conservative veteran. None of them actually do much for me. I hate their petty arguments, their smiling back-stabbing, their pointless plans for war. I can't believe they are all so oblivious about the immigration issues (idiots). I want Chris Rock. I want Kevin Kline. I want this person who still remembers what real life is like. Someone who wipes their own ass. The first candidate who can look me straight in the eye and discuss two-ply against lotion-infused is probably gonna get my vote.
On a different note: did anyone know that Emelio Estavez wrote and directed "Bobby"? Wha?? I missed that issue of People magazine. Good on ya, Em.
And I don't mean the shite they call politics today. A waste of time, a colossal waste of money, and essentially a waste of thought. I'll ask again, who really wants to be president for the next four years? Do the current candidates know what they face? Do they care? It's become a ridiculous farce of democracy and has degenerated into a popularity contest.
Did the Baby Boomers turn politics into high school? Maybe. It's all been downhill since Nixon. How did that man get elected? I don't know, and I'm not sure I could find someone who could tell me. Even the poli-sci professors seem confused on this point. Perhaps I could find a class that would explain what happened to politics, but I don't know if I have the stomach to really learn.
All I know is that I haven't been moved much by politics since, well, since ever. I was so interested in voting when I was underaged, but when I couldn't vote in 1992, those damned two months shy of my eighteenth, I stopped caring. Well, until Dumbass ran, but if anything it proved that votes don't actually count.
And what happened to the movements? What happened to civil rights? What happened to Americans caring more about Americans than about cash, cheap tabloid fame, or incentive checks? Yeah, I dream rose-colored dreams, but I know more than I care to. I see the inequality. I see the dearth of interest in bettering the people that surround us. I see the laziness, the apathy, the inconsiderate and prejudice biases.
Amazingly I still think politics could change that. That there is a way to have a government that actually is of and for the people. Who are those people? Admittedly a lot that I don't care to know. Perhaps it is a government of the people and I'm such a stranger in my own land that I would willing leave it. But it is all I know, and somewhere I am a patriot. Somewhere I think that it's worth saving. But as Eddie Izzard so perfectly pointed out, America is the modern Rome. And we can all see where that ended up. People on scooters.
I just wish I could talk to someone, seriously, about politics. Not about young black dude versus strident white woman versus old conservative veteran. None of them actually do much for me. I hate their petty arguments, their smiling back-stabbing, their pointless plans for war. I can't believe they are all so oblivious about the immigration issues (idiots). I want Chris Rock. I want Kevin Kline. I want this person who still remembers what real life is like. Someone who wipes their own ass. The first candidate who can look me straight in the eye and discuss two-ply against lotion-infused is probably gonna get my vote.
On a different note: did anyone know that Emelio Estavez wrote and directed "Bobby"? Wha?? I missed that issue of People magazine. Good on ya, Em.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)