Pandora pulls into the parking lot and gets out of her car just as Bombastic Babbling Boy steps out of his and sees her.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Hey! Top of the morning to you!
Pandora: (polite smile) Yes, good morning.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: I really hate these early mornings, you know? I'm not used to it.
Pandora: It takes a while.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: I just graduated from Law School a few months ago.
Pandora: Oh? That's nice.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Obviously, I'm not practicing law right now, but I will be. I mean, I plan to, but I'm going to stay here for a while and learn some of this while I look for a place to practice real estate law.
Pandora: Well, that's a good idea.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Yes, it is a good idea. Make some money while I try to find a real job. Not that this isn't a real job, no offense.
Pandora: None taken.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: (opens the door for her) I guess I should consider myself lucky though. Most of my law school friends are still unemployed, but not me! I actually have money coming in now and that's awesome!
Pandora: (presses the elevator button) Yes, money is always a good thing.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: You're telling me! I was starting to worry about what I was going to eat tomorrow, you know? But not now! But still, I need to be a lawyer, you know? That's what I'm trained to do. Law!
Pandora: Hmm.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: I don't really fit in here much though because I'm so much more educated than everyone else in this place. You know? No offense to you, but people can't keep up with me here because I just know so much more than they do, you know? I mean sure, people have been working in here longer than I have, but they don't know what I know.
Pandora: (takes a good look at him and then steps into the elevator) And what is it, exactly, that you know?
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Well, I went to law school! No one else up here went to law school. Some of these people only have high school educations. Pfft... they don't know what I know.
Pandora: Most of those folks have been in the field for thirty years or more. I'm inclined to say they know plenty that you don't know.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ah... there's nothing they can teach me that wouldn't take more than two seconds to learn. High school education vs. law degree? I don't think so. I guess I should've asked you though, you do have a degree, don't you?
Pandora: Yes. I have two.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You went to graduate school?
Pandora: (wishing the elevator would hurry) Yes.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! I didn't know that.
Pandora: Well, as you said, you didn't ask.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: So what's your degree in?
Pandora: (steps out of the elevator) 19th Century Literature
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! 19th century! I know all about the 19th century! (starts following Pandora down the hall) I know all about those guys! Let's see there's that Wordsworth guy... Oh! And that guy that wrote that stupid poem about the Grecian Urn.
Pandora: (two steps ahead of him) Keats.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Who?
Pandora: Keats wrote the poem about the Grecian Urn.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ya! Keats! I like Keats! ...and um, you know... that one guy. What's his name? Something Blake? Was it Walter? Yeah, that's it! Walter! Walter Blake!
Pandora: (steps into her cube, puts her things down) It's William.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: What?
Pandora: (sits in her chair) William Blake. His name is William Blake, not Walter... William.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You know him? Well, I knew it was a W. Anyway, that guy sucks! I hate him! I had to write this paper on The Book Of Lika and...
Pandora: (growing a bit irritated) The Book Of ...what?
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Lika. The Book Of Lika, you know. Lika?
Pandora: No, I don't know. I know The Book Of Los, but no Book Of Lika.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh, right! That's right! Los! The Book Of Los! That's the one. Well it sucked! I hated it! It went on and on forever and it made no sense! Yeah, that sucked. Blake really sucks. Don't you think he sucks?
Pandora: (her eyes have now turned to steel) I wrote my Master's Thesis on Blake. So... no. He doesn't, in my opinion, suck.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: (face turns red) Oh, well, I guess you know all about this guy then.
Pandora: Yes, I do. In fact, it could be argued that I may be the one person in this office that knows something you don't know, despite your fancy law degree.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: (chuckles) Heh! You got me there. He still sucks though. I had to write that stupid paper on The Book Of Lika
Pandora: Los
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Los, right, Los, and I hated it! It sucked so bad. And then he wrote that other stupid poem about the Albatross that went on and on. And I hated it!
Pandora: That wasn't Blake.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: What?
Pandora: The stupid albatross poem that went on and on that you hated because it sucked so bad? That wasn't Blake.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Yes it was!
Pandora: No. You're talking about The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner and that was written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, not Blake.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: (blank stare) ...oh, well, it still sucked.
Pandora: (turns to face her computer and logs in)
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You're going to start working now?
Pandora: (without turning around) That's what one does when they come to the office. They work.
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Okay. Well, before I go, you need to know something. You are my new best friend now!
Pandora: Excuse me?
Bombastic Babbling Boy: You're like my new best friend now. You want to know why? Because you're educated, that's why! (big smile)
Pandora: Lucky me?
Bombastic Babbling Boy: I'm just letting you know because I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my time here.
Pandora: What?
Bombastic Babbling Boy: This! (he points between himself and Pandora a few times) I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my time here because you're educated and you're the only one that can keep up with me.
Pandora: ...
Bombastic Babbling Boy: And when I say the rest of my time here I mean the rest of my time here... not just today here... the rest of my time here. (waves his hand around the office)
Pandora: ...
Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ok! See ya later! Have fun doing whatever it is you're doing! (big smile... takes his exit)
Pandora: (stares at her computer) My education mocks me... it does... it truly mocks me...
About Me
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween ...Bust?
This may be a sign of getting old, but I'd like to know when dressing up for Halloween became synonymous with stepping out as a man's kinky fantasy. Please, someone explain this to me. Last time I checked, dressing up for Halloween meant dressing up as an alter ego, or a favorite character, or the traditional witch or vampire or ghost or something along those lines. Since when does dressing up as Dorothy mean wearing a push-up bra and five inch heeled red pumps with white fishnet stalkings in a blue pinafore dress that barely covers your ass? Seriously... where have I been?
I can't remember the last time I went to a Halloween party. For the past ten years I've been following my daughter around trick-or-treating and making sure the candy isn't filled with arsenic and razor blades. But this year she went to a friend's place for the night and I found myself free on Halloween. I figured I would just spend a quiet evening at home when a last minute party invitation came about. Now, more times than not I would simply say no to something like this, but given the people who invited me and the fact that I hadn't dressed up and celebrated Halloween in years well... why not, right? It might be fun, right? uh...yeah...
Being in a last minute crunch for a costume, I made my way over to one of those "Halloween" stores that open specifically for this occasion. I really didn't have anything particular in mind, but I was certain I could find something in a sea of choices. Unfortunately, my choices boiled down to something between tease and whore. Don't get me wrong, I am far from prude, but sexy is a state of mind and is best conveyed through subtle sophistication, not blatant boob betrayal in an outfit that quite possibly came from the local strip club.
No joke. I walked into the store and went directly to the women's section. As I worked my eyes from one end of the section to the next I found the She Devil, cleavage abounding; the Fallen Angel, cleavage abounding; the Good Angel, cleavage and thighs abounding (I guess the only real difference between good and fallen is that the Fallen Angel shows enough concern to cover the scrapes and bruises her legs acquired after taking a pretty tough fall). Along with Sexy Dorothy there was Sexy Scare Crow, Sexy Tin Woman, Sexy Cowardly Lion, and Sexy Glinda of the North complete with cleavage and derriere (should you happen to bend over to pick up the ping-pong ball from your missed shot in beer pong). There was also Sexy Nascar Girl, Sexy Jane & Judy Jetson, Sexy Wilma Flinstone, Sexy Betty Rubble, as well as your traditional Sexy French Maid, Sexy Nurse, and Sexy School Girl. I could continue on, but I won't. What I will tell you is how completely disgusted I became and how my desire to attend this party grew less and less. As I stared at these costumes and the representation of women presented by these costumes, I couldn't help but think of Freud and Lacan and how badly I hated their theories of women as The Other: women are little more than a figment of a man's imagination and the object of his sexual desire.
I hate to even think of Freud and Lacan. That was a time in my graduate studies of theory that I abhorred and worked tirelessly to dismantle and disprove. Theirs are theories that objectify and oppress women and I always felt that the feminist theorists did little more that perpetuate these theories by continually whining and complaining about it while doing nothing to actually overturn it. And suddenly I found myself face-to-face with the practical reality of two academic schools of thought, and the two that I hated most. As I stood there staring at the Sexy Snow White costume, right next to the Sexy Olive Oil costume, I could only think about the fact that, were I to walk into a party dressed in one of these, I would quite possibly be dressed as some idiot's fantasy and, well, that was not my intent. Halloween means I dress up as my own fantastic idea of some neglected aspect of myself, not some Nimrod's strumpet! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was the voice of that egotistical french man, Jacques Lacan, saying, "the problem of [the woman's] condition is fundamentally that of accepting herself as an object of desire for the man." (pg. 68, Feminine Sexuality, Jacques Lacan)
Here's the deal: I do accept myself as an object of man's desire. Hell, I accept myself as an object of a lesbian's desire. Want to know why I accept that? Because that's life -- plain and simple. I endure the gaping maws of men on a regular basis and it doesn't matter if I'm in an evening gown, a conservative business suit, or a potato sack. It's like Misanthrope says, as long as I can fog up a spoon some dude out there is going to think it's an invitation to a party in my pants. But because I know this, because I accept this, because I understand myself as an "object" it then becomes the burden (if you will) of my existence to create an image of myself above and beyond the "object." And, from where I'm standing, I hardly think this can be accomplished by stepping into a man's reality dressed as one of his favorite sexual fantasies for a Halloween costume party. (if I'm going to dress up as a nurse and play doctor, it isn't going to be in the presence of 20+ people at a party! Seriously... I had to ask myself if I had mistakenly walked into Frederick's Of Hollywood, because it sure didn't feel like Halloween.)
Anyway, after becoming thoroughly annoyed with the costumes and the people, I finally decided my best bet was to go Goth -- you know, rebel against mainstream society the way I did "back in the day." I figured, at least it was Halloween and I was allowed to look as scary and as socially unacceptable as I wanted. If nothing else, I would dress as a creature that could fog up a spoon but wield enough serious juju to do some harm, should someone step out of line. So I donned a black hooded robe, painted my nails black, darkened my hair, painted my pale face with some stylishly dark make-up, wore some beautiful Gothic jewelry and made my way to a party full of people that, aside from two or three, I didn't know.
What I found, when I got there, was a bunch of men that had, for the most part, well thought out costumes -- costumes that showed creativity and character. But the women? Well... there was a Sexy Robin Hood, a Sexy Nascar Girl, a Sexy Pumpkin, a French Maid, a Sexy Wizard Wanda (who apparently teaches at Hogwarts though I've never heard of her), a Sexy Snow Queen (who would die of frost bite the minute she stepped outside), a Sexy Bar Maid, a Sexy Pirate, and some Sexy something with a purple tutu and a top hat that looked like some Broadway reject from 42nd Street. Then, of course, there was me -- the only woman whose costume showed a hint of a figure beneath the black hooded robe that left much to the male imagination.
Needless to say, I did not have a rip-roaring good time. While everyone else ate, drank, and made merry, I sat and wrestled with my overly analytical mind. I sat and wondered why it doesn't occur to these women that they're playing into something that does little for those qualities of the self that will make them continue to feel beautiful and confident and satisfied with their lives once gravity and age set in. I wondered if they have any concept of themselves beyond a man's gaze. I wondered if they ever have moments in their lives where they wish to be recognized for something other than the curves God gave them, or if they simply live, day in and day out, moment by moment, for the drool encrusted masculine gaping maw.
This is not to cast judgment on them, I have memories of myself (particularly in adolescence) where I took notice and pleasure in being the recipient of a man's eyeballing. But I have since learned that an eyeballing isn't exactly a compliment and that lust, more often than not, equates to heartbreak and emptiness. But all of that aside, why is it that a man's costume can exhibit thought and character but the woman's gets lost in translation? If I dress up as Dorothy on Halloween, I dress up as the innocent who realizes, despite all the adventure in the world, there is no place like home. If I dress up as the Nascar Girl, I dress up as a race car fanatic who can rattle off the names of the best drivers and their best times and sure... I'm down with Miller Time too. If I dress up as Marilyn Monroe, I dress up as the woman that loves to feel glamorous and sexy, but the only way you get a glimpse of what's under my dress is if I happen to stand over an air vent. And if I dress up as Robin Hood, I dress up as the character who robs the rich to feed the poor. But somehow, none of those sentiments get through. Somehow, through mainstream media and the perpetuation of theories a very small percentage of us find important enough to study, the character concepts behind all of these costumes have become overshadowed by the seductive glow of tits and ass. hmmm... This is not the Halloween I want for my daughter, the girl who still finds meaning behind the costumes she chooses. (and I'm suddenly very glad she is a tomboy)
I can't remember the last time I went to a Halloween party. For the past ten years I've been following my daughter around trick-or-treating and making sure the candy isn't filled with arsenic and razor blades. But this year she went to a friend's place for the night and I found myself free on Halloween. I figured I would just spend a quiet evening at home when a last minute party invitation came about. Now, more times than not I would simply say no to something like this, but given the people who invited me and the fact that I hadn't dressed up and celebrated Halloween in years well... why not, right? It might be fun, right? uh...yeah...
Being in a last minute crunch for a costume, I made my way over to one of those "Halloween" stores that open specifically for this occasion. I really didn't have anything particular in mind, but I was certain I could find something in a sea of choices. Unfortunately, my choices boiled down to something between tease and whore. Don't get me wrong, I am far from prude, but sexy is a state of mind and is best conveyed through subtle sophistication, not blatant boob betrayal in an outfit that quite possibly came from the local strip club.
No joke. I walked into the store and went directly to the women's section. As I worked my eyes from one end of the section to the next I found the She Devil, cleavage abounding; the Fallen Angel, cleavage abounding; the Good Angel, cleavage and thighs abounding (I guess the only real difference between good and fallen is that the Fallen Angel shows enough concern to cover the scrapes and bruises her legs acquired after taking a pretty tough fall). Along with Sexy Dorothy there was Sexy Scare Crow, Sexy Tin Woman, Sexy Cowardly Lion, and Sexy Glinda of the North complete with cleavage and derriere (should you happen to bend over to pick up the ping-pong ball from your missed shot in beer pong). There was also Sexy Nascar Girl, Sexy Jane & Judy Jetson, Sexy Wilma Flinstone, Sexy Betty Rubble, as well as your traditional Sexy French Maid, Sexy Nurse, and Sexy School Girl. I could continue on, but I won't. What I will tell you is how completely disgusted I became and how my desire to attend this party grew less and less. As I stared at these costumes and the representation of women presented by these costumes, I couldn't help but think of Freud and Lacan and how badly I hated their theories of women as The Other: women are little more than a figment of a man's imagination and the object of his sexual desire.
I hate to even think of Freud and Lacan. That was a time in my graduate studies of theory that I abhorred and worked tirelessly to dismantle and disprove. Theirs are theories that objectify and oppress women and I always felt that the feminist theorists did little more that perpetuate these theories by continually whining and complaining about it while doing nothing to actually overturn it. And suddenly I found myself face-to-face with the practical reality of two academic schools of thought, and the two that I hated most. As I stood there staring at the Sexy Snow White costume, right next to the Sexy Olive Oil costume, I could only think about the fact that, were I to walk into a party dressed in one of these, I would quite possibly be dressed as some idiot's fantasy and, well, that was not my intent. Halloween means I dress up as my own fantastic idea of some neglected aspect of myself, not some Nimrod's strumpet! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was the voice of that egotistical french man, Jacques Lacan, saying, "the problem of [the woman's] condition is fundamentally that of accepting herself as an object of desire for the man." (pg. 68, Feminine Sexuality, Jacques Lacan)
Here's the deal: I do accept myself as an object of man's desire. Hell, I accept myself as an object of a lesbian's desire. Want to know why I accept that? Because that's life -- plain and simple. I endure the gaping maws of men on a regular basis and it doesn't matter if I'm in an evening gown, a conservative business suit, or a potato sack. It's like Misanthrope says, as long as I can fog up a spoon some dude out there is going to think it's an invitation to a party in my pants. But because I know this, because I accept this, because I understand myself as an "object" it then becomes the burden (if you will) of my existence to create an image of myself above and beyond the "object." And, from where I'm standing, I hardly think this can be accomplished by stepping into a man's reality dressed as one of his favorite sexual fantasies for a Halloween costume party. (if I'm going to dress up as a nurse and play doctor, it isn't going to be in the presence of 20+ people at a party! Seriously... I had to ask myself if I had mistakenly walked into Frederick's Of Hollywood, because it sure didn't feel like Halloween.)
Anyway, after becoming thoroughly annoyed with the costumes and the people, I finally decided my best bet was to go Goth -- you know, rebel against mainstream society the way I did "back in the day." I figured, at least it was Halloween and I was allowed to look as scary and as socially unacceptable as I wanted. If nothing else, I would dress as a creature that could fog up a spoon but wield enough serious juju to do some harm, should someone step out of line. So I donned a black hooded robe, painted my nails black, darkened my hair, painted my pale face with some stylishly dark make-up, wore some beautiful Gothic jewelry and made my way to a party full of people that, aside from two or three, I didn't know.
What I found, when I got there, was a bunch of men that had, for the most part, well thought out costumes -- costumes that showed creativity and character. But the women? Well... there was a Sexy Robin Hood, a Sexy Nascar Girl, a Sexy Pumpkin, a French Maid, a Sexy Wizard Wanda (who apparently teaches at Hogwarts though I've never heard of her), a Sexy Snow Queen (who would die of frost bite the minute she stepped outside), a Sexy Bar Maid, a Sexy Pirate, and some Sexy something with a purple tutu and a top hat that looked like some Broadway reject from 42nd Street. Then, of course, there was me -- the only woman whose costume showed a hint of a figure beneath the black hooded robe that left much to the male imagination.
Needless to say, I did not have a rip-roaring good time. While everyone else ate, drank, and made merry, I sat and wrestled with my overly analytical mind. I sat and wondered why it doesn't occur to these women that they're playing into something that does little for those qualities of the self that will make them continue to feel beautiful and confident and satisfied with their lives once gravity and age set in. I wondered if they have any concept of themselves beyond a man's gaze. I wondered if they ever have moments in their lives where they wish to be recognized for something other than the curves God gave them, or if they simply live, day in and day out, moment by moment, for the drool encrusted masculine gaping maw.
This is not to cast judgment on them, I have memories of myself (particularly in adolescence) where I took notice and pleasure in being the recipient of a man's eyeballing. But I have since learned that an eyeballing isn't exactly a compliment and that lust, more often than not, equates to heartbreak and emptiness. But all of that aside, why is it that a man's costume can exhibit thought and character but the woman's gets lost in translation? If I dress up as Dorothy on Halloween, I dress up as the innocent who realizes, despite all the adventure in the world, there is no place like home. If I dress up as the Nascar Girl, I dress up as a race car fanatic who can rattle off the names of the best drivers and their best times and sure... I'm down with Miller Time too. If I dress up as Marilyn Monroe, I dress up as the woman that loves to feel glamorous and sexy, but the only way you get a glimpse of what's under my dress is if I happen to stand over an air vent. And if I dress up as Robin Hood, I dress up as the character who robs the rich to feed the poor. But somehow, none of those sentiments get through. Somehow, through mainstream media and the perpetuation of theories a very small percentage of us find important enough to study, the character concepts behind all of these costumes have become overshadowed by the seductive glow of tits and ass. hmmm... This is not the Halloween I want for my daughter, the girl who still finds meaning behind the costumes she chooses. (and I'm suddenly very glad she is a tomboy)
Friday, October 30, 2009
Pumpkin Bread
If you read the post My Craft Is Words, then, if nothing else, you will see my point.
I exit the elevator and step out onto the floor, my hands full of pumpkin bread. As I head to my desk to put everything down before I head out on my search to find out where I'm to leave the baked goods, well, the following will explain it all:
Ladies Man: (stops in his tracks) What's this, Pandora? You actually baked something?
Pandora: Yes, yes I did.
Ladies Man: (smirks) Can you even cook?
Pandora: Don't get excited. It came from a box.
Ladies Man: Damn it, Pandora! You just ruined it for me! I was about to put you in goddess category but now I'm not even going to eat that!
Pandora: Shut up. Besides, in what mythological tale have you ever read about a goddess that cooks.
Ladies Man: Huh... Good point.
I drop my bag and such at my desk and back out of my cube to see Sugar walking down the hall with a cart full of bake sale stuff.
Sugar: Oh my god! You baked something?
Pandora: Yes.
Sugar: Oh my god! You never do anything for these things!
Pandora: Yes... I'm well aware of that.
Sugar: Is it good?
Pandora: It came from a box that Trader Joe's puts out, so I suspect it is, yes.
Sugar: Bah ha ha ha ha ha! Well, Trader Joe's is good stuff, as long as you didn't burn it or something.
Pandora: Well, I see you pushing a cart, what did you bake?
Sugar: Girl, I don't bake for this shit! Pushing the cart and helping set up is as good as it gets.
Pandora: Yes, well, while you're making fun of my boxed baking abilities, cart pusher, can you tell me where I'm supposed to put this?
Sugar: No idea really. I was told to go down the hall here and I would see it.
So I start walking down the hall and see Ms. Guilt Trip.
Ms. Guilt Trip: (gigantic smile) Good morning Pandora! You didn't forget!
Pandora: (thankful she didn't notice/care I didn't have a cheese cake in my hand) Nope, thanks to your last minute reminder.
Ms. Guilt Trip: (still smiling) You can put it on the table over there.
So I place it on the table right by the pumpkin bread label. As I start to walk away I notice Santino, who has basically been my mentor all this time, fooling around in an ice chest at the far end of the table.
Pandora: What? Are you contributing to this too Santino?
Santino: (in his Brooklynese) Well ya! I do it every year. Pumpkin Ice Cream. You bring sumthin in Pandora?
Pandora: Yeah, I made some pumpkin bread.
Santino: Really? Dats not yer style. (he looks at the table and I point to it) Any good?
Pandora: I made an extra batch for my daughter. She thinks it is.
Santino: Huh. Who'd a thought Pandora woulda bake sumthin.
Pandora: Yes, that seems to be the topic of conversation this morning.
So I went back to my desk, checked my emails and my voice messages, organized the to do list for the day, and after about twenty minutes I went to the bake sale intending to taste my own bread. When I got there, all of it was gone. I could only assume that meant it was a pass. The afternoon came and went. Around 4:30 everyone started to head home and no one had said a word until...
Santino: Eh! Pandora!
Pandora: (turns around) What's up?
Santino: I'm headin' home. Just wanted you to know I ate sum of dat bread you baked. You done good, Kid. Dat was sum good stuff. Have a nice weekend, eh?
Pandora: (smiles) Thanks, Santino. You do the same.
So... it may not have been from scratch, but the mentor wouldn't lie to me (he makes no bones about telling me where and when I've messed up) so I know it was good. I also know, it was a historical moment in the Land Department. Pandora, even if it was from a box, showed, if nothing else, some half-assed home-making skills. ;-)
I exit the elevator and step out onto the floor, my hands full of pumpkin bread. As I head to my desk to put everything down before I head out on my search to find out where I'm to leave the baked goods, well, the following will explain it all:
Ladies Man: (stops in his tracks) What's this, Pandora? You actually baked something?
Pandora: Yes, yes I did.
Ladies Man: (smirks) Can you even cook?
Pandora: Don't get excited. It came from a box.
Ladies Man: Damn it, Pandora! You just ruined it for me! I was about to put you in goddess category but now I'm not even going to eat that!
Pandora: Shut up. Besides, in what mythological tale have you ever read about a goddess that cooks.
Ladies Man: Huh... Good point.
I drop my bag and such at my desk and back out of my cube to see Sugar walking down the hall with a cart full of bake sale stuff.
Sugar: Oh my god! You baked something?
Pandora: Yes.
Sugar: Oh my god! You never do anything for these things!
Pandora: Yes... I'm well aware of that.
Sugar: Is it good?
Pandora: It came from a box that Trader Joe's puts out, so I suspect it is, yes.
Sugar: Bah ha ha ha ha ha! Well, Trader Joe's is good stuff, as long as you didn't burn it or something.
Pandora: Well, I see you pushing a cart, what did you bake?
Sugar: Girl, I don't bake for this shit! Pushing the cart and helping set up is as good as it gets.
Pandora: Yes, well, while you're making fun of my boxed baking abilities, cart pusher, can you tell me where I'm supposed to put this?
Sugar: No idea really. I was told to go down the hall here and I would see it.
So I start walking down the hall and see Ms. Guilt Trip.
Ms. Guilt Trip: (gigantic smile) Good morning Pandora! You didn't forget!
Pandora: (thankful she didn't notice/care I didn't have a cheese cake in my hand) Nope, thanks to your last minute reminder.
Ms. Guilt Trip: (still smiling) You can put it on the table over there.
So I place it on the table right by the pumpkin bread label. As I start to walk away I notice Santino, who has basically been my mentor all this time, fooling around in an ice chest at the far end of the table.
Pandora: What? Are you contributing to this too Santino?
Santino: (in his Brooklynese) Well ya! I do it every year. Pumpkin Ice Cream. You bring sumthin in Pandora?
Pandora: Yeah, I made some pumpkin bread.
Santino: Really? Dats not yer style. (he looks at the table and I point to it) Any good?
Pandora: I made an extra batch for my daughter. She thinks it is.
Santino: Huh. Who'd a thought Pandora woulda bake sumthin.
Pandora: Yes, that seems to be the topic of conversation this morning.
So I went back to my desk, checked my emails and my voice messages, organized the to do list for the day, and after about twenty minutes I went to the bake sale intending to taste my own bread. When I got there, all of it was gone. I could only assume that meant it was a pass. The afternoon came and went. Around 4:30 everyone started to head home and no one had said a word until...
Santino: Eh! Pandora!
Pandora: (turns around) What's up?
Santino: I'm headin' home. Just wanted you to know I ate sum of dat bread you baked. You done good, Kid. Dat was sum good stuff. Have a nice weekend, eh?
Pandora: (smiles) Thanks, Santino. You do the same.
So... it may not have been from scratch, but the mentor wouldn't lie to me (he makes no bones about telling me where and when I've messed up) so I know it was good. I also know, it was a historical moment in the Land Department. Pandora, even if it was from a box, showed, if nothing else, some half-assed home-making skills. ;-)
Thursday, October 29, 2009
My Craft Is Words
If there is a stereotype of women I wish I could shake it's the one that says I must be good at things like sewing, knitting, crafting, and baking. Just because there are certain genetic cues in my physical being that make me a woman there is nothing that states those same cues mean I am a) naturally inclined to be good at the above things and b) find great joy in being good at those things.
There is a group of women in my office that sit in the conference room behind me nearly every day at lunch and they craft things like Christmas ornaments and Thanksgiving baskets and such. And it's a wonderful thing that they are doing, since all of this will be sold at some charity event with proceeds going to charity. But they have done this every year that I have been there and there are two consistencies: 1) I am never in there crafting with them and 2) there are never any men in there with them either.
I bring this up because these women seem to take it personal somehow that I don't craft with them. I always smile and say something along the lines of, "I'm not good at that kind of stuff," and then they just give me a blank stare as if I'm lying and what I really mean is, "I'm too good to hang out with you ladies." This irritates the hell out of me. First of all, I'm not lying! I'm terrible at that kind of thing! Ask my art teachers from kindergarten on, I am terrible at making things with my hands! Seriously, the first time I realized I sucked at crafting things was in the seventh grade when mine was the only paper mache butterfly that looked as though it might drop bombs over Nagasaki. And come on ladies! You are the same women I make smile and laugh at the lunch table, office happy hours, and business meetings. My craft is WORDS and that's about all I'm good at. You need me to write a letter for you? I'll do it. You need me to help with your child's reading and writing? I love it. You need me to argue a point for you and make sure you win that argument? HELL YEAH! I'll do that any day of the week. You need someone to help make a dozen doilies? uh... sorry, I have to go floss my teeth, it's very important that I keep my gums healthy.
So... the reason this is on my mind at 7 in the morning is because, well, it's 7 in the morning and this blog post should be delivered to you right now but it won't be because I didn't post it on time. Why? Because I couldn't say no when one of those same knitting circle ladies walked up and asked if I would bake for the Pumpkin Bake Sale today. Yeah... me... baking for the department bake sale. Granted, I am a good cook, but baking is not my specialty. It takes extra time and it has a different feel to it than cooking a meal. And I'm a busy woman with a schedule that strangles me like a boa constrictor sometimes and the last thing I need to do is stand around the kitchen for hours and bake. However, the minute the word "uh..." came out of my mouth that lady focused a stare on me that I'm pretty sure could send me to Hell if I said no. I could see it in her eyes. Her non-verbal cues said to me, "You never craft with us, you never knit with us, and I'll be damned if you don't bake with us. I like you Pandora, but after this you will be on my list!" So, I'm sure you understand when I tell you I signed myself up to bake.
I planned on baking this past weekend. I do have an excellent recipe for a pumpkin cheese cake and I started to see it as an opportunity to show the ladies that I am not totally a home-making outcast. The problem was that I completely forgot about the stupid bake sale until yesterday at four thirty, as the same lady was walking past my cube and said, "Don't forget the bake sale tomorrow, Pandora. Have a good night!"
ARGH!!! At that moment I stopped what I was doing, sat back in my chair and just stared at my computer screen. There was no possible way I could bake that stupid cheese cake last night and have it come out as though I actually know what I'm doing in the kitchen. My boss, gentleman that he is, walked in and said, "Bring in a frozen cheese cake. That's what I'm doing." And I'm thinking, "Yes, but you don't have the same chromosomes as me and they don't look at you as though you belong on the Island Of Misfit Toys." So, the best solution I could come up with was to go to Trader Joe's and buy two boxes of their awesome pumpkin bread mix and bring it to the bake sale hoping they all forget that Pumpkin Cheese Cake is written by my name. That was the easiest way out, and I'm sure the clan of "made it from scratch" ladies will still frown upon me somehow, but I guess they need to learn the hard way that it isn't personal... I... just belong on the island of misfit toys.
(Disclaimer: I did not want to break my daily posting streak and I wrote this as fast as possible without review for errors. If you must grade it, at least grade content separately from grammar. -- Pandora)
There is a group of women in my office that sit in the conference room behind me nearly every day at lunch and they craft things like Christmas ornaments and Thanksgiving baskets and such. And it's a wonderful thing that they are doing, since all of this will be sold at some charity event with proceeds going to charity. But they have done this every year that I have been there and there are two consistencies: 1) I am never in there crafting with them and 2) there are never any men in there with them either.
I bring this up because these women seem to take it personal somehow that I don't craft with them. I always smile and say something along the lines of, "I'm not good at that kind of stuff," and then they just give me a blank stare as if I'm lying and what I really mean is, "I'm too good to hang out with you ladies." This irritates the hell out of me. First of all, I'm not lying! I'm terrible at that kind of thing! Ask my art teachers from kindergarten on, I am terrible at making things with my hands! Seriously, the first time I realized I sucked at crafting things was in the seventh grade when mine was the only paper mache butterfly that looked as though it might drop bombs over Nagasaki. And come on ladies! You are the same women I make smile and laugh at the lunch table, office happy hours, and business meetings. My craft is WORDS and that's about all I'm good at. You need me to write a letter for you? I'll do it. You need me to help with your child's reading and writing? I love it. You need me to argue a point for you and make sure you win that argument? HELL YEAH! I'll do that any day of the week. You need someone to help make a dozen doilies? uh... sorry, I have to go floss my teeth, it's very important that I keep my gums healthy.
So... the reason this is on my mind at 7 in the morning is because, well, it's 7 in the morning and this blog post should be delivered to you right now but it won't be because I didn't post it on time. Why? Because I couldn't say no when one of those same knitting circle ladies walked up and asked if I would bake for the Pumpkin Bake Sale today. Yeah... me... baking for the department bake sale. Granted, I am a good cook, but baking is not my specialty. It takes extra time and it has a different feel to it than cooking a meal. And I'm a busy woman with a schedule that strangles me like a boa constrictor sometimes and the last thing I need to do is stand around the kitchen for hours and bake. However, the minute the word "uh..." came out of my mouth that lady focused a stare on me that I'm pretty sure could send me to Hell if I said no. I could see it in her eyes. Her non-verbal cues said to me, "You never craft with us, you never knit with us, and I'll be damned if you don't bake with us. I like you Pandora, but after this you will be on my list!" So, I'm sure you understand when I tell you I signed myself up to bake.
I planned on baking this past weekend. I do have an excellent recipe for a pumpkin cheese cake and I started to see it as an opportunity to show the ladies that I am not totally a home-making outcast. The problem was that I completely forgot about the stupid bake sale until yesterday at four thirty, as the same lady was walking past my cube and said, "Don't forget the bake sale tomorrow, Pandora. Have a good night!"
ARGH!!! At that moment I stopped what I was doing, sat back in my chair and just stared at my computer screen. There was no possible way I could bake that stupid cheese cake last night and have it come out as though I actually know what I'm doing in the kitchen. My boss, gentleman that he is, walked in and said, "Bring in a frozen cheese cake. That's what I'm doing." And I'm thinking, "Yes, but you don't have the same chromosomes as me and they don't look at you as though you belong on the Island Of Misfit Toys." So, the best solution I could come up with was to go to Trader Joe's and buy two boxes of their awesome pumpkin bread mix and bring it to the bake sale hoping they all forget that Pumpkin Cheese Cake is written by my name. That was the easiest way out, and I'm sure the clan of "made it from scratch" ladies will still frown upon me somehow, but I guess they need to learn the hard way that it isn't personal... I... just belong on the island of misfit toys.
(Disclaimer: I did not want to break my daily posting streak and I wrote this as fast as possible without review for errors. If you must grade it, at least grade content separately from grammar. -- Pandora)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Something For Nothing
The air is heavy lately -- thick and weighted with a sense of doom. The economy here seems particularly bad. The majority of my neighbors are now unemployed. The mom & pop shops close one right after the other -- strip malls left with nothing but The Good Will. The college degrees now work the check out line and the drive thru. Shirts and ties outweigh the usual down trodden look at the bus stop. My own company goes into its third wave of layoffs, and everyone I know wonders when it will be safe to breathe again.
Ah... America... dare I say something stupid like how the mighty have fallen?
I am no stranger to this heavy feeling, this ominous weight that impedes forward motion. I have learned, in years gone by, to create a light in the darkness to stay alive; I have clung to the promise of light to find peace in the midst of struggle. But this time is different. This time the darkness lies in the world around me, an external darkness, one in which I feel the lost dreams of others, the fear of others, the sorrow, the depression, and it lingers in the air we are all breathing.
How can one take a cleansing breath if the air is toxic?
People count on me to stay positive, to tell a story, to make them smile. How do I explain to them that even I sometimes hold a pen between my teeth to dupe my brain into happiness? How do I explain to them that they, the people, are the source of my stories and my sense of humor? How do I tell them that I can't laugh when I feel like crying alongside them? To them I am The Smiling Lady with a sense of faith and a bit of insight -- a Dear Abby with a little more style. But lately, I have wanted to stay in my bed and not move just like everyone else. Who am I, really?
Even the man in the White House.. King Of Hope... Prince Of Change... hmm... the best he can do is offer more government which, to me, does little more than add to the depressed state of the union. "The United States are destined either to surmount the gorgeous history of feudalism, or else prove the most tremendous failure of time"(Democratic Vistas: Walt Whitman! Where are you when we need you?).
The best stories I have, as of late, are all past tense: stories I should've written months ago. Now I work to revive them. I burn the midnight oil and pray that Blake was right, that Jesus is the imagination, The Great Creator, and He will come to save our souls through inspiration. Yet, I stare at the blank page and this is what I come up with.
"Few are aware how the great literature penetrates all, gives hue to all, shapes aggregates and individuals, and, after subtle ways, with the irresistible power, constructs, sustains, demolishes at will" (Democratic Vistas, Whitman).
What happens when the light has lost its luster and the remaining salt adds no flavor? People go blind and the palate grows dull.
I am sorry. I am, tonight anyway, at a loss.
For everything there is a season, and for the majority of us, this may very well be our time to mourn.
Ah... America... dare I say something stupid like how the mighty have fallen?
I am no stranger to this heavy feeling, this ominous weight that impedes forward motion. I have learned, in years gone by, to create a light in the darkness to stay alive; I have clung to the promise of light to find peace in the midst of struggle. But this time is different. This time the darkness lies in the world around me, an external darkness, one in which I feel the lost dreams of others, the fear of others, the sorrow, the depression, and it lingers in the air we are all breathing.
How can one take a cleansing breath if the air is toxic?
People count on me to stay positive, to tell a story, to make them smile. How do I explain to them that even I sometimes hold a pen between my teeth to dupe my brain into happiness? How do I explain to them that they, the people, are the source of my stories and my sense of humor? How do I tell them that I can't laugh when I feel like crying alongside them? To them I am The Smiling Lady with a sense of faith and a bit of insight -- a Dear Abby with a little more style. But lately, I have wanted to stay in my bed and not move just like everyone else. Who am I, really?
Even the man in the White House.. King Of Hope... Prince Of Change... hmm... the best he can do is offer more government which, to me, does little more than add to the depressed state of the union. "The United States are destined either to surmount the gorgeous history of feudalism, or else prove the most tremendous failure of time"(Democratic Vistas: Walt Whitman! Where are you when we need you?).
The best stories I have, as of late, are all past tense: stories I should've written months ago. Now I work to revive them. I burn the midnight oil and pray that Blake was right, that Jesus is the imagination, The Great Creator, and He will come to save our souls through inspiration. Yet, I stare at the blank page and this is what I come up with.
"Few are aware how the great literature penetrates all, gives hue to all, shapes aggregates and individuals, and, after subtle ways, with the irresistible power, constructs, sustains, demolishes at will" (Democratic Vistas, Whitman).
What happens when the light has lost its luster and the remaining salt adds no flavor? People go blind and the palate grows dull.
I am sorry. I am, tonight anyway, at a loss.
For everything there is a season, and for the majority of us, this may very well be our time to mourn.
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Lunch Room: Politically Incorrect Love Fantasies
Misanthrope: (sits down at Pandora's table) Heya.
Pandora: (looks up from her book) How goes the battle?
Misanthrope: The cubicle is winning thus far. You?
Pandora: Aye... the great oppressor with no ceiling and no real door. Haven't seen you in a while. How was your weekend? Any lovely ladies to speak of?
Misanthrope: (speaks through the side of his nearly full mouth) Weekend was, eh... Nothing significant. No significant ladies to speak of. What about you? Secret admirers? Special Valentines?
Pandora: Eh, I continue to be a menace to myself and society, so no special valentines or admirers. Although, I did come home the other night and found that flowers had been delivered to me from some no name sender. I have a stalker (or did have) that I threatened with police last December, so I assumed it was another stupid wooing attempt from him. However, as I learned this morning, the flowers actually came from a guy that works at the Walgreens by my house – which means he had to go looking through files, etc., to find my contact info. I am…disturbed, even though it may be harmless.
Misanthrope: Ooh, a Walgreens admirer? You must have made quite the impression on him! Careful with those drug people… (takes a bite of his sandwich) they have access to some scary stuff… (chews a bit more) Never accept a drink from a pharmacist!
Pandora: Yeah, I’m not sure what to do about this problem with love (or the lack thereof) that I’m having lately. All I did to the Walgreen guy was smile and make small talk, maybe a joke or two whenever I went in to pay for things. Seriously... It frustrates me! Did I ever tell you how I had to stop going to the Circle K by my house?
Misanthrope: (shakes his head and grins as he continues to chew his sandwich)
Pandora: Pfft... ya! I had to stop going to my favorite Circle K for my morning coffee because the old bald guy behind the counter started creeping me out! He somehow thought I was coming to see him every morning and not coming for the coffee.
Misanthrope: (peeking over his water cup) Does anyone truly go to Circle K for "the coffee?" I thought that's why you went to Starbucks. Are you sure it wasn't for the Bald Guy?
Pandora: (glares at him)
Misanthrope: What? I wouldn't know! You're the coffee fan, not me! I just... well... I'm sorry. Please... continue.
Pandora: I'm being dead serious right now, Misanthrope. I think I'm cursed! I had gone to dinner back in August with a guy that bored me to tears and after that he proceeded to stalk me and forced me to get mean! And I hate to get mean.
Misanthrope: You do? I thought you thrived on it.
Pandora: And you know the story about Bombastic Babbling Boy.
Misanthrope: Oh yes, that was a good one. The one where you enjoyed getting all, what did you call yourself, Ice Queen or something? Oh, but what am I thinking. You didn't enjoy being mean that time.
Pandora: Well, I did enjoy that one, but that was different, and you know it. But these things happen alot and it’s really starting to drive me nuts. What did I do to deserve this crap and how do I make it stop?
Misanthrope: (starts to unwrap his cookie) No clue. Thought about growing some hooves?
Pandora: Maybe I'll just let myself go.
Misanthrope: ...let yourself go?
Pandora: Yeah, you know, eat McDonalds three times a day, stop dressing nice, stop taking care of myself. If I did that the Circle K Baldy wouldn't feel the call to "meet my needs," so to speak. I won't have to get flowers from some random Walgreen guy that mistakes kindness as an invitation for romance. I won't have to sick the police on the guy that likes to show up unannounced at my house because he's convinced, I love him I just don't know it yet. If I have to be alone because God has somehow seen fit that I never meet my match, then I’ll have to make it so these idiots stop tormenting me. I can’t stand it anymore
Misanthrope: (wipes the crumbs from his hands and crumples his napkin) Unfortunately, going large wouldn’t stop them -- men, that is. There are those that prefer ‘em big. And I was going to suggest wearing a ring on the ol’ marriage finger, but then, there are those that prefer ‘em that way too. My point is, you’re screwed. There’s no way around it. There will always be men. I know. As a man myself, though often ashamed to admit my membership, I can say that we will be rationally or irrationally attracted to pretty much anything that moves at some point… if it can fog up a spoon, you know? Boost McDonalds stock, if you will. But it won’t help. Resistance is futile.
Pandora: (sits back in silent thought) What if I go all natural and never shower or shave in addition to the fatness?
Misanthrope: Still no. Mountain men everywhere will still go gaga… I’m sorry. No chance.
Pandora: (...sigh...) So what you’re saying is that I may as well just stay the same since nothing is going to change anyway.
Misanthrope: (raises an affirmative eyebrow)
Pandora: (plops her elbows on the table and purposely stirs her coffee) Life...it mocks me... regularly.
Misanthrope: Me? I'm the opposite. I could go get an amazing beach body through hours upon hours of tormenting exercise and get cosmetic surgery to look like Brad Pitt, and I still wouldn't get an ounce of attention. Eventually, I'd start working at a Circle K and start making googly eyes at a customer buying her daily coffee...
Pandora: Well, if bald man had done all of that, he may have gotten some attention from me. I guess the real question is -- would you prefer a blimpy girl or an unkempt showerless girl?
Misanthrope: Huh. Those are my only choices? That's rough. Hmmm... Well, is unkempt showerless girl fit? And... can I take the garden hose to her once in a while?
Pandora: You can take the hose to her from time to time, particularly in the summer. And yes, she’s fit, she’s just unkempt and showerless. Kinda like a French feminist, or …something like that.
Misanthrope: So she has a butch buzzcut and wears a communist jumpsuit and no bra? Ouch… I was originally seeing some sort of ugly duckling that, as long as she had a good foundation, could be transformed into something of beauty by just a few quick lessons in hygiene and a day at the spa… you know, an Eliza Doolittle… but now…
Tough call. Tough call…
Pandora: Okay, I take it back. Bad comparison. No butch buzzcut or communist jumpsuits. More like unruly, unkempt, and full of dread locks from prolonged bed head. Tons of armpit and leg hair from no time spent shaving. Probably greasy skin, maybe some pimples, because of the no shower thing. Not to mention the odor. And she would most likely throw a fit about taking a bath, just like Eliza Doolittle.
Misanthrope: But a good foundation? Nice bone structure and a decent shape?
Pandora: Sure. I'll allow that.
Misanthrope: Huh, well, at least potential is there, right? I mean, sure I’m OCD and would only be able to hold her hand with latex/nitrile-gloved hands. And sure, I’d line my couch and bed and anywhere she’d go with plastic… and yeah, perhaps I’d be taking bleach showers. But dammit, I think I’m going to take the shallow road here and say that, in the case where I am given only a choice of between fatty or dirty, my choice would be to the one with seemingly more immediate hotness potential. I mean, sure, they both have potential. But the one would take months and months of dieting and exercise. Whereas the other I could slip a roofie and commit to a day spa and have them take care of her in a day. You know, something I could repeat ... monthly? ...weekly maybe? I guess I have to admit that I’m shallow like that… What about you?!
Pandora: I have an issue with people that smell. Having a man with a smelling pit wrap his arm around me and potentially make my clothes, skin, and hair smell is absolutely terrifying. And what about the teeth? I imagine part of the unkempt is to have disgustingly filthy teeth and rancid breath. That might be a severe issue. I mean… you’re worried about covering the bed with plastic but I’m thinking the desire to let them near the bed might be an issue. Nose plugs may be necessary too. Weekly trips to the day spa still only happen once every seven days. And it may be the only time I seriously mean it when I ask, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Misanthrope: (sits back in his chair) Oo! You just made some disgusting points. Hm. How about this? Lets reduce our options and say that we are kidnapped and sent to some 3rd world country and forced to be the love slave of either a fatty or a dirty… there are no plastic sheets or nose plugs. We are at the mercy of these two creatures. Then which would you choose? I might have to go with the fatty in this case. At least I can maintain some sort of cleanliness… and at least there’d be the possibility she’d smother me to death and I could be put out of my misery…
Pandora: Yeah… I can’t handle filth. (...sigh...) Funny how we’ve both lost so much faith that we just created a scenario where “love” will be forced upon us in the form of an oppressively obese Iraqi that might mercifully kill a couple of American Infidels via amorous asphyxiation.
Misanthrope: Yep. If only we could be so lucky. (grabs his lunch box) Take it easy, Pandora. Don't work too late tonight.
Pandora: I won't. Have a good one.
Pandora: (looks up from her book) How goes the battle?
Misanthrope: The cubicle is winning thus far. You?
Pandora: Aye... the great oppressor with no ceiling and no real door. Haven't seen you in a while. How was your weekend? Any lovely ladies to speak of?
Misanthrope: (speaks through the side of his nearly full mouth) Weekend was, eh... Nothing significant. No significant ladies to speak of. What about you? Secret admirers? Special Valentines?
Pandora: Eh, I continue to be a menace to myself and society, so no special valentines or admirers. Although, I did come home the other night and found that flowers had been delivered to me from some no name sender. I have a stalker (or did have) that I threatened with police last December, so I assumed it was another stupid wooing attempt from him. However, as I learned this morning, the flowers actually came from a guy that works at the Walgreens by my house – which means he had to go looking through files, etc., to find my contact info. I am…disturbed, even though it may be harmless.
Misanthrope: Ooh, a Walgreens admirer? You must have made quite the impression on him! Careful with those drug people… (takes a bite of his sandwich) they have access to some scary stuff… (chews a bit more) Never accept a drink from a pharmacist!
Pandora: Yeah, I’m not sure what to do about this problem with love (or the lack thereof) that I’m having lately. All I did to the Walgreen guy was smile and make small talk, maybe a joke or two whenever I went in to pay for things. Seriously... It frustrates me! Did I ever tell you how I had to stop going to the Circle K by my house?
Misanthrope: (shakes his head and grins as he continues to chew his sandwich)
Pandora: Pfft... ya! I had to stop going to my favorite Circle K for my morning coffee because the old bald guy behind the counter started creeping me out! He somehow thought I was coming to see him every morning and not coming for the coffee.
Misanthrope: (peeking over his water cup) Does anyone truly go to Circle K for "the coffee?" I thought that's why you went to Starbucks. Are you sure it wasn't for the Bald Guy?
Pandora: (glares at him)
Misanthrope: What? I wouldn't know! You're the coffee fan, not me! I just... well... I'm sorry. Please... continue.
Pandora: I'm being dead serious right now, Misanthrope. I think I'm cursed! I had gone to dinner back in August with a guy that bored me to tears and after that he proceeded to stalk me and forced me to get mean! And I hate to get mean.
Misanthrope: You do? I thought you thrived on it.
Pandora: And you know the story about Bombastic Babbling Boy.
Misanthrope: Oh yes, that was a good one. The one where you enjoyed getting all, what did you call yourself, Ice Queen or something? Oh, but what am I thinking. You didn't enjoy being mean that time.
Pandora: Well, I did enjoy that one, but that was different, and you know it. But these things happen alot and it’s really starting to drive me nuts. What did I do to deserve this crap and how do I make it stop?
Misanthrope: (starts to unwrap his cookie) No clue. Thought about growing some hooves?
Pandora: Maybe I'll just let myself go.
Misanthrope: ...let yourself go?
Pandora: Yeah, you know, eat McDonalds three times a day, stop dressing nice, stop taking care of myself. If I did that the Circle K Baldy wouldn't feel the call to "meet my needs," so to speak. I won't have to get flowers from some random Walgreen guy that mistakes kindness as an invitation for romance. I won't have to sick the police on the guy that likes to show up unannounced at my house because he's convinced, I love him I just don't know it yet. If I have to be alone because God has somehow seen fit that I never meet my match, then I’ll have to make it so these idiots stop tormenting me. I can’t stand it anymore
Misanthrope: (wipes the crumbs from his hands and crumples his napkin) Unfortunately, going large wouldn’t stop them -- men, that is. There are those that prefer ‘em big. And I was going to suggest wearing a ring on the ol’ marriage finger, but then, there are those that prefer ‘em that way too. My point is, you’re screwed. There’s no way around it. There will always be men. I know. As a man myself, though often ashamed to admit my membership, I can say that we will be rationally or irrationally attracted to pretty much anything that moves at some point… if it can fog up a spoon, you know? Boost McDonalds stock, if you will. But it won’t help. Resistance is futile.
Pandora: (sits back in silent thought) What if I go all natural and never shower or shave in addition to the fatness?
Misanthrope: Still no. Mountain men everywhere will still go gaga… I’m sorry. No chance.
Pandora: (...sigh...) So what you’re saying is that I may as well just stay the same since nothing is going to change anyway.
Misanthrope: (raises an affirmative eyebrow)
Pandora: (plops her elbows on the table and purposely stirs her coffee) Life...it mocks me... regularly.
Misanthrope: Me? I'm the opposite. I could go get an amazing beach body through hours upon hours of tormenting exercise and get cosmetic surgery to look like Brad Pitt, and I still wouldn't get an ounce of attention. Eventually, I'd start working at a Circle K and start making googly eyes at a customer buying her daily coffee...
Pandora: Well, if bald man had done all of that, he may have gotten some attention from me. I guess the real question is -- would you prefer a blimpy girl or an unkempt showerless girl?
Misanthrope: Huh. Those are my only choices? That's rough. Hmmm... Well, is unkempt showerless girl fit? And... can I take the garden hose to her once in a while?
Pandora: You can take the hose to her from time to time, particularly in the summer. And yes, she’s fit, she’s just unkempt and showerless. Kinda like a French feminist, or …something like that.
Misanthrope: So she has a butch buzzcut and wears a communist jumpsuit and no bra? Ouch… I was originally seeing some sort of ugly duckling that, as long as she had a good foundation, could be transformed into something of beauty by just a few quick lessons in hygiene and a day at the spa… you know, an Eliza Doolittle… but now…
Tough call. Tough call…
Pandora: Okay, I take it back. Bad comparison. No butch buzzcut or communist jumpsuits. More like unruly, unkempt, and full of dread locks from prolonged bed head. Tons of armpit and leg hair from no time spent shaving. Probably greasy skin, maybe some pimples, because of the no shower thing. Not to mention the odor. And she would most likely throw a fit about taking a bath, just like Eliza Doolittle.
Misanthrope: But a good foundation? Nice bone structure and a decent shape?
Pandora: Sure. I'll allow that.
Misanthrope: Huh, well, at least potential is there, right? I mean, sure I’m OCD and would only be able to hold her hand with latex/nitrile-gloved hands. And sure, I’d line my couch and bed and anywhere she’d go with plastic… and yeah, perhaps I’d be taking bleach showers. But dammit, I think I’m going to take the shallow road here and say that, in the case where I am given only a choice of between fatty or dirty, my choice would be to the one with seemingly more immediate hotness potential. I mean, sure, they both have potential. But the one would take months and months of dieting and exercise. Whereas the other I could slip a roofie and commit to a day spa and have them take care of her in a day. You know, something I could repeat ... monthly? ...weekly maybe? I guess I have to admit that I’m shallow like that… What about you?!
Pandora: I have an issue with people that smell. Having a man with a smelling pit wrap his arm around me and potentially make my clothes, skin, and hair smell is absolutely terrifying. And what about the teeth? I imagine part of the unkempt is to have disgustingly filthy teeth and rancid breath. That might be a severe issue. I mean… you’re worried about covering the bed with plastic but I’m thinking the desire to let them near the bed might be an issue. Nose plugs may be necessary too. Weekly trips to the day spa still only happen once every seven days. And it may be the only time I seriously mean it when I ask, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Misanthrope: (sits back in his chair) Oo! You just made some disgusting points. Hm. How about this? Lets reduce our options and say that we are kidnapped and sent to some 3rd world country and forced to be the love slave of either a fatty or a dirty… there are no plastic sheets or nose plugs. We are at the mercy of these two creatures. Then which would you choose? I might have to go with the fatty in this case. At least I can maintain some sort of cleanliness… and at least there’d be the possibility she’d smother me to death and I could be put out of my misery…
Pandora: Yeah… I can’t handle filth. (...sigh...) Funny how we’ve both lost so much faith that we just created a scenario where “love” will be forced upon us in the form of an oppressively obese Iraqi that might mercifully kill a couple of American Infidels via amorous asphyxiation.
Misanthrope: Yep. If only we could be so lucky. (grabs his lunch box) Take it easy, Pandora. Don't work too late tonight.
Pandora: I won't. Have a good one.
Neighbors, Windmills, And The Proper Disposal Of Garbage
So, I live in an apartment (one of the more humble moments of my existence). One of the nice things about this living situation is that instead of the usual covered parking, I actually have a garage. Granted, I have to share this garage with three other people but... it's a garage. What else can I say?
Anyway, there's a dude that lives directly beneath me (also one of my garage mates). He's a mechanic and in his portion of the garage is a non-operational vehicle that he's restoring (I've seen no changes in this vehicle in the past four months -- apparently it's a "work in progress").
A few weeks back, this neighbor of mine took his garbage out and seemed to have mistaken the garage for the dumpster. In other words, he left the bag of garbage on his side of the garage for days. The stench grew and grew until it became a topic of conversation for my daughter and I, both coming and going from our home. Eventually, after much nasal abuse, the dude did us a favor and took the garbage to the dumpster and, well, at least for me, all was forgiven.
Another plus to apartment living is that one can pretty much hear everything that goes on. For example, the weather has been so nice lately that I have left my windows open in the evening which, at times, makes for better entertainment than any TV series has to offer. I say this because one night last week, as I was lying in bed, the neighbor from downstairs decided to step onto his patio for a cigarette while talking on the phone. To save some of my more sensitive readers, I will spare you the vulgar details, but apparently this man and a few of his cohorts have decided it would be financially lucrative to create an adult film or two. I was fortunate to hear the names of each character involved. For story telling purposes, you must know that he proudly named himself Windmill Dick because he can "swing that thing around like a windmill." Needless to say, I had a good laugh at this man and his "ingenuity," and I've been calling him by his pseudonym ever since.
So... the other morning Hope and I walk out to the garage and as we step inside our noses are overcome by a new yet familiar garbage stench. Hope groans and holds her nose exclaiming, "Not again!" And sure enough, as I turn my head toward my neighbors "work in progress" I notice a bag of garbage that didn't make it to the dumpster. I groaned, knowing that it would be days before that thing would be removed. With each passing day the stench grew worse and by Wednesday it had successfully made its way into my car. It was so bad that even after driving with the windows down and hours away from the diseased bag of trash, I could still smell the odor inside my vehicle. Well... that was it. That was more than I could take. I basically had two options: 1) remove the garbage myself or 2) say something. Obviously, the easier way out would be to remove the disturbance myself, but the thought of removing trash that wasn't my own, or even remotely related to me, was troublesome. So, this morning, the following note was left on his front door:
Dear Windmill Dick,
I, of all people, understand the lackadaisical approach to chores and household duties. I understand that the garbage is a nuisance, at best, particularly since the dumpster seems miles away from the front door. However, I don’t understand why it seems acceptable to make the nostrils of one’s garage mates suffer at the expense of what is most convenient to the self. Over the past three days, the odor of your garbage has escalated to the point of wonder – meaning, I wonder if I should alert the authorities because it smells like the decaying flesh of someone who may have disappeared due to a recent and unpublicized dismemberment. Said odor has also penetrated the "circle of safety" within my own vehicle – meaning, my car still smelled like your disgusting garbage after I drove away, stepped out of the car for a moment, and returned to my vehicle. I have enough trouble as it is in this life without driving around in a vaporous cloud of someone else’s rank garbage. I am not one to complain much, nor am I one to bother my neighbors with trifles, but when it comes to my sense of smell and the fact that an unwanted odor is invading my personal space I would have to say, dear sir, this is no trifling matter. That being said, would you be kind enough to remove the garbage from the garage and place it in the dumpster where it belongs.
Much Obliged,
Pandora
Needless to say, I came home to a garbage free garage today.
Anyway, there's a dude that lives directly beneath me (also one of my garage mates). He's a mechanic and in his portion of the garage is a non-operational vehicle that he's restoring (I've seen no changes in this vehicle in the past four months -- apparently it's a "work in progress").
A few weeks back, this neighbor of mine took his garbage out and seemed to have mistaken the garage for the dumpster. In other words, he left the bag of garbage on his side of the garage for days. The stench grew and grew until it became a topic of conversation for my daughter and I, both coming and going from our home. Eventually, after much nasal abuse, the dude did us a favor and took the garbage to the dumpster and, well, at least for me, all was forgiven.
Another plus to apartment living is that one can pretty much hear everything that goes on. For example, the weather has been so nice lately that I have left my windows open in the evening which, at times, makes for better entertainment than any TV series has to offer. I say this because one night last week, as I was lying in bed, the neighbor from downstairs decided to step onto his patio for a cigarette while talking on the phone. To save some of my more sensitive readers, I will spare you the vulgar details, but apparently this man and a few of his cohorts have decided it would be financially lucrative to create an adult film or two. I was fortunate to hear the names of each character involved. For story telling purposes, you must know that he proudly named himself Windmill Dick because he can "swing that thing around like a windmill." Needless to say, I had a good laugh at this man and his "ingenuity," and I've been calling him by his pseudonym ever since.
So... the other morning Hope and I walk out to the garage and as we step inside our noses are overcome by a new yet familiar garbage stench. Hope groans and holds her nose exclaiming, "Not again!" And sure enough, as I turn my head toward my neighbors "work in progress" I notice a bag of garbage that didn't make it to the dumpster. I groaned, knowing that it would be days before that thing would be removed. With each passing day the stench grew worse and by Wednesday it had successfully made its way into my car. It was so bad that even after driving with the windows down and hours away from the diseased bag of trash, I could still smell the odor inside my vehicle. Well... that was it. That was more than I could take. I basically had two options: 1) remove the garbage myself or 2) say something. Obviously, the easier way out would be to remove the disturbance myself, but the thought of removing trash that wasn't my own, or even remotely related to me, was troublesome. So, this morning, the following note was left on his front door:
Dear Windmill Dick,
I, of all people, understand the lackadaisical approach to chores and household duties. I understand that the garbage is a nuisance, at best, particularly since the dumpster seems miles away from the front door. However, I don’t understand why it seems acceptable to make the nostrils of one’s garage mates suffer at the expense of what is most convenient to the self. Over the past three days, the odor of your garbage has escalated to the point of wonder – meaning, I wonder if I should alert the authorities because it smells like the decaying flesh of someone who may have disappeared due to a recent and unpublicized dismemberment. Said odor has also penetrated the "circle of safety" within my own vehicle – meaning, my car still smelled like your disgusting garbage after I drove away, stepped out of the car for a moment, and returned to my vehicle. I have enough trouble as it is in this life without driving around in a vaporous cloud of someone else’s rank garbage. I am not one to complain much, nor am I one to bother my neighbors with trifles, but when it comes to my sense of smell and the fact that an unwanted odor is invading my personal space I would have to say, dear sir, this is no trifling matter. That being said, would you be kind enough to remove the garbage from the garage and place it in the dumpster where it belongs.
Much Obliged,
Pandora
Needless to say, I came home to a garbage free garage today.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Rock Eaters
So the other day I'm walking through the grocery store with my daughter, Hope. As I pass the meats and head over to the produce, she taps me on the elbow and says, "Mom! Look at that guy!" As I turn my eyes in the direction she indicated, I notice a muscle bound man, just shy of six feet tall, wearing a yellow T-shirt with cut-off sleeves (you know, so all humans can properly admire the glorious result of his laborious self-sculpting), tight red shorts (that seemed tighter and shorter than what seems socially permissible), and some Nikes with the cutest little ankle socks (particularly for one who intends to show masculinity through what others may consider brawn). Not caring too much about this human spectacle she pointed out, I simply said (in my don't-bug-me-with-trifles-because-I-hate-the-grocery-store-and-want-to-get-out-of-here-as-fast-as-possible voice), "Yep. He must lift weights alot," and then kept on walking.
Now, it's important for you to understand that Hope turned 10 in July. Until recently, she has been a tomboy showing no interest in the opposite gender for any reason other than she wholeheartedly considers herself their equal in both sports and matters of the intellect: she can throw a football better than most of your sons (which is something she didn't get from me) and she skipped two grades in Math this year (also something she didn't get from me), placing herself in the same category as the boy genius who, since kindergarten, has said he wants to be a geologist (What kid says that? Geologist? Really? ...at 5? I'm not sure I even knew what that was until college). She is, in her soul, as strong and independent as I, a 35 year old woman, still strive to be. This is something about her that I both admire and encourage.
Over the past few months, however, I have noticed that the choice in clothing is a bit more feminine than usual (still not frills and lace, but pink is more frequent than it used to be), the hair is done more often, jewelry has been making an appearance and, as expected, I'm starting to hear about what boys on the television are visually pleasing ("I think he's cute, Mom. Do you think he's cute? I think he's cute."). So... unfortunately for me, I suspect puberty is a hop, skip, and a jump from here; and as we stepped into the produce aisle, leaving Musclebound Mania behind, it occurred to me that for the first time in ten years she noticed a) a dude in the grocery store and b) a Rock Eater at that.
Knowing my daughter the way I do and realizing, somewhere between the meat section and the produce aisle, that her fascination with Muscle Mania over there may have had more to do with her transition from child to tween than I would like to admit. Pondering this further as we stroll through the cereal aisle, I start telling myself that I need to pay more attention to these possible teaching opportunities. Watching her grow the way I do, I am absolutely certain that Rock Eater will be her "type of man" even less than he is mine (and if she is smart, she will heed my wisdom, and if I am smart, I will impart said wisdom upon her while she still thinks I'm cool).
Deep in thought, I take my place in line at the check-stand and start putting my groceries on the counter when Hope suddenly taps my arm again. As I look up at her, I can see that her star-gazed eyes are focused on something ahead of me in line. I turn my head only to see, yet again, Muscle Mania one person between us, paying for his groceries. I can see his six dozen eggs and his countless cans of tuna waiting to be bagged up as he turns his checkbook to the cashier and says, "Can you help me with this? It's been a long time since I've written a check and I don't remember how to do it." At this point, I nonchalantly return my focus to the groceries and say, "Hope, let me tell you something about men like that." She looks up at me, as if she knows she's about to hear something good, and I continue, "Men like that spend too much time looking in the mirror and not enough time cracking a book. In other words, little one, they may be fun to look at for a short while, but you will never be able to hold a good conversation with them." She thought about it for a moment, the stargazedness leaving her eyes, and as she looks at him this time she says, "oooOOOoooh... So that's what you mean when you say certain men eat rocks!" I smile to myself and feel the thrill of successful instruction, "Yes, sweetheart, that's exactly what I mean when I say, some dudes eat rocks."
Now, it's important for you to understand that Hope turned 10 in July. Until recently, she has been a tomboy showing no interest in the opposite gender for any reason other than she wholeheartedly considers herself their equal in both sports and matters of the intellect: she can throw a football better than most of your sons (which is something she didn't get from me) and she skipped two grades in Math this year (also something she didn't get from me), placing herself in the same category as the boy genius who, since kindergarten, has said he wants to be a geologist (What kid says that? Geologist? Really? ...at 5? I'm not sure I even knew what that was until college). She is, in her soul, as strong and independent as I, a 35 year old woman, still strive to be. This is something about her that I both admire and encourage.
Over the past few months, however, I have noticed that the choice in clothing is a bit more feminine than usual (still not frills and lace, but pink is more frequent than it used to be), the hair is done more often, jewelry has been making an appearance and, as expected, I'm starting to hear about what boys on the television are visually pleasing ("I think he's cute, Mom. Do you think he's cute? I think he's cute."). So... unfortunately for me, I suspect puberty is a hop, skip, and a jump from here; and as we stepped into the produce aisle, leaving Musclebound Mania behind, it occurred to me that for the first time in ten years she noticed a) a dude in the grocery store and b) a Rock Eater at that.
Knowing my daughter the way I do and realizing, somewhere between the meat section and the produce aisle, that her fascination with Muscle Mania over there may have had more to do with her transition from child to tween than I would like to admit. Pondering this further as we stroll through the cereal aisle, I start telling myself that I need to pay more attention to these possible teaching opportunities. Watching her grow the way I do, I am absolutely certain that Rock Eater will be her "type of man" even less than he is mine (and if she is smart, she will heed my wisdom, and if I am smart, I will impart said wisdom upon her while she still thinks I'm cool).
Deep in thought, I take my place in line at the check-stand and start putting my groceries on the counter when Hope suddenly taps my arm again. As I look up at her, I can see that her star-gazed eyes are focused on something ahead of me in line. I turn my head only to see, yet again, Muscle Mania one person between us, paying for his groceries. I can see his six dozen eggs and his countless cans of tuna waiting to be bagged up as he turns his checkbook to the cashier and says, "Can you help me with this? It's been a long time since I've written a check and I don't remember how to do it." At this point, I nonchalantly return my focus to the groceries and say, "Hope, let me tell you something about men like that." She looks up at me, as if she knows she's about to hear something good, and I continue, "Men like that spend too much time looking in the mirror and not enough time cracking a book. In other words, little one, they may be fun to look at for a short while, but you will never be able to hold a good conversation with them." She thought about it for a moment, the stargazedness leaving her eyes, and as she looks at him this time she says, "oooOOOoooh... So that's what you mean when you say certain men eat rocks!" I smile to myself and feel the thrill of successful instruction, "Yes, sweetheart, that's exactly what I mean when I say, some dudes eat rocks."
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Drain
The drains are clogged
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow
I'm standing in the backup
now covering my ankles
And all that I keep trying to wash away
never gets past my feet
I stand and listen for the slow drain
I wait for it to slink away
but it still lingers around the soles
and all I can do is pat them dry
and accept the filmy residue that remains
The drains are clogged
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow
I am stooped over the sink
washing my hands of it
staring at the filthy residue
that refuses to go down
The water pools in the basin
suds and spit from tooth and nail
It nauseates me!
This pool, this backup, this left-over
filth that just won't wash away!
And someone died today!
And someone else loses their job tomorrow!
And no one has time to give them
a proper sending or say a solemn farewell!
And someone else says they're too busy surviving
And someone else is convinced this is Hell.
The drains are clogged...
And someone should call the plumber.
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow
I'm standing in the backup
now covering my ankles
And all that I keep trying to wash away
never gets past my feet
I stand and listen for the slow drain
I wait for it to slink away
but it still lingers around the soles
and all I can do is pat them dry
and accept the filmy residue that remains
The drains are clogged
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow
I am stooped over the sink
washing my hands of it
staring at the filthy residue
that refuses to go down
The water pools in the basin
suds and spit from tooth and nail
It nauseates me!
This pool, this backup, this left-over
filth that just won't wash away!
And someone died today!
And someone else loses their job tomorrow!
And no one has time to give them
a proper sending or say a solemn farewell!
And someone else says they're too busy surviving
And someone else is convinced this is Hell.
The drains are clogged...
And someone should call the plumber.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sometimes I Want To Wake Up And Say...
...the hell?! It's September 23. The last time I wrote it was July (and I have to say I was proud of that last post, aesthetically speaking) and suddenly I find myself walking through the grocery store surrounded by cheap Halloween decore.
Seriously, I'm like Rip van Winkle and I woke up to a world turning without me -- one minute it's July and the next minute it's the second half of the fiscal year and my company is laying people off again. (nothing like working hand in hand with the government to create the need for brown shoes and communism -- at least I hear the unemployment checks should receive an increase soon)
Truly, if there's anything that irks me in this fourth decade of my existence (I like saying it that way, makes me feel younger. I'm just a pre-schooler in the grand scheme of Life and its Lovely Little Lessons.) it's that I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. I know what that's like too! My great grandmother grew up on a farm and when I was about five she told me how her dad would tell her to ring the chicken's neck so her mom could start dinner. She would go outside and grab the chicken by its head and swing it around, lasso style, and then jerk the chicken like a whip and the head would pop right off. The body though, after getting back onto its feet, would run rampantly around the yard for a while before finally accepting its fate and realizing it wasn't supposed to function without its head.
(I never forgot that story. You know, I was five... with an imagination much more vivid than the one I have now. Really... the horror... I think the world will suffer once that generation and my parents' generation is no more. They really have the best stories. What can I tell my grandchildren? "This one time, I bought a chicken from Albertsons that had three breasts. That was when I realized they were using too much growth hormone. A year or so after that they started selling cloned meat and well... that's when I went completely organic... sorta...")
Anyway, that's what I feel like -- someone popped my head off a few years ago and my body is still running around like it's supposed to function. And I'm constantly living with this stupid thought that life is passing me by and it isn't because I'm not doing anything it's because I'm doing everything except for what I really want to do! Obligations obligations obligations... political appearances here, smiley faces there, rub an elbow, brown a nose... Oh look! Someone else realized I have a skill they can use to their advantage! Oh YES! And they want me to help them look good for FREE! SIGN ME UP! SIGN ME UP! I would love to put in ALL OF MY EXTRA PERSONAL TIME TO THIS PROJECT!! I would love to stress out over one more thing! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(hopefully, you pick up on the sarcasm there but, as is usually the case, there is truth to sarcasm... meaning -- I was indeed working extra hard on more than one project both in and outside of work for little more than a pat on the back and thanks for making me look good. I think, halfway through my fourth decade of Life, I'm starting to realize that it doesn't pay to be the creative force behind someone else's greatness, even if you do take pride in what you created. It feels a lot like doing the bully's homework in an attempt to keep your lunch money.)
In the meantime, two weeks before I complete one of said extracurricular pro-bono projects, would it be a shock to you if I said my health took a serious dive? If you are one of my readers that is only in your second or third decade of life, you may be sitting there saying, "Health? What's that?" But any of the others who have graduated from Life Lesson Level Three are going through their memory files right now and reading this with complete understanding and find themselves wanting to say something to me like:
"Don't take life so seriously. No one gets out alive."
Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing as I was sitting in the Emergency Room a few weeks ago. The problem is, my nature is to take life seriously. I believe in giving everything I've got to the things that matter most. What seems to be my problem is that I also give everything I've got to the things that don't matter most. I apparently need a class on priorities and time management (which should include time to eat healthy, sleep well, exercise properly, and have a glass of wine as I sit and tap into my imagination and create something that feeds my soul). And maybe, in Life's perfect plan, this is the class I unknowlingly signed up for this fall semester of my 35th year. So far it's a great class filled with medical terminology I have to look up and research so I understand more about what it is, exams that sometimes include cool medications reminiscent of the more carefree days between the first and second decades of my life, and Doctors who can teach and mentor me as I move through this transitional period of my physical existence. The final exam (of course) is a test in the practical application of all I am learning and well, the quality of my lifespan is the grade. It really is a lot like grad school, it's just that the doctor has MD instead of PhD at the end of his name. The result though, improved quality of life, is about the same. (even if I'm not working in my field, I am convinced my education has been my saving grace more than once in terms of job security and my paycheck ... at least until they start passing out brown shoes and we find ourselves needing a PhD to work at McDonalds)
Seriously, I'm like Rip van Winkle and I woke up to a world turning without me -- one minute it's July and the next minute it's the second half of the fiscal year and my company is laying people off again. (nothing like working hand in hand with the government to create the need for brown shoes and communism -- at least I hear the unemployment checks should receive an increase soon)
Truly, if there's anything that irks me in this fourth decade of my existence (I like saying it that way, makes me feel younger. I'm just a pre-schooler in the grand scheme of Life and its Lovely Little Lessons.) it's that I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. I know what that's like too! My great grandmother grew up on a farm and when I was about five she told me how her dad would tell her to ring the chicken's neck so her mom could start dinner. She would go outside and grab the chicken by its head and swing it around, lasso style, and then jerk the chicken like a whip and the head would pop right off. The body though, after getting back onto its feet, would run rampantly around the yard for a while before finally accepting its fate and realizing it wasn't supposed to function without its head.
(I never forgot that story. You know, I was five... with an imagination much more vivid than the one I have now. Really... the horror... I think the world will suffer once that generation and my parents' generation is no more. They really have the best stories. What can I tell my grandchildren? "This one time, I bought a chicken from Albertsons that had three breasts. That was when I realized they were using too much growth hormone. A year or so after that they started selling cloned meat and well... that's when I went completely organic... sorta...")
Anyway, that's what I feel like -- someone popped my head off a few years ago and my body is still running around like it's supposed to function. And I'm constantly living with this stupid thought that life is passing me by and it isn't because I'm not doing anything it's because I'm doing everything except for what I really want to do! Obligations obligations obligations... political appearances here, smiley faces there, rub an elbow, brown a nose... Oh look! Someone else realized I have a skill they can use to their advantage! Oh YES! And they want me to help them look good for FREE! SIGN ME UP! SIGN ME UP! I would love to put in ALL OF MY EXTRA PERSONAL TIME TO THIS PROJECT!! I would love to stress out over one more thing! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(hopefully, you pick up on the sarcasm there but, as is usually the case, there is truth to sarcasm... meaning -- I was indeed working extra hard on more than one project both in and outside of work for little more than a pat on the back and thanks for making me look good. I think, halfway through my fourth decade of Life, I'm starting to realize that it doesn't pay to be the creative force behind someone else's greatness, even if you do take pride in what you created. It feels a lot like doing the bully's homework in an attempt to keep your lunch money.)
In the meantime, two weeks before I complete one of said extracurricular pro-bono projects, would it be a shock to you if I said my health took a serious dive? If you are one of my readers that is only in your second or third decade of life, you may be sitting there saying, "Health? What's that?" But any of the others who have graduated from Life Lesson Level Three are going through their memory files right now and reading this with complete understanding and find themselves wanting to say something to me like:
"Don't take life so seriously. No one gets out alive."
Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing as I was sitting in the Emergency Room a few weeks ago. The problem is, my nature is to take life seriously. I believe in giving everything I've got to the things that matter most. What seems to be my problem is that I also give everything I've got to the things that don't matter most. I apparently need a class on priorities and time management (which should include time to eat healthy, sleep well, exercise properly, and have a glass of wine as I sit and tap into my imagination and create something that feeds my soul). And maybe, in Life's perfect plan, this is the class I unknowlingly signed up for this fall semester of my 35th year. So far it's a great class filled with medical terminology I have to look up and research so I understand more about what it is, exams that sometimes include cool medications reminiscent of the more carefree days between the first and second decades of my life, and Doctors who can teach and mentor me as I move through this transitional period of my physical existence. The final exam (of course) is a test in the practical application of all I am learning and well, the quality of my lifespan is the grade. It really is a lot like grad school, it's just that the doctor has MD instead of PhD at the end of his name. The result though, improved quality of life, is about the same. (even if I'm not working in my field, I am convinced my education has been my saving grace more than once in terms of job security and my paycheck ... at least until they start passing out brown shoes and we find ourselves needing a PhD to work at McDonalds)
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Regardless...
It comes in waves: this push and pull, this rise and fall, this inhale and exhale.
At first I just watched it, taking in the beauty: the sight of it, the sound of it, the scent of it. But it didn’t take me long to step into it.
Strange how something so beautiful can be so intimidating: the sheer power stopping you in your tracks. The thought of being swept away… losing control in the current of something greater. You are not a rock. You are not an island. You are a vessel prone to drift.
I took another step, just enough to feel the waves caress my ankles, to feel the sand pull away from beneath my feet while the next wave brought a new layer of sand to cover them, grounding me, somewhat, holding me steadfast amidst the soft push and pull, like the lull of a cleansing inhale and the sweet release of a breaking exhale.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to feel… regardless.
I pulled myself out of the grounding sand and stepped further… waves breaking just beneath my knees, imploring me to bend, to give a little, to let it take a little.
Strange how it wasn’t as cold as you thought; that same power that once held you at bay now calls to you, welcomes you, heals you even as it breaks against you.
I realized how wet I had become. The waves were coming closer and faster, one right after the other, and the very thing I thought I wanted to avoid suddenly pleased me. I had forgotten what it was like. Me, living in a desert, living in my own self-inflicted drought… I had forgotten… I had chosen to forget. And suddenly there I stood waist deep in that sight and sound and scent of all I thought I wanted to view from a distance.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stanger still, your willingness to let go… regardless.
I stood there, took no more steps, as the waves came over me. I sunk deep into the water; my body moved, ever so slightly, by the push and pull, the rise and fall… inhale… exhale… so easy to drift… so easy… if I would just choose to.
Strange how you feel no fear, how you suddenly trust it, this current vowing to sweep you away to a new destination, a new experience, a new existence, another life.
I floated there, completely buoyant, my feet were nowhere near the bottom and my head barely above water. I inhaled and exhaled with each rise and fall and push and pull of passing waves… breaking somewhere beyond me… confident… knowing… I could see the shore.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other floats behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to drift… regardless.
I felt the ground beneath me again: soft shifting sand. … the power of the waves behind me, pushing me forward. With the slow rise out of the water, my body felt the strange chill of the warming sun. Standing, waist deep in water, I saw another beside me – a drifter in the same current… lulled by the same waves… willing to drown in the same sea… regardless.
At first I just watched it, taking in the beauty: the sight of it, the sound of it, the scent of it. But it didn’t take me long to step into it.
Strange how something so beautiful can be so intimidating: the sheer power stopping you in your tracks. The thought of being swept away… losing control in the current of something greater. You are not a rock. You are not an island. You are a vessel prone to drift.
I took another step, just enough to feel the waves caress my ankles, to feel the sand pull away from beneath my feet while the next wave brought a new layer of sand to cover them, grounding me, somewhat, holding me steadfast amidst the soft push and pull, like the lull of a cleansing inhale and the sweet release of a breaking exhale.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to feel… regardless.
I pulled myself out of the grounding sand and stepped further… waves breaking just beneath my knees, imploring me to bend, to give a little, to let it take a little.
Strange how it wasn’t as cold as you thought; that same power that once held you at bay now calls to you, welcomes you, heals you even as it breaks against you.
I realized how wet I had become. The waves were coming closer and faster, one right after the other, and the very thing I thought I wanted to avoid suddenly pleased me. I had forgotten what it was like. Me, living in a desert, living in my own self-inflicted drought… I had forgotten… I had chosen to forget. And suddenly there I stood waist deep in that sight and sound and scent of all I thought I wanted to view from a distance.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stanger still, your willingness to let go… regardless.
I stood there, took no more steps, as the waves came over me. I sunk deep into the water; my body moved, ever so slightly, by the push and pull, the rise and fall… inhale… exhale… so easy to drift… so easy… if I would just choose to.
Strange how you feel no fear, how you suddenly trust it, this current vowing to sweep you away to a new destination, a new experience, a new existence, another life.
I floated there, completely buoyant, my feet were nowhere near the bottom and my head barely above water. I inhaled and exhaled with each rise and fall and push and pull of passing waves… breaking somewhere beyond me… confident… knowing… I could see the shore.
Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other floats behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to drift… regardless.
I felt the ground beneath me again: soft shifting sand. … the power of the waves behind me, pushing me forward. With the slow rise out of the water, my body felt the strange chill of the warming sun. Standing, waist deep in water, I saw another beside me – a drifter in the same current… lulled by the same waves… willing to drown in the same sea… regardless.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Safety Minute
Moonbeam: (knocks on Pandora's cube wall) Pandora? Does the sight of blood make you queasy?
Pandora: (puts down her pen and turns around) ...excuse me?
Moonbeam: Does the sight of blood make you queasy?
Pandora: Why are you asking me this right now?
Moonbeam: Because I need your help with something.
Pandora: Uh... with all due respect, Moonbeam, my job is to sit here and write words strong enough to withstand battle in a court of law, not to fiddle around with blood borne pathogens.
Moonbeam: Oh my god, Pandora, you're such a kick. It's nothing like that. I just need your help with something.
Pandora: Well, you come up and ask me if blood makes me queasy right before saying you need my help, but... it's got nothing to do with blood?
Moonbeam: Well, you see, I've got this big zit behind my ear and...
Pandora: Wait a minute, what?!
Moonbeam: (turns around and pulls back her ear to show Pandora) ...I have this zit behind my ear and it's extremely painful and I can't reach it well enough to pop it myself so I thought maybe you would help me.
Pandora: Okay... um... first of all, that's a boil, not a zit, and secondly I'm pretty sure that's a safety minute.
Moonbeam: ...a safety minute?
Pandora: Yes.
Moonbeam: How so?
Pandora: Because it's a boil! Boils are infectious, poisonous, toxic, contagious! They are a direct result of Staphylococcus aureus and there is no way I'm going to touch that and expose myself to the dangers of its white pussy contents!
Moonbeam: Hahaha! You are so funny! So.. will you help me?
Pandora: No! I'm dead serious, Moonbeam! That's a safety minute! And seriously, you expect me to stand up here and put my fingers behind your ear and pop that thing?!
Moonbeam: Well, of course not, silly. Use a straight pin or something.
Pandora: ...a straight pin? Am I a seamstress? Are we working in a Bridal Shop? Moonbeam, I'm in a cubicle with maps and legal documents on my desk. Do I look like I have a straight pin?
Moonbeam: (points to the bulletin board) You could use one of those.
Pandora: What? ...a thumb tack? Are you insane? That's also a safety minute!
Moonbeam: What? Why?
Pandora: Because it's unsanitary! It's not sterile! When a doctor sits down to lance a boil he doesn't look at his nurse and say, "We need to take care of this. Would you pass me a thumb tack from the bulletin board so I can pop this thing please?"
Moonbeam: Oh, you're ridiculous. So you won't help me?
Pandora: No. I'm really sorry, but I can't.
Moonbeam: (sees Sunshine take her seat in the cubicle across from Pandora) Sunshine! I bet you'll help me. Nothing scares you.
Sunshine: What? What are we talking about here?
Pandora: I think it's a safety minute.
Sunshine: What?
Moonbeam: Oh, just ignore Pandora. You see, I have this zit here behind my ear and I can't get to it.
Sunshine: What?! You have a what?!
Pandora: I'm telling you, don't touch that thing...
Moonbeam: (turns around to show the boil to Sunshine)
Sunshine: Oh Hell no!! Get the Hell outta my cube!
Moonbeam: But I thought you...
Sunshine: Hell no!! I aint touchin' that thing! Now get the Hell outta my cube! I got work to do.
Moonbeam: (walks away)
Sunshine: She had one too many hits o' acid, that woman. And what's wrong with you, Pandora? I can't believe you didn't stand up and knock some sense into that woman, you be knocking sense into everybody, but you missed the boat on that one. shit... popping people's boils at that office... shit...
Pandora: (puts down her pen and turns around) ...excuse me?
Moonbeam: Does the sight of blood make you queasy?
Pandora: Why are you asking me this right now?
Moonbeam: Because I need your help with something.
Pandora: Uh... with all due respect, Moonbeam, my job is to sit here and write words strong enough to withstand battle in a court of law, not to fiddle around with blood borne pathogens.
Moonbeam: Oh my god, Pandora, you're such a kick. It's nothing like that. I just need your help with something.
Pandora: Well, you come up and ask me if blood makes me queasy right before saying you need my help, but... it's got nothing to do with blood?
Moonbeam: Well, you see, I've got this big zit behind my ear and...
Pandora: Wait a minute, what?!
Moonbeam: (turns around and pulls back her ear to show Pandora) ...I have this zit behind my ear and it's extremely painful and I can't reach it well enough to pop it myself so I thought maybe you would help me.
Pandora: Okay... um... first of all, that's a boil, not a zit, and secondly I'm pretty sure that's a safety minute.
Moonbeam: ...a safety minute?
Pandora: Yes.
Moonbeam: How so?
Pandora: Because it's a boil! Boils are infectious, poisonous, toxic, contagious! They are a direct result of Staphylococcus aureus and there is no way I'm going to touch that and expose myself to the dangers of its white pussy contents!
Moonbeam: Hahaha! You are so funny! So.. will you help me?
Pandora: No! I'm dead serious, Moonbeam! That's a safety minute! And seriously, you expect me to stand up here and put my fingers behind your ear and pop that thing?!
Moonbeam: Well, of course not, silly. Use a straight pin or something.
Pandora: ...a straight pin? Am I a seamstress? Are we working in a Bridal Shop? Moonbeam, I'm in a cubicle with maps and legal documents on my desk. Do I look like I have a straight pin?
Moonbeam: (points to the bulletin board) You could use one of those.
Pandora: What? ...a thumb tack? Are you insane? That's also a safety minute!
Moonbeam: What? Why?
Pandora: Because it's unsanitary! It's not sterile! When a doctor sits down to lance a boil he doesn't look at his nurse and say, "We need to take care of this. Would you pass me a thumb tack from the bulletin board so I can pop this thing please?"
Moonbeam: Oh, you're ridiculous. So you won't help me?
Pandora: No. I'm really sorry, but I can't.
Moonbeam: (sees Sunshine take her seat in the cubicle across from Pandora) Sunshine! I bet you'll help me. Nothing scares you.
Sunshine: What? What are we talking about here?
Pandora: I think it's a safety minute.
Sunshine: What?
Moonbeam: Oh, just ignore Pandora. You see, I have this zit here behind my ear and I can't get to it.
Sunshine: What?! You have a what?!
Pandora: I'm telling you, don't touch that thing...
Moonbeam: (turns around to show the boil to Sunshine)
Sunshine: Oh Hell no!! Get the Hell outta my cube!
Moonbeam: But I thought you...
Sunshine: Hell no!! I aint touchin' that thing! Now get the Hell outta my cube! I got work to do.
Moonbeam: (walks away)
Sunshine: She had one too many hits o' acid, that woman. And what's wrong with you, Pandora? I can't believe you didn't stand up and knock some sense into that woman, you be knocking sense into everybody, but you missed the boat on that one. shit... popping people's boils at that office... shit...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Pandora, Perfectionism, And Mr. Murphy's Stupid Law
I believe, right now, that I am cursed. I have been cursed for days. Thankfully, I'm not cursed by some crazy gypsy lady who wishes my soul be damned to the pits of Hell, but I am cursed none-the-less.
What curses me, you ask? A project. A stupid power point project that I have been working on for days and days and days.
Really, considering the amount of research I had to do for the thing, it has consumed me for weeks now. Last Friday night I had recurring nightmares about the thing -- I kept dreaming that I was presenting the final draft to my boss when I realized the contents of the slides contained elements of my personal life that should not be shared in a work environment. Aaaaa!!!
Aside from dominating my subconscious, the thing has interrupted the flow of my imagination and my creativity. All of the energy I would much rather spend on coming up with something quick witted and somewhat humorous has been spent on placing words on pages in the form a narration about land and land rights (though, I'd have to say, the narrative is worthy of the Discovery Channel, should the producers find they lack material and need to fill a time slot with something no one really cares to know).
Seriously... I am now sitting here in a coffee induced insomniac fit because I came home from work tonight thinking I would finish it up with just enough polish and style to bring it back to work first thing tomorrow morning and be done with it. I would be able to pass the thing off to the people in charge of the visuals and let it go, but no... the damn thing mocks me!
For whatever reason, all the work I sent to my home computer is now lost; "the path" to the file "cannot be found" and I sit here writing in this blog because Murphy's Law has decided to fuck with me and leave me hanging!
Deadlines are looming over my head and tomorrow, when I was so looking forward to leaving this stupid thing behind, I will be sitting at my desk, yet again, perfecting the thing while simultaneously juggling the duties (or at least fooling myself into thinking I'm juggling the duties) of my day to day cubicle confines.
And you are sitting there reading this stupid post and thinking, "She hasn't written anything for days and now I have to read about this stupid thing that I know nothing about nor do I really care or would I care if I even had the chance to care about it." Power Point?! We don't need no stinking Power Point!
Yes, actually, we do. But... instead... we are going to go lie down in our bed and stare at the ceiling and occasionally look at the clock and see how long it takes to fall asleep before the alarm goes off.
All Work And No Play Makes Pandora A Dull Girl. Oh yes, and Wendy, I'm home! Where's the axe?!! Redrum! Redrum!
And to think, I stayed up in prime graduate student style for nothing.
Damn, this is worse than the time I drove out to the school and slipped my final paper under the professor's door at 4:00 a.m. just to keep my "A."
What curses me, you ask? A project. A stupid power point project that I have been working on for days and days and days.
Really, considering the amount of research I had to do for the thing, it has consumed me for weeks now. Last Friday night I had recurring nightmares about the thing -- I kept dreaming that I was presenting the final draft to my boss when I realized the contents of the slides contained elements of my personal life that should not be shared in a work environment. Aaaaa!!!
Aside from dominating my subconscious, the thing has interrupted the flow of my imagination and my creativity. All of the energy I would much rather spend on coming up with something quick witted and somewhat humorous has been spent on placing words on pages in the form a narration about land and land rights (though, I'd have to say, the narrative is worthy of the Discovery Channel, should the producers find they lack material and need to fill a time slot with something no one really cares to know).
Seriously... I am now sitting here in a coffee induced insomniac fit because I came home from work tonight thinking I would finish it up with just enough polish and style to bring it back to work first thing tomorrow morning and be done with it. I would be able to pass the thing off to the people in charge of the visuals and let it go, but no... the damn thing mocks me!
For whatever reason, all the work I sent to my home computer is now lost; "the path" to the file "cannot be found" and I sit here writing in this blog because Murphy's Law has decided to fuck with me and leave me hanging!
Deadlines are looming over my head and tomorrow, when I was so looking forward to leaving this stupid thing behind, I will be sitting at my desk, yet again, perfecting the thing while simultaneously juggling the duties (or at least fooling myself into thinking I'm juggling the duties) of my day to day cubicle confines.
And you are sitting there reading this stupid post and thinking, "She hasn't written anything for days and now I have to read about this stupid thing that I know nothing about nor do I really care or would I care if I even had the chance to care about it." Power Point?! We don't need no stinking Power Point!
Yes, actually, we do. But... instead... we are going to go lie down in our bed and stare at the ceiling and occasionally look at the clock and see how long it takes to fall asleep before the alarm goes off.
All Work And No Play Makes Pandora A Dull Girl. Oh yes, and Wendy, I'm home! Where's the axe?!! Redrum! Redrum!
And to think, I stayed up in prime graduate student style for nothing.
Damn, this is worse than the time I drove out to the school and slipped my final paper under the professor's door at 4:00 a.m. just to keep my "A."
Monday, June 1, 2009
Make A Mental Note Out Of It -- Noise...
...they've been playing this song for years. ...it's a good song, but... i'm not in the mood....played out... hell, that's fourten years of being played out... there's nothing good on any of them, they all play the same stuff over and over and over for years. It's just noise anymore... nothing but noise to fill the space ...white noise... background noise... noise.
the silence is good. somewhat relaxing to hear nothing but the wind traveling over my car, the road rolling under the wheels, the subtle whistle of the air conditioner...
whistle... whistle... hmmm... is that really a whistle? could i really use the word whistle to describe that sound? hmmm... there's got to be a better word for that sound. i could call it a whistle, i suppose, but a reader might think it's the whistle of a breaking air conditioner, and it isn't. it's just the sound of air leaving the vent and keeping me cool... it feels really good right now too.
...nope, not a whistle... i'll have to think about that one.
it is better without the noise though. really. maybe i'll just keep the sound off at home too. muted... everything muted... the mute button...
maybe i should mute myself for a while...push my own mute button. i'm always talking talking talking, always thinking thinking thinking, always looking for the right word and the right way to present it. i get paid to talk.
...yeah, the mute button may be required. especially today, the way i feel right now...
my mind is being pulled in all different directions and i have this huge explosion of creative thought but ... am constantly holding back, saving for later, and all i'm really doing is talk talk talking.
...and somewhere in the background i see Hamlet pacing back and forth with a book in his hands: words words words words words... he pounds the thing... words... noise...
...maybe i should write that down... i better get a pen and write that down before i forget... no pen... No Pen?! what is wrong with me today? i really need to go home and lie down. seriously... i think i'm having a melt down... No PEN? REALLY?! ... Crap! ...No Pen... oh well, i'll just have to keep that picture of Hamlet in my mind until i get home. Crap... i hate it when i don't have a pen...
the silence is good. somewhat relaxing to hear nothing but the wind traveling over my car, the road rolling under the wheels, the subtle whistle of the air conditioner...
whistle... whistle... hmmm... is that really a whistle? could i really use the word whistle to describe that sound? hmmm... there's got to be a better word for that sound. i could call it a whistle, i suppose, but a reader might think it's the whistle of a breaking air conditioner, and it isn't. it's just the sound of air leaving the vent and keeping me cool... it feels really good right now too.
...nope, not a whistle... i'll have to think about that one.
it is better without the noise though. really. maybe i'll just keep the sound off at home too. muted... everything muted... the mute button...
maybe i should mute myself for a while...push my own mute button. i'm always talking talking talking, always thinking thinking thinking, always looking for the right word and the right way to present it. i get paid to talk.
...yeah, the mute button may be required. especially today, the way i feel right now...
my mind is being pulled in all different directions and i have this huge explosion of creative thought but ... am constantly holding back, saving for later, and all i'm really doing is talk talk talking.
...and somewhere in the background i see Hamlet pacing back and forth with a book in his hands: words words words words words... he pounds the thing... words... noise...
...maybe i should write that down... i better get a pen and write that down before i forget... no pen... No Pen?! what is wrong with me today? i really need to go home and lie down. seriously... i think i'm having a melt down... No PEN? REALLY?! ... Crap! ...No Pen... oh well, i'll just have to keep that picture of Hamlet in my mind until i get home. Crap... i hate it when i don't have a pen...
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Morning Coffee
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| http://pics.myspew.com/index.php/geek/coffee-globe |
Gunther: All hail Pandora! Princess of Property Procurement!
Pandora: Don't offend me with that tripe.
Gunther: My, aren't you grand and glorious this morning.
Pandora: (shoots him a stabbing side glance)
Gunther: Woo hoo... feeling feisty are we?
Pandora: I need coffee.
Gunther: Funny (holds up his coffee cup) I'm in need of the same thing. Although, this would be glass number three for me.
Pandora: Ever hear of high blood pressure, Gunther?
Gunther: Pfft... You don't come in until 8. I'm here at 6, I'm entitled to a bit more of the juice.
Pandora: Huh.
Gunther: Whatever happened to this mythical 9 to 5 job anyway? I've never once seen that schedule anywhere?
Pandora: It's a lie. ...just like the American Dream. I don't recall dreaming myself into the cubicle.
Gunther: Ah... We'll all be in cubicles when it's all said and done. Just another brick in the wall, Pandora, another brick in the wall.
(they step out of the elevator and head down the hall to the cafeteria)
Gunther: Speaking of bricks, I had a dream last night that I was in Egypt. God how I hope that one never comes true!
Pandora: Yeah, I'm pretty sure there's no Moses for Germans trapped in Egypt.
Gunther: Pfft... Say what you want, but I'm serious. Reyna wants us to go to Egypt. I told her that's all fine and dandy except for the fact that she can throw on a head scarf and look like a local. Even if I grow a beard and throw on a turban I'd just look like a dumb American asshole mocking them.
Pandora: (debating herself over non-fat milk or half-n-half for her coffee) Well, no need to bother with the beard, Gunther, they'd probably kill you just for breathing.
Gunther: No shit. The last thing on Earth I'd wanna do is take a wrong turn and wind up in one of those massive Death To America rallies they seemingly hold on a daily basis.
Pandora: (pours the half-n-half into her coffee and reaches for a sugar packet) Yeah, Egypt isn't on my to-do list either. It's too bad, really. It's a cool place, but I kinda wrote it off back in the 80s with that whole American tourists trapped by terrorists while checking out one of the pyramids thing.
Gunther: (sips his black coffee) I would go to crazy third world countries like Vietnam, Cambodia, Peru... but... muslim countries scare the shit out of me! Those are places where they cut off "infidels" heads so the local kids can play soccer! Oh yeah! Sign me up for THAT ONE! (takes another sip of his coffee while he falls in line behind Pandora at the register) What is Reyna thinking? I mean, she means well, but she sometimes forgets the whole "brown" factor.
Pandora: (hands the cashier 81 cents for the coffee) ...brown factor?
Gunther: (throws a dollar on the counter and says he doesn't need change) Yeah, brown factor. She forgets that I'm not brown. She can go places I can't.
Pandora: (rolls her eyes and starts walking back to the elevator)
Gunther: Oh come on! Don't roll your eyes at me. How do you think you'd fair in Egypt? ...a girl like you... I read that they can be very harassing to American women, especially ones that look like you. ...sometimes even grabbing them as they walk by.
Pandora: (swallows her sip of coffee as they enter the elevator) Really? You read that somewhere? Sounds like any city in America to me.
Gunther: Come on, be serious Pandora. This is a serious question.
Pandora: I am being serious. I was at the Mini Mart on the corner of College Ave. and University when a dude decided to walk by and grab my ass while I paid for my water. That wasn't Egypt, my man, that was right in here in The Valley Of The Equal Opportunity Sun.
Gunther: Well, still, a woman like you in Egypt? Nothing good could possibly come of it. One look at that crazy hair on your head and you'd be a target for disaster.
Pandora: Potential disaster strikes every morning, Gunther, the minute a German guy decides to walk with me down the hall for coffee and starts talking about dreams he had the night before. (the elevator doors open) Thankfully, this one had to do with bricks and brown factors.
Gunther: Aw... come on now. I'm just keeping it real for your left-wing politics.
Pandora: I'm not left-wing, Gunther.
Gunther: Well, you're too soft to be right-wing.
Pandora: I'm undefined.
Gunther: Hippie.
Pandora: (shoots another stabbing side glance and sips her coffee) Well, thanks for the company and conversation, Gunther. I'm off.
Gunther: Make sure they roll out the red carpet, your Highness.
Pandora: (waves behind her and keeps on walking as she thinks, "Do yourself a favor Pandora, don't forget to bring coffee from home tomorrow.")
Coffee Globe Source
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
She Goes Again...
Before he married again, she was lucky if she got a phone call once a month, let alone see him. He seemed happy and carefree, trouncing around the country a free man -- going where ever he wanted and doing whatever he wanted, and she was an afterthought. For me, this was to be expected of him; it seemed consistent with the character I married, but... though it's sometimes hard for me to believe, and perhaps even accept, something shifted for him.
He married two years ago, and about a month before his wedding he called me and apologized for things he had done. I distinctly remember sitting in the dark on my patio and suddenly his voice softened as he stuttered and stammered his way through a bunch of "uhs" and "ums" and a few sighs before announcing he had something he'd been wanting to say for a while. After a couple more inhales and exhales, he listed off a series of deeds and words that he should've apologized for years before that. Of course, I doubt I would've been ready to hear it "years ago" since even my reaction at that time was one of polite misgiving (he'd done a fine job of training me to always wonder what his manipulative ploy was this time...).
About six months into his new marriage, he drove out here to pick her up and take her camping for the weekend. She had told him on the phone a few days prior that her bike was broken and mommy didn't know how to fix it. He came to the door with his tool box and took time to fix her bike. She was so excited, she begged for time to ride it before they left. So she hopped on and rode around as we stood there and watched. Out of nowhere he looked at me and said, "You really have done a wonderful job with our daughter." And just as the moment of disbelief and distrust stirred within me, he followed it up with, "I mean it. I know I haven't said it to you before, but she's so smart and she's so talented and she's so well behaved and I know I haven't had anything to do with that. It's all you and I want you to know that I know that." I was dumbfounded and struggled not to cry because I really wanted to believe he was sincere, but all the nightmare that had passed between us was still a bit too much to let go. And now it's summer, and by this time Thursday night she will be well on her way to spend it with him. And all of this is on my mind right now because something different happened tonight.
For the first time in all these years, while she was talking on the phone with him tonight, she sounded completely at peace and truly excited to go out and be with him. This is significant to me because it quite possibly means we've reached some kind of fabulous turning point; because for the past two years, since his new marriage, we've struggled to help her adjust to the changes; because I'm starting to believe that if his apology was a "manipulative ploy" at all, it was because he knew this would be difficult for her and he knew he would need my help. And there have been some terrible moments between the two of them and his new family. And I am no saint. Believe me, I've had no trouble being Mama Bear when I've felt she's been treated unfairly, but even at that, I have to admit that he's handled those moments with a humble patience that he never had in the past. And there've been countless goodbyes at the airport with her clinging to my legs, crying and sobbing and begging me not to make her go, while I stop my own heart from bleeding as I don a smile, look her in the eye, tell her all will be well and to have fun. But not this time.
This time was different. There were no headaches and random stomach aches brought about by dread and fear. There were no tears and no cries for me to keep her here. This time there was simply a smiling face accented with smiling eyes and a touch of excitement in her voice. This time she hugged me and told me how much she loved me and off to sleep she went.
So now I sit here, a sense of awestruck relief surrounding me. Maybe this time I won't get crying phone calls while I'm sitting at work. Maybe this time I won't have to lie awake at night and wonder if she's okay because she will be. Maybe this time I won't have to play the buffer. And maybe this time all I'll have to do is relax and miss her.
He married two years ago, and about a month before his wedding he called me and apologized for things he had done. I distinctly remember sitting in the dark on my patio and suddenly his voice softened as he stuttered and stammered his way through a bunch of "uhs" and "ums" and a few sighs before announcing he had something he'd been wanting to say for a while. After a couple more inhales and exhales, he listed off a series of deeds and words that he should've apologized for years before that. Of course, I doubt I would've been ready to hear it "years ago" since even my reaction at that time was one of polite misgiving (he'd done a fine job of training me to always wonder what his manipulative ploy was this time...).
About six months into his new marriage, he drove out here to pick her up and take her camping for the weekend. She had told him on the phone a few days prior that her bike was broken and mommy didn't know how to fix it. He came to the door with his tool box and took time to fix her bike. She was so excited, she begged for time to ride it before they left. So she hopped on and rode around as we stood there and watched. Out of nowhere he looked at me and said, "You really have done a wonderful job with our daughter." And just as the moment of disbelief and distrust stirred within me, he followed it up with, "I mean it. I know I haven't said it to you before, but she's so smart and she's so talented and she's so well behaved and I know I haven't had anything to do with that. It's all you and I want you to know that I know that." I was dumbfounded and struggled not to cry because I really wanted to believe he was sincere, but all the nightmare that had passed between us was still a bit too much to let go. And now it's summer, and by this time Thursday night she will be well on her way to spend it with him. And all of this is on my mind right now because something different happened tonight.
For the first time in all these years, while she was talking on the phone with him tonight, she sounded completely at peace and truly excited to go out and be with him. This is significant to me because it quite possibly means we've reached some kind of fabulous turning point; because for the past two years, since his new marriage, we've struggled to help her adjust to the changes; because I'm starting to believe that if his apology was a "manipulative ploy" at all, it was because he knew this would be difficult for her and he knew he would need my help. And there have been some terrible moments between the two of them and his new family. And I am no saint. Believe me, I've had no trouble being Mama Bear when I've felt she's been treated unfairly, but even at that, I have to admit that he's handled those moments with a humble patience that he never had in the past. And there've been countless goodbyes at the airport with her clinging to my legs, crying and sobbing and begging me not to make her go, while I stop my own heart from bleeding as I don a smile, look her in the eye, tell her all will be well and to have fun. But not this time.
This time was different. There were no headaches and random stomach aches brought about by dread and fear. There were no tears and no cries for me to keep her here. This time there was simply a smiling face accented with smiling eyes and a touch of excitement in her voice. This time she hugged me and told me how much she loved me and off to sleep she went.
So now I sit here, a sense of awestruck relief surrounding me. Maybe this time I won't get crying phone calls while I'm sitting at work. Maybe this time I won't have to lie awake at night and wonder if she's okay because she will be. Maybe this time I won't have to play the buffer. And maybe this time all I'll have to do is relax and miss her.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Stress Relief and Pigeon Droppings
Over the past two weeks everything in all of the above ventured outside of my control. The challenge was high, the pressure was on, and by Sunday afternoon I completely broke. I spent some time lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the stir of anxiety run from my stomach to my head until tears started to fall. I finally pulled myself together, and spent the rest of the afternoon at the pool listening to the local frat boys come up short on their attempt to wax philosophical after a few too many Paps Blue Ribbons (I didn't even know people actually drank that).
Having let the sun burn away the remainder of my tension, I fell asleep that night only to have one of the strangest dreams I've had in a while. I found myself standing beneath the shade of a giant tree. There were two hippies on either side of me, one man and one woman. I looked over at the woman with her arms outstretched as she said in a lilting voice, "Oh... look at all the beautiful birds in the tree! Aren't they lovely?" I looked over at the man who was also standing, arms outstretched, saying, "They're like a bunch of glorious angels!" But when I looked up, all I saw was a tree full of pigeons. And not only that, they were pooping on everything. The branches, the leaves, and the trunk of the tree were covered in pigeon poop. So I looked at the man and said, "Glorious? They're pigeons. There's nothing glorious about pigeons." The woman looked at me and said, "Just look at them!" And the man said, "They've made the tree white with their glory!" So I said, "They're pigeons, man! And the tree is white because of their shit! They're shitting on everything!" At which point droppings started to fall like rain, landing all over me and the two hippies. I stepped away from the two crazies and found myself walking down a street wondering how two people could be so caught up in a tree full of pigeons they didn't notice all of the crap that was falling on them.
When I woke the next morning, I woke with the intention to let all things outside of my control go. I woke telling myself that I'm only human, that I have my limitations, and that personal and professional boundaries are healthy. And because I claim to be a follower of God (as unorthodox as I may be at times), I reminded myself that walking with God means allowing God to work out the kinks in the system because, for whatever reason, He actually likes doing that for me. So I went about my day consciously making an effort to let one worry go after another until finally my stress levels fell to a normal and manageable state. And as this happened, that stupid dream above popped into the forefront of my mind.
I don't profess to be a dream analyst of any kind, but dreams, at least to this English Major, are like poems: symbols and metaphors just waiting for me to piece together into some sort of meaning (because, if for no other reason, it's fun). Given the circumstances of reality in the days prior, my subconscious was simply having a heyday and the dream actually makes perfect sense. The tree in any circumstance often symbolizes life and life forces, holding its own natural abilities with roots that draw nourishment for itself and allow it to grow and flourish, providing food and shade and life giving oxygen for others. Hippies are characterized by their diversion from "the norm." Pigeons denote a sort of gullibility, if you will; winged as they may be, glorious like eagles they are not. And their droppings... well... let's just call it "wasted production."
If all of these symbols that my subconscious so creatively put together are reflections of myself, then here is what we have. The tree represents all of the talents, skills, and natural abilities I would use to provide for myself and all who sit within the shade of my professional and social circle. The hippies represent my desire to divert from "the norm," which in this society, at least from my perspective, is often mediocrity. I'm always looking to exceed anyone's expectations and take pride in the fact that I often do. But the fact that the hippies have deceived themselves into thinking a tree full of pigeons is something glorious to behold, even as they're being shat upon, is where my ego gets put into check.
You see, in the days prior to this stupid dream, I had allowed myself to get all worked up and wound up tight over things that were ultimately not my issue. I had convinced myself that it was my job to pick up someone else's slack, that I was good enough to do exactly that, and if I didn't it would be a reflection on my performance. In my own perfectionist overly meticulous mind I bore a burden that didn't need be carried. I stayed up late working when I didn't need to, expended energy to the point of exhaustion, and at the end of it all the stress I created for myself leaked out into areas of my life where it didn't belong, affected people it didn't need to affect, and, given the fact that I still had to face "the problem" Monday morning, it equated to little more than mediocrity and wasted production, otherwise known as pigeon shit.
I am, by nature, an overachiever. And though I may not apply perfectionism to mundane tasks like laundry and dishes, I do apply it to those aspects of my life where I believe it truly counts: motherhood (because I only have one shot to nearly get it right), my job (because it pays me), writing (because I love it and people read it), and music (because I love it and people are listening). Obviously, as my subconscious so adeptly pointed out, I need to always remember that sometimes I seriously need to let go and let God. I need to remember that if I want this tree called my life to successfully flourish, I need to root myself in faith and trust, I need to stop and breathe, and I need to nourish myself with those things that feed my soul. Only then will my branches stretch farther into the sky and possibly house something glorious like an eagle or two, as opposed to besmirching myself with a flock of pooping pigeons.
Having let the sun burn away the remainder of my tension, I fell asleep that night only to have one of the strangest dreams I've had in a while. I found myself standing beneath the shade of a giant tree. There were two hippies on either side of me, one man and one woman. I looked over at the woman with her arms outstretched as she said in a lilting voice, "Oh... look at all the beautiful birds in the tree! Aren't they lovely?" I looked over at the man who was also standing, arms outstretched, saying, "They're like a bunch of glorious angels!" But when I looked up, all I saw was a tree full of pigeons. And not only that, they were pooping on everything. The branches, the leaves, and the trunk of the tree were covered in pigeon poop. So I looked at the man and said, "Glorious? They're pigeons. There's nothing glorious about pigeons." The woman looked at me and said, "Just look at them!" And the man said, "They've made the tree white with their glory!" So I said, "They're pigeons, man! And the tree is white because of their shit! They're shitting on everything!" At which point droppings started to fall like rain, landing all over me and the two hippies. I stepped away from the two crazies and found myself walking down a street wondering how two people could be so caught up in a tree full of pigeons they didn't notice all of the crap that was falling on them.
When I woke the next morning, I woke with the intention to let all things outside of my control go. I woke telling myself that I'm only human, that I have my limitations, and that personal and professional boundaries are healthy. And because I claim to be a follower of God (as unorthodox as I may be at times), I reminded myself that walking with God means allowing God to work out the kinks in the system because, for whatever reason, He actually likes doing that for me. So I went about my day consciously making an effort to let one worry go after another until finally my stress levels fell to a normal and manageable state. And as this happened, that stupid dream above popped into the forefront of my mind.
I don't profess to be a dream analyst of any kind, but dreams, at least to this English Major, are like poems: symbols and metaphors just waiting for me to piece together into some sort of meaning (because, if for no other reason, it's fun). Given the circumstances of reality in the days prior, my subconscious was simply having a heyday and the dream actually makes perfect sense. The tree in any circumstance often symbolizes life and life forces, holding its own natural abilities with roots that draw nourishment for itself and allow it to grow and flourish, providing food and shade and life giving oxygen for others. Hippies are characterized by their diversion from "the norm." Pigeons denote a sort of gullibility, if you will; winged as they may be, glorious like eagles they are not. And their droppings... well... let's just call it "wasted production."
If all of these symbols that my subconscious so creatively put together are reflections of myself, then here is what we have. The tree represents all of the talents, skills, and natural abilities I would use to provide for myself and all who sit within the shade of my professional and social circle. The hippies represent my desire to divert from "the norm," which in this society, at least from my perspective, is often mediocrity. I'm always looking to exceed anyone's expectations and take pride in the fact that I often do. But the fact that the hippies have deceived themselves into thinking a tree full of pigeons is something glorious to behold, even as they're being shat upon, is where my ego gets put into check.
You see, in the days prior to this stupid dream, I had allowed myself to get all worked up and wound up tight over things that were ultimately not my issue. I had convinced myself that it was my job to pick up someone else's slack, that I was good enough to do exactly that, and if I didn't it would be a reflection on my performance. In my own perfectionist overly meticulous mind I bore a burden that didn't need be carried. I stayed up late working when I didn't need to, expended energy to the point of exhaustion, and at the end of it all the stress I created for myself leaked out into areas of my life where it didn't belong, affected people it didn't need to affect, and, given the fact that I still had to face "the problem" Monday morning, it equated to little more than mediocrity and wasted production, otherwise known as pigeon shit.
I am, by nature, an overachiever. And though I may not apply perfectionism to mundane tasks like laundry and dishes, I do apply it to those aspects of my life where I believe it truly counts: motherhood (because I only have one shot to nearly get it right), my job (because it pays me), writing (because I love it and people read it), and music (because I love it and people are listening). Obviously, as my subconscious so adeptly pointed out, I need to always remember that sometimes I seriously need to let go and let God. I need to remember that if I want this tree called my life to successfully flourish, I need to root myself in faith and trust, I need to stop and breathe, and I need to nourish myself with those things that feed my soul. Only then will my branches stretch farther into the sky and possibly house something glorious like an eagle or two, as opposed to besmirching myself with a flock of pooping pigeons.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Exorcising The Specter
I've been in a funk lately. If you "follow" my blog (as if I give you much to follow) you may have figured that already. It doesn't take much to know that long silences from me usually indicate some kind of funk.
This one, I'd have to say, is a bit different. It's based more on some stupid sort of introspection than an external circumstance like potentially leaving my cat in a place called "impending doom."
No, this one has more to do with what actually keeps me from writing -- and not just my blog.
This one I've pondered for quite some time now, and over the past couple of weeks I've engaged in some conversation over it with a couple of friends: one being an artist and the other a musician. We're all in our thirties, and the one sentiment we share at this moment in our lives is a sense of melancholy over what seems to be a loss in our ability to create; the reason being, "life" has set in.
You see, I highly doubt there is a single person on the planet that said, sometime in their childhood, that when they grow up they want to serve as a worker bee in a hive called a cubicle (and I apologize right now to the potential person who did believe pushing paper in a cubicle was the highlight of their existence). I know that the life I'm living right now and the career I've found myself in is far from what I dreamed of doing. And it isn't that I disrespect my company, my current career, or the income that I'm given for the expertise I provide to others (I'm actually very grateful), it's simply that... there's a lot more to me than using my skill and my wit for another's gain (even if I am good at it and they pay me well for it).
I've had many dreams along the way (some silly, like the little girl who watched one too many John Wayne movies with her mother only to dream of becoming a cow girl who'd ride horses and shoot down bandits with the rest of the sharp shooting sheriffs) but only one truly remains -- I want to write for a living.
I want to tell stories that make people laugh and cry. I want to move people, to inspire them to get up and see potential in their lives simply because I wrote the right words in the right sentence structure about the right character at the right time that reminded them of themselves or someone they knew. I want to wake up in the morning and know that I'm using my mind and all of my talents in a way that people will never forget. And I'm not looking for fame or fortune. I am, much like William Blake, simply longing to write to the audience that is meant to find me, to hear me, and to take the creation of my imagination and make something of it for themselves. And somehow that seems elaborate and sappy all at the same time, doesn't it? But it's true. The unfortunate thing is, I'm completely wrapped up in this thing called "life."
The reality of it all is that I'm thirty-four. I have this crazy education in 19th Century American Literature that I'm not even using. I gave up the dream of a PhD so I could actually have a real job and make "money" and live a somewhat comfortable life with the little girl that I've been raising on my own for the past nine years. I worry about stupid things like FICO scores, credit lines, student loans, the electric bill, the phone bill, the cable bill, the car payment, fuel for the car, maintenance for the car, the rent, food in the fridge, clothes, daycare, getting my daughter to soccer or softball or basketball or volley ball or where the hell ever she needs to go next, college funds, retirement funds (or the lack thereof), helping with homework, did I say that right, did I do that right, the dishes, the laundry, cleaning the house, what I'm going to wear tomorrow and whether or not I look fat in it. And all of this is what sends me to a cubicle in the morning so I can sit and give 100% of everything I've got, intellectually or otherwise, to make someone else a dollar and be thankful when I get some in return. And when it's all over, I find myself sitting here staring at a blank page wondering why I lack the energy, or the creativity, to write.
This is what William Blake would call The Specter: the ghost, the demon in my mind that interferes with my ability to see clearly. So how do I get past that? How do I exorcise this demon that comes in dollars and cents from my mind so I may free myself from the chains that bind me? How do I stop caring about all of these things that seem so pertinent long enough to convince myself that I have enough energy left to sit here and write and try to become that person I dream of being?
I really have no answer. I could preach to you right and left and know there's a possibility that tomorrow will come and I may not write for three more months. The only thing that really sticks with me at this moment are the words one of my friends said to me. He said, after reading some of my past posts, that he admires how much creativity and imagination I've been able to hold onto. He recognizes that though a specter may toy with me, it hasn't successfully blinded me as of yet. He believes that the dream I have is tangible and realistic. He believes that if I can muster up the energy to try I will achieve it. And though the sands of time may be slipping through my fingers, the vision of what I have left indicated to me that he's right; I still have a chance to get there, but only... ONLY if I discipline myself enough to do so (one can't exorcise a specter if they lie dormant and let it rule). And if I polish the few rough chapters that I have, if I complete my novel and submit it for publication only to find myself denied and denied and denied, at least I can lie on my death bed and say that I lived my life fully, that I used what I believed were my true talents, and that I gave it everything I've got.
So then, here's to exorcising The Specter. And here's to the artist and the musician who suffer from the same specter as I. And here's to you, because I know you're in the same damn boat and, as cliche would tell us, it's time to sink or swim.
This one, I'd have to say, is a bit different. It's based more on some stupid sort of introspection than an external circumstance like potentially leaving my cat in a place called "impending doom."
No, this one has more to do with what actually keeps me from writing -- and not just my blog.
This one I've pondered for quite some time now, and over the past couple of weeks I've engaged in some conversation over it with a couple of friends: one being an artist and the other a musician. We're all in our thirties, and the one sentiment we share at this moment in our lives is a sense of melancholy over what seems to be a loss in our ability to create; the reason being, "life" has set in.
You see, I highly doubt there is a single person on the planet that said, sometime in their childhood, that when they grow up they want to serve as a worker bee in a hive called a cubicle (and I apologize right now to the potential person who did believe pushing paper in a cubicle was the highlight of their existence). I know that the life I'm living right now and the career I've found myself in is far from what I dreamed of doing. And it isn't that I disrespect my company, my current career, or the income that I'm given for the expertise I provide to others (I'm actually very grateful), it's simply that... there's a lot more to me than using my skill and my wit for another's gain (even if I am good at it and they pay me well for it).
I've had many dreams along the way (some silly, like the little girl who watched one too many John Wayne movies with her mother only to dream of becoming a cow girl who'd ride horses and shoot down bandits with the rest of the sharp shooting sheriffs) but only one truly remains -- I want to write for a living.
I want to tell stories that make people laugh and cry. I want to move people, to inspire them to get up and see potential in their lives simply because I wrote the right words in the right sentence structure about the right character at the right time that reminded them of themselves or someone they knew. I want to wake up in the morning and know that I'm using my mind and all of my talents in a way that people will never forget. And I'm not looking for fame or fortune. I am, much like William Blake, simply longing to write to the audience that is meant to find me, to hear me, and to take the creation of my imagination and make something of it for themselves. And somehow that seems elaborate and sappy all at the same time, doesn't it? But it's true. The unfortunate thing is, I'm completely wrapped up in this thing called "life."
The reality of it all is that I'm thirty-four. I have this crazy education in 19th Century American Literature that I'm not even using. I gave up the dream of a PhD so I could actually have a real job and make "money" and live a somewhat comfortable life with the little girl that I've been raising on my own for the past nine years. I worry about stupid things like FICO scores, credit lines, student loans, the electric bill, the phone bill, the cable bill, the car payment, fuel for the car, maintenance for the car, the rent, food in the fridge, clothes, daycare, getting my daughter to soccer or softball or basketball or volley ball or where the hell ever she needs to go next, college funds, retirement funds (or the lack thereof), helping with homework, did I say that right, did I do that right, the dishes, the laundry, cleaning the house, what I'm going to wear tomorrow and whether or not I look fat in it. And all of this is what sends me to a cubicle in the morning so I can sit and give 100% of everything I've got, intellectually or otherwise, to make someone else a dollar and be thankful when I get some in return. And when it's all over, I find myself sitting here staring at a blank page wondering why I lack the energy, or the creativity, to write.
This is what William Blake would call The Specter: the ghost, the demon in my mind that interferes with my ability to see clearly. So how do I get past that? How do I exorcise this demon that comes in dollars and cents from my mind so I may free myself from the chains that bind me? How do I stop caring about all of these things that seem so pertinent long enough to convince myself that I have enough energy left to sit here and write and try to become that person I dream of being?
I really have no answer. I could preach to you right and left and know there's a possibility that tomorrow will come and I may not write for three more months. The only thing that really sticks with me at this moment are the words one of my friends said to me. He said, after reading some of my past posts, that he admires how much creativity and imagination I've been able to hold onto. He recognizes that though a specter may toy with me, it hasn't successfully blinded me as of yet. He believes that the dream I have is tangible and realistic. He believes that if I can muster up the energy to try I will achieve it. And though the sands of time may be slipping through my fingers, the vision of what I have left indicated to me that he's right; I still have a chance to get there, but only... ONLY if I discipline myself enough to do so (one can't exorcise a specter if they lie dormant and let it rule). And if I polish the few rough chapters that I have, if I complete my novel and submit it for publication only to find myself denied and denied and denied, at least I can lie on my death bed and say that I lived my life fully, that I used what I believed were my true talents, and that I gave it everything I've got.
So then, here's to exorcising The Specter. And here's to the artist and the musician who suffer from the same specter as I. And here's to you, because I know you're in the same damn boat and, as cliche would tell us, it's time to sink or swim.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Free Bird...or Cat, that is.
Ok, I'm going to make this short and sweet because I have to get this ball rolling again. It's been far too long of a silence, and I have many things to write about, but I couldn't leave you all hanging after the sob story about my cat. So...
I found a home for her! I didn't have to drop her off at some creepy shelter where they would take one look at my bitch of a cat and decide it best to give her two coins for the Ferry Man and send her across The River Styx.
After I wrote my sob story, I proceeded to fall into a bit of a depression (yes, a depression, I don't exaggerate) over my pet. It may seem silly to some, given I've been through so many dark times why should I sink into the pit over a cat that pisses all over my life, but still... I did. No matter how packed my sinuses were, no matter how many random boogers filled my nostrils while trying to have valuable conversations with people, I could NOT bring myself to pile that kitty into my car and haul her off to certain doom. So for days I told my story to random people at work and where ever I went, begging for ANYONE to help me. And just as things seemed to be a lost cause, my daughter mentioned a teacher at her school that lives on a farm and that Simba might be happy there. Being desperate, I had no trouble approaching that teacher and telling her my sob story, doing my best to appeal to her desire to let all creatures great and small have a right to life, but to no avail. She told me she already had three cats and couldn't take any more. She did wish me luck though.
Needless to say, I shuffled off to work that day certain I was going to have to suck it up and drive Simba to hell myself. As I was sitting in my cubicle, contemplating whether or not I should call my dad and sob and cry until he willingly drove an hour just to come pick up my cat and do the deed for me, a coworker stepped in and indulged me by listening to yet another set of my feline lamentations. She listened and said, "You know who might take your cat? Ron. He might take your cat. He lives on a ranch with three horses and I know he had an outdoor cat that just passed away. Go talk to him and see what he says."
SO... Ron The Office Cowboy, after watching a sweet helpless damsel in distress struggle to keep tears behind her eyes, agreed to become the proud new owner of what will most likely be known as one of the most feral domesticated cats in history. I drove her out there on Saturday morning, and to my surprise she not only trolled a small portion of the territory to check it out, she actually cuddled up to Ron and his wife (which I considered a merciful sign from God). I stayed long enough to be sure she wasn't going to turn on the people, and then I left without shedding a tear on my way home. Thank you, Ron! You're a life saver! (and I refer to my own life even more than my cat's)
I found a home for her! I didn't have to drop her off at some creepy shelter where they would take one look at my bitch of a cat and decide it best to give her two coins for the Ferry Man and send her across The River Styx.
After I wrote my sob story, I proceeded to fall into a bit of a depression (yes, a depression, I don't exaggerate) over my pet. It may seem silly to some, given I've been through so many dark times why should I sink into the pit over a cat that pisses all over my life, but still... I did. No matter how packed my sinuses were, no matter how many random boogers filled my nostrils while trying to have valuable conversations with people, I could NOT bring myself to pile that kitty into my car and haul her off to certain doom. So for days I told my story to random people at work and where ever I went, begging for ANYONE to help me. And just as things seemed to be a lost cause, my daughter mentioned a teacher at her school that lives on a farm and that Simba might be happy there. Being desperate, I had no trouble approaching that teacher and telling her my sob story, doing my best to appeal to her desire to let all creatures great and small have a right to life, but to no avail. She told me she already had three cats and couldn't take any more. She did wish me luck though.
Needless to say, I shuffled off to work that day certain I was going to have to suck it up and drive Simba to hell myself. As I was sitting in my cubicle, contemplating whether or not I should call my dad and sob and cry until he willingly drove an hour just to come pick up my cat and do the deed for me, a coworker stepped in and indulged me by listening to yet another set of my feline lamentations. She listened and said, "You know who might take your cat? Ron. He might take your cat. He lives on a ranch with three horses and I know he had an outdoor cat that just passed away. Go talk to him and see what he says."
SO... Ron The Office Cowboy, after watching a sweet helpless damsel in distress struggle to keep tears behind her eyes, agreed to become the proud new owner of what will most likely be known as one of the most feral domesticated cats in history. I drove her out there on Saturday morning, and to my surprise she not only trolled a small portion of the territory to check it out, she actually cuddled up to Ron and his wife (which I considered a merciful sign from God). I stayed long enough to be sure she wasn't going to turn on the people, and then I left without shedding a tear on my way home. Thank you, Ron! You're a life saver! (and I refer to my own life even more than my cat's)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat...
This is truly a tragedy. I mean it. This is serious. I feel terrible about it, but...
I have this cat, I've mentioned her before. She keeps me awake at night because she's constantly ripping up the carpet or pissing all over my life. She's mean to everyone. Sometimes I think, if it weren't for the fact that I keep her bowl full of kibble and regularly scoop the crap out of her stupid shit box, she'd be wicked to me too. Every once in a while she tries to play the whole "Who's The Alpha Female In The House" game with me; she does her best to terrorize me, the way she does everyone else, but... there's only ONE Queen of This Jungle, and it aint her.
If you've been reading my blog regularly, a) you're excited to see something new, b) you're frustrated that I waited nearly a month and a half to post again, and c) you are completely familiar with the ringing of my ears and how irksome that was becoming to me. So all you've really missed is about six weeks of me going back and forth to the doctor trying to find out what was wrong. Well, the cat is what's wrong. The cat that has been the bane of my existence ever since I moved into this little hovel of a home.
When I moved into this space, I unfortunately moved away from a home that was perfect for my cat's personality. She could go out back into this fairy tale yard, complete with fountain and Zen garden, and hang with the group of swaggering felines that patrolled the area, providing a service to the people via pigeon population control. She stayed out all night and came in for the day. She pissed on nothing that was mine and dug her claws into nothing but outdoor trees and possibly other cats, critters, children, and random people who dared approach the "cute kitty." It truly was cat heaven. The only time she came to me was when she wanted some love and a warm lap to curl up and purr on. (Ah yes... those were the days when I could hold my own in the cat vs. dog argument) But when I moved here I basically moved from 2000 square feet to maybe 850 square feet, not to mention I have no private yard and we're sharing walls with other neighbors (some of them annoying drunk neighbors). She hated the move, no cat does well with change but this, for her and possibly for me, was a very unwelcome change.
My initial solution was to get her a collar and let her roam about at night like she did at the house. Wrong. Her first night out I get a call at four o'clock in the morning with this thick Indian accent on the line saying, "Uh, jes. There is thees cat and she has been scratching on the door for hours and we finally got up to see what is going on and it's thees cat and my wife, she open thee door and thee cat got in thee house and we could not get her out of thee house and my wife, she finally got her out of thee house but now my wife, she cannot get back in thee house because thee cat, she is standing in front of the door and she is scaring my wife and my wife, she cannot get back in." So I walk outside and find a lady standing in the courtyard of the building directly across from mine. I start apologizing profusely as I walk upstairs and see her husband staring down at me from the kitchen window with the phone to his ear and I find my cat standing on her hind legs at their front door with her claws out like she's some kind of grizzly bear protecting the entrance to her den (and I have to admit she was quite a terrifying sight... Feral Cat).
After that episode two things happened: I removed her collar because if she were going to roam around and terrorize the neighbors I didn't want to be associated with her wickedness, and she apparently scared herself into never roaming outside our courtyard. The problem is, she's a free spirit that doesn't like being confined in a tiny space (an aspect of her I completely relate to). Unfortunately, this created some kind of cat neurosis that finds solace and comfort in pissing all over my house!!!
I don't know how many of you are familiar with feline urine, but it's one of the most awful smells I've ever encountered. One of the cleaning solutions (I have tried many, btw, and I can tell you which ones are the best so don't go by false advertisement -- if you need to know the best in cleaning cat piss, call me) even advises to ALWAYS wear latex gloves when cleaning cat piss because it's "caustic." No joke -- CAUSTIC. How many times to you hear that word? I've called people caustic, and they're usually the same people that have me doubled over in laughter due to their extremely bitter and sarcastic retorts to life in general, but... Caustic Cat Piss? As in, capable of burning, corroding, or destroying living tissue? So, not only is my cat annoying the hell out of me, she's basically inundated my home with a poisonous fluid that could destroy me? I AM a living tissue. It's like the acid that drops out of Sigourney Weaver's Aliens, but it's lining the baseboards of my home and destroyed a few of the books that rest on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. On top of it all, the caustic fumes, that apparently don't go away after repetitious cleaning, were such an affront to my immune system it decided to man up my nasal passages and swell to the point of closing off the vestibules in my ears which is why (three months later) my ears are STILL RINGING!!! Adding insult to injury, I had to spend $125 on medication yesterday for my allergies and my ears all because of the cat piss that I've already spent at least $600 on in an attempt to remedy the situation. I've read books, I've changed cat foods, I've changed litter and litter boxes, I've played calming music for her while I'm at work, I've put cat nip and cat fermones everywhere, I've used countless amounts of enzymatic cleaner to get the pee up out of the carpet only to watch her turn around and do it again and again and again. And yesterday I had to sit in the doctor's office and listen to the man say, "I'm not going to tell you what to do with your cat, but it's definitely a problem."
So... as much as I love this cat, I think it's time for me to start thinking of her as a relationship gone sour. I can't take this abuse anymore. But... what do I do? She loves no one but me, and even that's questionable at times. Who would take her? Who would be able to win her heart over?
If she were a dude, pissing all over my house in an attempt to manipulate me, I'd dump him without hesitation. But she's not a dude, she's a cute little furry creature that still curls up and purrs on my lap whenever she finds time to love me. If she were a friend that just needed me to constantly clean up her messes, I'd eventually tell her that she's a drain and a waste of my time and energy, she does nothing but take and give nothing in return, and she needs to fend for herself. But she's not human and she can't fend for herself, and I'm not even sure she knows that her urine is "caustic" so... I can't do that one either. But I have to break this relationship off. I can't keep doing this. Something has to change and I'm pretty sure, after six months, I've exhausted all avenues except the "break-up" route. The problem is, whenever I put an end to an unhealthy human relationship, I never have to worry that someone will be euthanized if they can't replace me within the next seven days (though in some cases that might have saved someone else some serious drama).
As frustrated as I am, I cried most of the day yesterday because I feel like I've failed my cat somehow. I feel like there was something she needed I didn't give her and now she's the one that has to suffer because I just can't deal with it. I have allergies that are driving me insane, I have a home that I'm constantly struggling to keep clean and sanitary, and I have this cute furry creature with a personality that has both angered me and given me pleasure. She's been my guard cat against people that should've never been that close to me and she has amused me even when she's frightened people I care about (because it's always funny to see a tiny ten pound creature that could easily be drop kicked wield a presence powerful enough to intimidate 100+ pound people). I've looked for No Kill Shelters, but they only save cats that are "threatened" with death not cats that have to be handed off by owners who can't care for them anymore. I'd advertise for someone to take, but who's going to believe that she's lovable because she's only lovable to me? More and more it looks like I'll be taking her to the county animal control shelter and my heart sinks. I've had her for five years... walking down the hall to drop her off in some cold scary cage that may be the last thing she sees before the end does NOT sit well with me.
Seriously, if anyone out there has any better ideas, I'm open to suggestion.
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