We took a plane over a week ago, dashed headlong into Alaska. Got swallowed by its darkness, packed with snow and ice and wind and cold. The family whirled around us, cooking pancakes and pizzas. Little Dax wore fur, strapped to backs, tucked in a snowsuit and giant fur hat, his little red cheeks rounded and pushed up against his eyes.
I am thankful his grandma & uncle & grandpa want take him outside, walk him to meet the horses & the goats & the sheep & the cows. I am thankful for his interest in them and his slow approach. I am thankful for the walk we took, just my son and I, when the day light shone. We watched the light grey trees (those bare giants) against the bright white sky. We listened to the crunch of the snowboots, the rustle of puffy polyester leg against puffy polyester leg. After a mile or so, you fell asleep. The quiet of your face with the quiet of that snowy tree-lined road. That's the moment that Life Is.
I worry about us, as a people. On the plane, they now hand out these digital players that come with music & movies & the like. The girl next to me, who taps her foot while fussing with her phone seems relieved to receive her player. She orders a movie and after 32 minutes, decides against it. She quickly orders another. She zips between the movie and something on her phone for the next two hours. When the credits roll, she anxiously plays solitaire. And I'm not trying to pick on this girl--the whole planes' faces are bathed in the white artificial light of screens. People mindlessly wormholing into digital mazes.
Can't we Just Sit There anymore? What, I wonder, is this doing to our brains? Our interactions? Our relationships? Everything is so quick & fantastic & bright & big & frantic & violent. It seems so addictive & impulsive & gross, this behavior of ours.
It's getting worse too. Why must there be a television EVERY-FUCKING-WHERE?! At the gym now, they are attached to the cardio machines. The users look like wired mice. I wonder if they are even getting a workout, since their minds are so far removed from their bodies? Doesn't anybody want to feel anything anymore?
I took Dax to zpizza the other day, a treat (for me really). We sat there eating, when I noticed him gazing off in the distance. I followed his eyes to a television in the corner. I felt so sad then. First off, he's one years old. One. Years. Old. Which, according to the AAP, children shouldn't be watching any television until they're two. (Mind you, I have been known to throw a little Curious George on when trying to cook dinner, but at least the viewing and content is under my control as a parent). How would I be able to avoid television & its seemingly unchecked content if I tried? Televisions are in airports & malls & cars & restaurants & every other damn place you can think of now because apparently we can't even stand to speak to each other anymore.
I am not immune, especially to the internet. I am amazed sometimes at how some hours can go by in browsing time and nothing accomplished, not a stitch closer to my dreams & goals. How dare I say, 'there's not enough time?' How much of itdo we buzz away? And after I am off the internet, how do I feel? Anxious. Tired. A little Frantic. It certainly doesn't relax me. It doesn't refresh me (although writing does).
But sometimes I simply crave a mindless crawl through fave websites. I am familiar with this thinking/feeling/needing from an old ex-addiction to cigarettes--I would THINK a couple cigs would relax me, but truly, every puff would make me more anxious, more needy, wanting more. Is there enjoyment? Yes, of course, trust me I loved my cigs, but long-term happiness? Heck no.
I saw a girl on the swing the other day, looking at her phone and texting. She was missing it. The whole part of swinging where your mind gets all freed up & you can feel your body & your smile and the wind whooshing between your teeth. These are the moments that regenerate the brain. The ones that help us think deep & clear. Without them, what kind of citizens will we be?
It makes me scared & sad & mad for Dax. I don't see kids playing on the street here (a nice safe suburban neighborhood, easily walkable).I don't want him to miss out on all the beautiful things that surround us, calm us. My whole childhood was about the woods and the sky and the lakes and the rivers--I found solace there, freedom, repose. Where will he find his peace of mind? The backdrop of his memories? A google search?
I am afraid for him to grow up with peers whose attention spans are .02 miliseconds. How much can a parent really do? I can field damage control, of course, but in a world like ours where it seems so many people are accepting this new life of ours and not asking questions. Where the business owners are tacking televisions in every corner. Where every new car comes equipped with a television, so kids don't even stare out windows anymore. They just listen to the soundbites, get all jumbled up by The Noise.
How can I tell my son: There's another way,
When the whole world seems to be telling him otherwise?
Showing posts with label Rants and Raves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rants and Raves. Show all posts
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Ding Dong, Beezlebub is Dead
I'm having a hard time thinking of something to write at the moment.
I think it is Osama's fault. He's everywhere and he's all I can think about.
I'm not sure why. It's all so remote. I heard they dumped his body in the sea. They honored his Islamic traditions, washed his body, wrapped him in a shroud, said a prayer. I wonder who attended his funeral. Who helped with the arrangements. What boatman guided the ship out among the swelling mounds of the sea to release him.
I know what it feels like when history is happening. The other night as we readied for bed, my husband's phone lit up and he ran for the stairs saying, "It's something that affects us all, well not 'us' personally, but people as a whole."
And as the television clicked on, I could see my favorite CNN crew was frantic, excited. Headlines are in ALL CAPS when things are IMPORTANT. Out in front of the White House, students from the nearby college and others, gathered to climb trees. I could see a couple cheerleaders in the crowd, doing some kind of clapping ditty. I wanted them to get off their friends' shoulders and sit down.
It was unnerving. Our president standing in front of the podium. The cameras were still and in a close-up. I know they wanted us to feel like we were personally being delivered a message: You are all safe now. You can relax. We got the boogey man.
And it seems like people ate it up right? Even Rush Limbaugh praised my guy for his terrorist-hunting capabilities. I felt like a great bunch of Americans think this: The War on Terror is Over. (Isn't that weird to have a WAR on TERROR, feels like such a circle to me...WAR TERROR War Terror war terror, isn't it all the same, isn't War full of Terror?)
Yet, I guess that makes me happy that people feel like that though--that they want to end it. People need conclusions. If this death has provided the Symbolism we need to get out of Afghanistan then So Be It.
It's weird though, some Americans are acting like this is all they were waiting for all along. That now we can wipe our brow from worry and sleep at night because we have destroyed The Enemy. As if this death were the ultimate goal all along.
I'm not crying over this execution, don't get me wrong. September 11th was mass murder and the worst kind of evil. I can't shake the sick way I felt that morning as we watched the tiny black human-shaped shadows jump out of those windows when the towers fell.
However, the quick move to 'close this chapter' seems disingenuous to me. To me, it seems like a weakly transparent attempt to shirk accountability for what's happened over the past 10 years. Frankly, it feels childish. A bully on the playground who keeps declaring that he's "winning."
I don't know. I guess whatever it takes to put an end to this endless drama. I wish we could be classier about the whole thing. Less primitive. Less about chanting "USA! USA! USA!" in some creepy way from the treetops.
I want our people home. That's what I want. That would make me climb trees and shake down leaves and yelp into the air. I want to stop worrying about the endless friends and bloggers and people who have people who have sons and daughters "over there." The loved ones who keep missing people, losing people, losing lives. Because that's what war accomplishes: empty seats at the dinner table. That's the reality; that's the microcosm. The ideologies bring us there, but every time those ideas are shattered into sobbing broken hearts. War IS Terror.
I don't know.
I didn't need Osama dead to call an end to the 'War on Terror.' I hate that the whole thing has been 10 years thus far. It makes me sick to think that is all some Americans wanted was One Guy Dead. And now that they have stood over his dead body and spit into the sea as he drifted off, that they're ready to move on. That that's all it took for their battle cry of "We've Won!"
I can't help but wonder,
Have we?
I think it is Osama's fault. He's everywhere and he's all I can think about.
I'm not sure why. It's all so remote. I heard they dumped his body in the sea. They honored his Islamic traditions, washed his body, wrapped him in a shroud, said a prayer. I wonder who attended his funeral. Who helped with the arrangements. What boatman guided the ship out among the swelling mounds of the sea to release him.
I know what it feels like when history is happening. The other night as we readied for bed, my husband's phone lit up and he ran for the stairs saying, "It's something that affects us all, well not 'us' personally, but people as a whole."
And as the television clicked on, I could see my favorite CNN crew was frantic, excited. Headlines are in ALL CAPS when things are IMPORTANT. Out in front of the White House, students from the nearby college and others, gathered to climb trees. I could see a couple cheerleaders in the crowd, doing some kind of clapping ditty. I wanted them to get off their friends' shoulders and sit down.
It was unnerving. Our president standing in front of the podium. The cameras were still and in a close-up. I know they wanted us to feel like we were personally being delivered a message: You are all safe now. You can relax. We got the boogey man.
And it seems like people ate it up right? Even Rush Limbaugh praised my guy for his terrorist-hunting capabilities. I felt like a great bunch of Americans think this: The War on Terror is Over. (Isn't that weird to have a WAR on TERROR, feels like such a circle to me...WAR TERROR War Terror war terror, isn't it all the same, isn't War full of Terror?)
Yet, I guess that makes me happy that people feel like that though--that they want to end it. People need conclusions. If this death has provided the Symbolism we need to get out of Afghanistan then So Be It.
It's weird though, some Americans are acting like this is all they were waiting for all along. That now we can wipe our brow from worry and sleep at night because we have destroyed The Enemy. As if this death were the ultimate goal all along.
I'm not crying over this execution, don't get me wrong. September 11th was mass murder and the worst kind of evil. I can't shake the sick way I felt that morning as we watched the tiny black human-shaped shadows jump out of those windows when the towers fell.
However, the quick move to 'close this chapter' seems disingenuous to me. To me, it seems like a weakly transparent attempt to shirk accountability for what's happened over the past 10 years. Frankly, it feels childish. A bully on the playground who keeps declaring that he's "winning."
I don't know. I guess whatever it takes to put an end to this endless drama. I wish we could be classier about the whole thing. Less primitive. Less about chanting "USA! USA! USA!" in some creepy way from the treetops.
I want our people home. That's what I want. That would make me climb trees and shake down leaves and yelp into the air. I want to stop worrying about the endless friends and bloggers and people who have people who have sons and daughters "over there." The loved ones who keep missing people, losing people, losing lives. Because that's what war accomplishes: empty seats at the dinner table. That's the reality; that's the microcosm. The ideologies bring us there, but every time those ideas are shattered into sobbing broken hearts. War IS Terror.
I don't know.
I didn't need Osama dead to call an end to the 'War on Terror.' I hate that the whole thing has been 10 years thus far. It makes me sick to think that is all some Americans wanted was One Guy Dead. And now that they have stood over his dead body and spit into the sea as he drifted off, that they're ready to move on. That that's all it took for their battle cry of "We've Won!"
I can't help but wonder,
Have we?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Unsolicited Advice is Not Always Criticism, A Revision
I wrote a post about a week ago called Unsolicited Advice Sounds Like Criticism.
And then I got to thinking.
I think I was wrong.
Not ALL of it. But still, I feel the need to CLARIFY things.
I know this because a handful of my family, poor blokes, have now taken to preemptively apologizing to me before saying anything that mildly sounds like directives or advice or food-for-thought. Even a few blogger friends tongue-in-cheek said, "I hope I don't do that. If I do, I'm sorry." And just the fact that all these loved ones said this to me makes me want to punch myself in the face.
Mostly, I don't ever mean YOU, dear reader. YOU can do no wrong. Don't YOU stop saying whatever the hell you want to me. If I can't put on my big girl pants and slough off any advice that rubs me wrong, then I shouldn't be here. I want to hear what YOU have to say ALL THE TIME. I am pretty sure I can live off of blog comments alone, so whether I agree or disagree, your words are absolutely necessary to my emotional survival.
Secondly, I think (decent) moms & dads have a god-given right to boss you around until you die. They were in charge of making sure you brushed your teeth & did your homework & making sure you didn't turn into an asshole. It's pure habit that they continue to verbally vomit all their preferred ways to do things well into your golden age. Give them a break. They are the key reason you survived.
ANYWAY, after I wrote that post a week ago and then heard the feedback from loved ones, I just kept getting all challenged in my brain, and I started categorize things and analyze things and things got a little crazy and then I came up with this:
When Unsolicited Advice is Good and When it is Bad, Six Rules to Consider to Drive Proper Delivery:
1) GUIDANCE is often categorized as unsolicited advice, however it is NOT criticism. Sometimes (frequently) people NEED guidance. It is OK to provide guidance to friends and family members and of course, blogger friends. When people truly are struggling, they might need other people to say little nuggets of wonder that set them back on track. Humans need this from other humans. Crave it. Desire it for survival.
Parents are amazing at this delicate little dance. Whenever I'm off my kilter or too stressed out or obsessing about some bullshit thing, my mom might say, "Honey, take a breath. Are you doing your yoga? What about relaxing with a book and a bath? Center yourself." Is this unsolicited advice? Sure. However, I wouldn't say it's criticism. I would cry if I didn't hear these kind reminders from my mommy to 'go back into zen dear.'
2) GUIDANCE is most readily accepted from a person's immediate family or good friends i.e. people you really really like or admire. It IS possible to provide guidance to strangers, however, do so at your own risk. Have you ever met that casual acquaintance who thinks you should go do martial arts to get out your frustrations? Well, a family member would know you better: You f'ing hate karate.
What about that random party stranger who advises you to go to grad school? Um, yeah, thanks but no thanks, I'm done with school. Now stop wasting air. There are some strangers/coworkers/random people in the grocery store line that LOVE to guide the lives of others i.e. project their own desires unto strangers. Don't be that douche.
3) Random Product Recommendations are Probably Totally Cool.
This is probably the most harmless form of unsolicited advice, and it certainly is not criticism. I knew I had to add this one when my sister said the other day on the phone, "Not trying to advise you or anything, but you might think about getting this bouncer for Dax." She obviously was worried I might confuse her unsolicited advice for criticism per reading my scathing blog. UGH. I felt so bad.
Imagine if we didn't hear what products other people dug or liked or loved or hated?! We couldn't function. There's too many products/books/shops/hotels/etc./etc./etc. out there and we must trust other humans to give us the heads-up! Who cares if their advice is unsolicited! To be honest, I might not purchase that bouncer for Dax (love ya sis ;-)), but guess what? I did take her recommendation on a glider and a bumbo and belly band and countless other things throughout our years. The fact is: No one really gets offended if you don't go out and buy that book they think is fantastic. But when these recommends DO strike chords? GREAT! If they don't, does anybody care?
4) Constructive Criticism is Food for the Soul.
Sometimes criticism SHOULD be welcomed and taken positively--this is what's called constructive criticism. For example, the other day I was feeling a little weird and queasy about something blog-related, like what I write about or vote solicitation or something bloggy like that and Dave said, "Babe, you gotta get over that. You just gotta keep putting yourself out there and not worry about what other people think."
Was it unsolicited? Yes. Was it advice? Yes. Was it criticism? Perhaps. But it was CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. In fact, it was EXACTLY what I needed to hear. Be the human that can distinguish between constructive criticism and plain-old-mean criticism. Dump the mean stuff. THEN, set your ego aside and TAKE the constructive criticism and USE IT. Your life will change for the better, I promise you.
5) Sometimes people NEED/DESERVE criticism.
Is someone in your life abusing drugs, beating their wife, drinking & driving, letting their dogs bark all night long in their yard & upsetting the neighborhood, torturing animals, or in some other way doing something awful and selfish and dangerous that is hurting you or could potentially hurt others? Then I personally think it's totally acceptable to say things like: "Dear loved one: Drugs are sucking the life out of you and I'm worried." Or to the neighbor who's dogs are barking: "Shut those dogs up." Or to your friend, "Don't drink and drive you jerk."
I don't subscribe to the "Stay out of it" mentality when a person or loved one or random stranger is being awful. I hope to God that if I saw someone hit their kid in a Target aisle that I would have the nads to say, "HEY! Stop that, I'm calling security." Sometimes I think we ALL need to grow a pair. So in this case unsolicited advice IS criticism. Well-warranted, Absolutely Necessary, Criticism.
THE BOTTOM LINE IS: The Unsolicited Advice I don't like at all and wrote about in my previous post was the Unsolicited Advice I speak of in #2 and #6. So um yeah, don't do these. You can do the other four categories. Which means, according to my complex diagram of the goods and bads of unsolicited advice, only 1/3 of all unsolicited advice sucks. Keep that in mind. And this advice from me falls into category #2, so is therefore Totally Cool.
And then I got to thinking.
I think I was wrong.
Not ALL of it. But still, I feel the need to CLARIFY things.
I know this because a handful of my family, poor blokes, have now taken to preemptively apologizing to me before saying anything that mildly sounds like directives or advice or food-for-thought. Even a few blogger friends tongue-in-cheek said, "I hope I don't do that. If I do, I'm sorry." And just the fact that all these loved ones said this to me makes me want to punch myself in the face.
Mostly, I don't ever mean YOU, dear reader. YOU can do no wrong. Don't YOU stop saying whatever the hell you want to me. If I can't put on my big girl pants and slough off any advice that rubs me wrong, then I shouldn't be here. I want to hear what YOU have to say ALL THE TIME. I am pretty sure I can live off of blog comments alone, so whether I agree or disagree, your words are absolutely necessary to my emotional survival.
Secondly, I think (decent) moms & dads have a god-given right to boss you around until you die. They were in charge of making sure you brushed your teeth & did your homework & making sure you didn't turn into an asshole. It's pure habit that they continue to verbally vomit all their preferred ways to do things well into your golden age. Give them a break. They are the key reason you survived.
ANYWAY, after I wrote that post a week ago and then heard the feedback from loved ones, I just kept getting all challenged in my brain, and I started categorize things and analyze things and things got a little crazy and then I came up with this:
When Unsolicited Advice is Good and When it is Bad, Six Rules to Consider to Drive Proper Delivery:
1) GUIDANCE is often categorized as unsolicited advice, however it is NOT criticism. Sometimes (frequently) people NEED guidance. It is OK to provide guidance to friends and family members and of course, blogger friends. When people truly are struggling, they might need other people to say little nuggets of wonder that set them back on track. Humans need this from other humans. Crave it. Desire it for survival.
Parents are amazing at this delicate little dance. Whenever I'm off my kilter or too stressed out or obsessing about some bullshit thing, my mom might say, "Honey, take a breath. Are you doing your yoga? What about relaxing with a book and a bath? Center yourself." Is this unsolicited advice? Sure. However, I wouldn't say it's criticism. I would cry if I didn't hear these kind reminders from my mommy to 'go back into zen dear.'
2) GUIDANCE is most readily accepted from a person's immediate family or good friends i.e. people you really really like or admire. It IS possible to provide guidance to strangers, however, do so at your own risk. Have you ever met that casual acquaintance who thinks you should go do martial arts to get out your frustrations? Well, a family member would know you better: You f'ing hate karate.
What about that random party stranger who advises you to go to grad school? Um, yeah, thanks but no thanks, I'm done with school. Now stop wasting air. There are some strangers/coworkers/random people in the grocery store line that LOVE to guide the lives of others i.e. project their own desires unto strangers. Don't be that douche.
3) Random Product Recommendations are Probably Totally Cool.
This is probably the most harmless form of unsolicited advice, and it certainly is not criticism. I knew I had to add this one when my sister said the other day on the phone, "Not trying to advise you or anything, but you might think about getting this bouncer for Dax." She obviously was worried I might confuse her unsolicited advice for criticism per reading my scathing blog. UGH. I felt so bad.
Imagine if we didn't hear what products other people dug or liked or loved or hated?! We couldn't function. There's too many products/books/shops/hotels/etc./etc./etc. out there and we must trust other humans to give us the heads-up! Who cares if their advice is unsolicited! To be honest, I might not purchase that bouncer for Dax (love ya sis ;-)), but guess what? I did take her recommendation on a glider and a bumbo and belly band and countless other things throughout our years. The fact is: No one really gets offended if you don't go out and buy that book they think is fantastic. But when these recommends DO strike chords? GREAT! If they don't, does anybody care?
4) Constructive Criticism is Food for the Soul.
Sometimes criticism SHOULD be welcomed and taken positively--this is what's called constructive criticism. For example, the other day I was feeling a little weird and queasy about something blog-related, like what I write about or vote solicitation or something bloggy like that and Dave said, "Babe, you gotta get over that. You just gotta keep putting yourself out there and not worry about what other people think."
Was it unsolicited? Yes. Was it advice? Yes. Was it criticism? Perhaps. But it was CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. In fact, it was EXACTLY what I needed to hear. Be the human that can distinguish between constructive criticism and plain-old-mean criticism. Dump the mean stuff. THEN, set your ego aside and TAKE the constructive criticism and USE IT. Your life will change for the better, I promise you.
5) Sometimes people NEED/DESERVE criticism.
Is someone in your life abusing drugs, beating their wife, drinking & driving, letting their dogs bark all night long in their yard & upsetting the neighborhood, torturing animals, or in some other way doing something awful and selfish and dangerous that is hurting you or could potentially hurt others? Then I personally think it's totally acceptable to say things like: "Dear loved one: Drugs are sucking the life out of you and I'm worried." Or to the neighbor who's dogs are barking: "Shut those dogs up." Or to your friend, "Don't drink and drive you jerk."
I don't subscribe to the "Stay out of it" mentality when a person or loved one or random stranger is being awful. I hope to God that if I saw someone hit their kid in a Target aisle that I would have the nads to say, "HEY! Stop that, I'm calling security." Sometimes I think we ALL need to grow a pair. So in this case unsolicited advice IS criticism. Well-warranted, Absolutely Necessary, Criticism.
6) Unsolicited Advice Sounds Like Criticism When It IS Criticism. Now THIS is the advice that is criticism that sucks that I was talking about in my previous post. This is the advice that I do not like. That nobody likes. That we should all try NOT TO DO. Here goes....
Before the delivery of said advice, ask yourself, what are your motives? Sometimes when we deliver unsolicited advice, it truly is NOT in the spirit of help. If we are honest with ourselves, we truly are using the advice as a thinly veiled criticism. We truly think what the other person is doing is retarded, and we'd kinda like to let them know.
For example, "Why would you sleep with your baby in your bed? Put that baby in his crib!" THAT is not advice. THAT is a direct criticism. What they are doing is not wrong and they like it and they are not hurting anything or anybody. However, YOU think it's totally dumb and you would never ever do that oh my god and you can't believe they are doing it and you just don't understand. So the origin of your "advice" is not from a pure place. This never ends well, and almost always offends the person it's been directed at. They might retort with, "Why don't YOU sleep next to your baby!?" This vicious game of "I'm better than you" sucks.
Whenever you feel the need to do this. Stop yourself. Remind yourself that there are many ways to do things. REMEMBER: I'm ok, you're ok.
THE BOTTOM LINE IS: The Unsolicited Advice I don't like at all and wrote about in my previous post was the Unsolicited Advice I speak of in #2 and #6. So um yeah, don't do these. You can do the other four categories. Which means, according to my complex diagram of the goods and bads of unsolicited advice, only 1/3 of all unsolicited advice sucks. Keep that in mind. And this advice from me falls into category #2, so is therefore Totally Cool.
What are YOUR thoughts?
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| totally random pic |
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Jitters
We have visitors flying in today. Dax will meet his Grandpa Dan and his Uncle Dalton. I am all sorts of excited about our weekend. I have to leave to the airport soon.
BUT WHY, why do I get all nervous and weird and jittery right before the people actually get here? I always want the house to be perfect and the plans to be made and I also want us all to just go with the flow.
I get all up in arms and bossy too, like there's so much to do. I have no mechanism for stress. Dave told me last night "to not care so much."
And he's right. Why am I such a perfectionist?
I think it's my mother's fault. She always kept such a nice house.
Oh no. I just realized Dax is going to blame me for all sorts of things.
I'm actually really messy, so I think I like to spend the extra time to appear tidy. Making myself not look like me is draining. But necessary. Being dirty is gross.
BUT WHY, why do I get all nervous and weird and jittery right before the people actually get here? I always want the house to be perfect and the plans to be made and I also want us all to just go with the flow.
I get all up in arms and bossy too, like there's so much to do. I have no mechanism for stress. Dave told me last night "to not care so much."
And he's right. Why am I such a perfectionist?
I think it's my mother's fault. She always kept such a nice house.
Oh no. I just realized Dax is going to blame me for all sorts of things.
I'm actually really messy, so I think I like to spend the extra time to appear tidy. Making myself not look like me is draining. But necessary. Being dirty is gross.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Team Blue
IT'S A BOY!!!! (Did I mention how I knew that? I like sooooo knew that...)
P.S. My mother, the witch, changed her vote prior to the ultrasound. She knew. Of course she knew. Or. She changed the course of history... that's soooo par for the course.
(My mother used to tell us that our real mother was in a flower pot. On the porch. You see? There's proof--she's even admitted her witchy ways!!!)
Anyway, back to our little boy. My son. My son whose in my belly. He's so real to me now all of the sudden. I visualize him and make dreams for him. I talk to him more. I rub my belly and try to soothe him. I played him Jack Johnson yesterday while I did the dishes. I picked the tunes especially for him--he feels like a kid who might like Jack Johnson.
I feel him now. I mean, literally. He does backflips in there. It is THE coolest thing EVER to feel him bump around in there.
I'm so excited to know now for sure that he's a little boy. These types of things define your family. Now, I know, my first born is a boy. That creates a certain type of dynamic in a family. It shapes things. Futures.
I don't get those peeps that decide not to find out. Like I SERIOUSLY can't wrap my mind around it. They're like, "It will be a surprise." But, I mean, isn't it a surprise when you hear? Whenever you hear it? I started crying when the ultrasound tech told us. Dave's smile was a smile I have never seen him wear before--the joy of knowing what your family will look like. The knowledge. It was a beautiful, beautiful moment. And then, when we told everyone, the reactions were filled to the brim with excitement.
There's so many uncontrollables/unknowables in labor, in new parenthood. Such as, how will labor feel? Will the baby be healthy? Holy shit, I'm gunna be a mom? How long does labor take? Will I be able to breastfeed right away? How will my partner react? How will our relationship change once the baby is here? My body? My boobs? Omg, What the f**k am I gunna do with a KID?!
The ONE thing you can control, is knowing what gender you might have. You can figure out what color to paint the nursery. You can register for cute clothes and blankets. You can pick a name. You can talk to your baby, BY their name, therefore bonding with them. Knowing the sex takes away one question mark in the big question mark of parenthood.
I've also heard the whole "I'm old-fashioned" argument. Pshh, Lame. Back in the day, they HAD to wait till birth to find out the gender. Reminder: They also didn't have cell phones or toilets Back In The Day. Do you want to pee in a pot too? I didn't think so...
I run into these girls everywhere though, that don't want to know. I nod and smile politely as they explain weakly, "We want it to be a surprise." Ugh, it will. I promise you, whenever you find out, it will be a surprise. There's no reason to wait until labor. Seriously, no GOOD reason to wait until labor. It seems like very unnecessary anticipation. Isn't the miracle of birth exciting enough? You don't get a cookie or a prize for "holding out," ladies.
And I know there's plenty girls reading this who are probably reeling now in defense. They themselves chose the "wait till birth" route as their co-workers and friends and families rallied around them for almost an entire year, with their old wive's tales and their bets and their guesses (which, um, could have been solved with a simple 'yea or nay' from the ultrasound tech).
Others reading this are reeling in defense of their loved ones who have made this decision. And so I semi-apologize for my outspoken passions. Maybe if someone could show me/tell me any other GOOD reason that might make a lick of sense to me. Then, I'll gladly change my tune. Until then, in my head, I'll be shaking my head.
But of course, to each his own...I do still love my girls who have done this (of course I have friends and family who have chosen this, don't we all? Sigh). But while I still love you, I just don't love your behavior ;-)
Here's my 20 week shot. Halfway done!!! As a disclaimer: I do take these shots in the a.m. before any food or anything, so that I show myself in the best light. I also stand nice and tall and fix the lighting in iPhoto. So for all those "I sorta hate you" notes I got on my last post, I want to assure you that if they were taken at night, it would look atleast twice as big as this. I'm just too vain to show you all that...
P.S. My mother, the witch, changed her vote prior to the ultrasound. She knew. Of course she knew. Or. She changed the course of history... that's soooo par for the course.
(My mother used to tell us that our real mother was in a flower pot. On the porch. You see? There's proof--she's even admitted her witchy ways!!!)
Anyway, back to our little boy. My son. My son whose in my belly. He's so real to me now all of the sudden. I visualize him and make dreams for him. I talk to him more. I rub my belly and try to soothe him. I played him Jack Johnson yesterday while I did the dishes. I picked the tunes especially for him--he feels like a kid who might like Jack Johnson.
I feel him now. I mean, literally. He does backflips in there. It is THE coolest thing EVER to feel him bump around in there.
I'm so excited to know now for sure that he's a little boy. These types of things define your family. Now, I know, my first born is a boy. That creates a certain type of dynamic in a family. It shapes things. Futures.
I don't get those peeps that decide not to find out. Like I SERIOUSLY can't wrap my mind around it. They're like, "It will be a surprise." But, I mean, isn't it a surprise when you hear? Whenever you hear it? I started crying when the ultrasound tech told us. Dave's smile was a smile I have never seen him wear before--the joy of knowing what your family will look like. The knowledge. It was a beautiful, beautiful moment. And then, when we told everyone, the reactions were filled to the brim with excitement.
There's so many uncontrollables/unknowables in labor, in new parenthood. Such as, how will labor feel? Will the baby be healthy? Holy shit, I'm gunna be a mom? How long does labor take? Will I be able to breastfeed right away? How will my partner react? How will our relationship change once the baby is here? My body? My boobs? Omg, What the f**k am I gunna do with a KID?!
The ONE thing you can control, is knowing what gender you might have. You can figure out what color to paint the nursery. You can register for cute clothes and blankets. You can pick a name. You can talk to your baby, BY their name, therefore bonding with them. Knowing the sex takes away one question mark in the big question mark of parenthood.
I've also heard the whole "I'm old-fashioned" argument. Pshh, Lame. Back in the day, they HAD to wait till birth to find out the gender. Reminder: They also didn't have cell phones or toilets Back In The Day. Do you want to pee in a pot too? I didn't think so...
I run into these girls everywhere though, that don't want to know. I nod and smile politely as they explain weakly, "We want it to be a surprise." Ugh, it will. I promise you, whenever you find out, it will be a surprise. There's no reason to wait until labor. Seriously, no GOOD reason to wait until labor. It seems like very unnecessary anticipation. Isn't the miracle of birth exciting enough? You don't get a cookie or a prize for "holding out," ladies.
And I know there's plenty girls reading this who are probably reeling now in defense. They themselves chose the "wait till birth" route as their co-workers and friends and families rallied around them for almost an entire year, with their old wive's tales and their bets and their guesses (which, um, could have been solved with a simple 'yea or nay' from the ultrasound tech).
Others reading this are reeling in defense of their loved ones who have made this decision. And so I semi-apologize for my outspoken passions. Maybe if someone could show me/tell me any other GOOD reason that might make a lick of sense to me. Then, I'll gladly change my tune. Until then, in my head, I'll be shaking my head.
But of course, to each his own...I do still love my girls who have done this (of course I have friends and family who have chosen this, don't we all? Sigh). But while I still love you, I just don't love your behavior ;-)
Here's my 20 week shot. Halfway done!!! As a disclaimer: I do take these shots in the a.m. before any food or anything, so that I show myself in the best light. I also stand nice and tall and fix the lighting in iPhoto. So for all those "I sorta hate you" notes I got on my last post, I want to assure you that if they were taken at night, it would look atleast twice as big as this. I'm just too vain to show you all that...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Oh for the Love of Health
I'm trying hard not to think about things like what silly people say about health care reform. That's about as deep as I can go there without screaming. Don't you know? What are they so afraid of?
Wait. I want to tear my face off. When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. Such as 1 + 1 = 2. (I have to start there with people.) I have to tell them that you shouldn't cross the street on a red light. Because it's as basic as that to me. What don't you get?
When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. In my (our) America. I want to lay down my guns when I see you screaming, "I don't want you to save me!" I want to stop fighting, because I think, in the long run, who gives a good goddamn? If you don't care about you, then why should I care about you?
When I see how many people aren't listening. When I see how many people are misinterpreting. When I see how many people are full of fear. When I see how many people are armed with propaganda and lies and untruths. When I see how many people are o.k. with that. Those closed fists. Those closed hearts. I think to myself: America is screwed. Oh my god, we are so screwed...
I don't want to fight for 1+1=2; it shouldn't be so hard. Sure, it passed. For that, I'm grateful. But what happens now? When 1+1=2 is open for debate?
I think then about my children. Where will we go? To protect. From you and you and you there too.
Oh America. You have it so good in so many ways. Why are you so dead-set on f**king it up?
Wait. I want to tear my face off. When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. Such as 1 + 1 = 2. (I have to start there with people.) I have to tell them that you shouldn't cross the street on a red light. Because it's as basic as that to me. What don't you get?
When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. In my (our) America. I want to lay down my guns when I see you screaming, "I don't want you to save me!" I want to stop fighting, because I think, in the long run, who gives a good goddamn? If you don't care about you, then why should I care about you?
When I see how many people aren't listening. When I see how many people are misinterpreting. When I see how many people are full of fear. When I see how many people are armed with propaganda and lies and untruths. When I see how many people are o.k. with that. Those closed fists. Those closed hearts. I think to myself: America is screwed. Oh my god, we are so screwed...
I don't want to fight for 1+1=2; it shouldn't be so hard. Sure, it passed. For that, I'm grateful. But what happens now? When 1+1=2 is open for debate?
I think then about my children. Where will we go? To protect. From you and you and you there too.
Oh America. You have it so good in so many ways. Why are you so dead-set on f**king it up?
Friday, March 12, 2010
A Farewell to Boobs
I've taken to binding my breasts, much like the ancient Chinese practice of foot binding. The purpose of this exercise is to stop their out-of-control growth spurned by my current condition of pregnancy, or in other words 'growing a human being inside of my insides.'
Granted, other than the ambitious growth of my upper lady humps, I've been exceptionally lucky in the arduous task of human growing. In these past 11 weeks, nary a mouthful of vomit has projected itself. My moods are smooth as butter. And my belly only really shows when I eat too much pizza. However, do not envy me. I have not been spared.
Almost immediately after the two pink 'you're preggo' lines crawled into our lives, my boobs blew up. Like balloons. I said them, "Girls, stop it, you're getting ahead of yourselves...you have nine months. No need to rush." They were uninterested in my pleas.
This wouldn't be such a tragedy if I began with smaller breasts, say an A or a B cup. Sure, then I would welcome the increased blood flow to meh jugs. But I am a C cup. And not just any old C cup, a perfect C cup. I LOVE my boobs. I'm not joking. When Dave first saw them years ago, he gasped. If it sounds like I'm bragging, it's because I am. (I will share this: my ass is flat. Feel better?)
I didn't always have them. I earned them through prayer. You see, I was a late bloomer. In sixth grade and all the way through middle school, I was breastless. Skinny and big-toothed. The first time I wore a bra to school, Danny W. grabbed the thin rung of fabric under my shirt and snapped it hard against my back, "Why are YOU wearing a BRA?" Everyone laughed.
Or how bout' when I cried at a birthday party attended by atleast twenty of the coolest kids in 7th grade and Aaron S. taunted loudly, "Hey Darcy, did that board come with your shirt?!" Everyone laughed.
And so I turned my pain to God. I made deals like, "if you give me boobs, I'll be good forever." I was earnest and consistent in my prayers. By the end of ninth grade, God delivered. And they were glorious. Not too big, not too small, proportional, and well-shaped. Even Danny W., my former arch nemesis, eventually commented. He said, nodding in the direction of my chest, "Those sure turned out all right." Instead of punching him, I beamed.
So you can imagine my panic when my perfect C's ballooned into D's during the very early weeks of pregnancy. The fear only multiplied when fellow procreaters warned, "It only gets worse." I almost started crying when one of my best friends told me she got her breasts done after her two babies were born because they quote, "looked like cow udders."
I've even heard stories about out-of-control nipple growth. To calm myself down, I consulted my mother, who has a talent for diffusing my fears: "They go back to normal after pregnancy right mom?!" In this case, she merely shrugged (in other words, your boobs might never be the same hon).
So I've turned vigilante; I've started a war with my changing body, in the hopes that I'll stave off any significant change. I figure this too-small sports bra that I'm wearing as a binding mechanism will cut off the blood supply, and my body will just forget about them. Trick my body into circumventing normal pregnancy breast changes. Hey, it worked for the Chinese--just look at their tiny feet!
Let's face it though, my cleavage is borderline lewd. And worse yet, perhaps it's God's inevitable payback. I mean honestly,I haven't really held up my side of the bargain of the "being good forever" breast exchange. Woes me.
I'm gunna just hope and wish and pray that when it's all over, I get my boobs back. It must happen somewhere, to someone. Right?! (Please tell me if this has happened to you. I need real empirical data girls.)
The worst is when people say, trying to console, "But look what you're getting in exchange? A beautiful baby!"
I say, "Oh shove it! You ain't never seen meh boobs."
Granted, other than the ambitious growth of my upper lady humps, I've been exceptionally lucky in the arduous task of human growing. In these past 11 weeks, nary a mouthful of vomit has projected itself. My moods are smooth as butter. And my belly only really shows when I eat too much pizza. However, do not envy me. I have not been spared.
Almost immediately after the two pink 'you're preggo' lines crawled into our lives, my boobs blew up. Like balloons. I said them, "Girls, stop it, you're getting ahead of yourselves...you have nine months. No need to rush." They were uninterested in my pleas.
This wouldn't be such a tragedy if I began with smaller breasts, say an A or a B cup. Sure, then I would welcome the increased blood flow to meh jugs. But I am a C cup. And not just any old C cup, a perfect C cup. I LOVE my boobs. I'm not joking. When Dave first saw them years ago, he gasped. If it sounds like I'm bragging, it's because I am. (I will share this: my ass is flat. Feel better?)
I didn't always have them. I earned them through prayer. You see, I was a late bloomer. In sixth grade and all the way through middle school, I was breastless. Skinny and big-toothed. The first time I wore a bra to school, Danny W. grabbed the thin rung of fabric under my shirt and snapped it hard against my back, "Why are YOU wearing a BRA?" Everyone laughed.
Or how bout' when I cried at a birthday party attended by atleast twenty of the coolest kids in 7th grade and Aaron S. taunted loudly, "Hey Darcy, did that board come with your shirt?!" Everyone laughed.
And so I turned my pain to God. I made deals like, "if you give me boobs, I'll be good forever." I was earnest and consistent in my prayers. By the end of ninth grade, God delivered. And they were glorious. Not too big, not too small, proportional, and well-shaped. Even Danny W., my former arch nemesis, eventually commented. He said, nodding in the direction of my chest, "Those sure turned out all right." Instead of punching him, I beamed.
So you can imagine my panic when my perfect C's ballooned into D's during the very early weeks of pregnancy. The fear only multiplied when fellow procreaters warned, "It only gets worse." I almost started crying when one of my best friends told me she got her breasts done after her two babies were born because they quote, "looked like cow udders."
I've even heard stories about out-of-control nipple growth. To calm myself down, I consulted my mother, who has a talent for diffusing my fears: "They go back to normal after pregnancy right mom?!" In this case, she merely shrugged (in other words, your boobs might never be the same hon).
So I've turned vigilante; I've started a war with my changing body, in the hopes that I'll stave off any significant change. I figure this too-small sports bra that I'm wearing as a binding mechanism will cut off the blood supply, and my body will just forget about them. Trick my body into circumventing normal pregnancy breast changes. Hey, it worked for the Chinese--just look at their tiny feet!
Let's face it though, my cleavage is borderline lewd. And worse yet, perhaps it's God's inevitable payback. I mean honestly,I haven't really held up my side of the bargain of the "being good forever" breast exchange. Woes me.
I'm gunna just hope and wish and pray that when it's all over, I get my boobs back. It must happen somewhere, to someone. Right?! (Please tell me if this has happened to you. I need real empirical data girls.)
The worst is when people say, trying to console, "But look what you're getting in exchange? A beautiful baby!"
I say, "Oh shove it! You ain't never seen meh boobs."
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
If I Can't Write More...
Then I'll just write this: That I can't write more.
I don't know why my words feel like quicksand now. I don't feel like giving them up. I want to hold them close to my chest now, like a poker hand. I'm bluffing.
I feel like I can't tell you what I think now. I can't tell you how anxious I am. I can't tell you how simultaneously excited I am. I can't tell you how I feel.
So I don't.
I stand here like a mute.
Writing this makes me want to challenge myself to just Let. You. Know. I'll start with just one thing...
It's been almost one half year of trying to make life grow in my belly. And there's nothing. And I can hear half of my support system sigh right now and say, "Don't say that. Don't be negative. Don't. Don't. Don't." They don't want me to talk about it. Ever. In fact, they say if I do, I jinx myself. Just thinking about it, apparently jinxes me. "Just relax," they chide.
But I don't think me just wondering about a natural thing like reproduction makes me stop reproduction. I'd rather they tell me that no matter what I think about, 'it is' or 'it ain't.' Because that's what I think. And how can I not think about it?
I want to hear, "No worries dear Darc, everything'll be fine." Or, "hey, I heard pineapple is great for fertility." Or "it took me one year, but it finally happened for me!" When I hear, "If you worry too much, you'll never get pregnant," that makes me feel desperate and frustrated. Like not only am I unable to conceive thus far, it's also my own mind's fault, not just a fault of my body. Now I got TWO problems.
To the many who have said this, I just had to say this. I still love you.
I want you to know that I do believe. It WILL happen. I have no doubt. But in the meantime, can't I kind of fuss over it?
I don't know why my words feel like quicksand now. I don't feel like giving them up. I want to hold them close to my chest now, like a poker hand. I'm bluffing.
I feel like I can't tell you what I think now. I can't tell you how anxious I am. I can't tell you how simultaneously excited I am. I can't tell you how I feel.
So I don't.
I stand here like a mute.
Writing this makes me want to challenge myself to just Let. You. Know. I'll start with just one thing...
It's been almost one half year of trying to make life grow in my belly. And there's nothing. And I can hear half of my support system sigh right now and say, "Don't say that. Don't be negative. Don't. Don't. Don't." They don't want me to talk about it. Ever. In fact, they say if I do, I jinx myself. Just thinking about it, apparently jinxes me. "Just relax," they chide.
But I don't think me just wondering about a natural thing like reproduction makes me stop reproduction. I'd rather they tell me that no matter what I think about, 'it is' or 'it ain't.' Because that's what I think. And how can I not think about it?
I want to hear, "No worries dear Darc, everything'll be fine." Or, "hey, I heard pineapple is great for fertility." Or "it took me one year, but it finally happened for me!" When I hear, "If you worry too much, you'll never get pregnant," that makes me feel desperate and frustrated. Like not only am I unable to conceive thus far, it's also my own mind's fault, not just a fault of my body. Now I got TWO problems.
To the many who have said this, I just had to say this. I still love you.
I want you to know that I do believe. It WILL happen. I have no doubt. But in the meantime, can't I kind of fuss over it?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Because I Can
I'm just going to talk politics. Because I can. And I'm not going to care what you think. But I am.
I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?
What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...
(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.
But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.
When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.
The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?
I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).
All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.
Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.
I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.
I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?
What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...
(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.
But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.
When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.
The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?
I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).
All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.
Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.
I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
This One's For My Mom
because she whines and cries that I don't write enough. So here I am. Two in a row. Back to back. Boom.
I'm thinking a lot about Christmas and what I want. what i want what i want i want i want. Gotta get those lists figured out, hand em' out, divvy up meh goods.
With this wish list fulfilled, I'll be accessorized with all the necessary material things that go with my capricious ideal. I'll BE better, by and bye.
So here's one paragraph of things i want, without inhibitions and completely unattached to reality...
i want i want i want a full-loaded MacBook Pro, an entry-level DSLR camera, Adobe Creative Suite, an end table for my bedroom, a navy blue Volvo, a black Pomeranian, an eco-maid, an uber special spa wrap, a ticket to New Zealand, my two front teeth (literally, i need new crowns), and world peace.
While I'll receive nary a one of these, it is now very apparent to me that I'm an aspiring yuppie. Are you happy now, mom?
I'm thinking a lot about Christmas and what I want. what i want what i want i want i want. Gotta get those lists figured out, hand em' out, divvy up meh goods.
With this wish list fulfilled, I'll be accessorized with all the necessary material things that go with my capricious ideal. I'll BE better, by and bye.
So here's one paragraph of things i want, without inhibitions and completely unattached to reality...
i want i want i want a full-loaded MacBook Pro, an entry-level DSLR camera, Adobe Creative Suite, an end table for my bedroom, a navy blue Volvo, a black Pomeranian, an eco-maid, an uber special spa wrap, a ticket to New Zealand, my two front teeth (literally, i need new crowns), and world peace.
While I'll receive nary a one of these, it is now very apparent to me that I'm an aspiring yuppie. Are you happy now, mom?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Day 150-something - Oh My Mega Mall
Went to the mall today. I like to shop on my day off. I like to pretend that I'll buy something. But now-a-days, my tight budget's got me strangled. I walk around from rack to rack. I like this. I like that. I walk away.
It seems like prices haven't really moved at all. The recession hasn't made any retailers really anti-up their $50 sweaters into $15 sweaters, or even $30, or dammit, even $40. What's wrong with them? Whose buying this stuff? Seriously? Almost everybody I know is hurting.
Sure, there's richies everywhere, but the majority of the people are in the $17 sweater range. Let's be honest. Is everyone still putting this shit on credit? Isn't that what got us into this mess? I refuse to charge a thing.
The cash in the pocket. It's real. Tangible. I have X amount of dollars per month to spend on clothes. And my taste could kill it on a nice pair of shoes. I love clothes. Shoes. Material things. Shallow I know. Sometimes when I'm in the mall, it's like a torture chamber. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...
I resist. Every time. Bite my lip. I'm an outfit shopper, so going piece by piece is a bit like tearing my flesh off in strips. I tend to over think things anyway, ask anyone I know, so you can imagine the analyzation of trying to make my tired wardrobe sing one sweater per month.
It all goes a bit like this...
I start out practical. I go to Charlotte Russe. I mean, they have cute stuff. Cheap. Yet immediately upon entrance, I can't help but think...I'm thirty, aren't I too old for this? And plus, the clothes, they last four wears and they are done. Isn't that a waste of money too? Perhaps I need to invest more in quality pieces...
So I then go to Express. They have more sophisticated, classic clothing. I see a dress I like. $79.99. Damn. One dress. Which really wouldn't be the end of the world, except I need an ENTIRE winter wardrobe. F$#%.
It's here I start to notice the impossibility of building this phantom wardrobe. First off, this season's sweaters are noticeably missing sleeves. Which to me is just clever marketing. They make you buy a long-sleeved undershirt too. Which is two pieces, as opposed to one whole sweater. That equals more money for them. Trend? Or clever recession strategy?
Second that, with the whole flat boot thing. Absolutely adorable. BUT. You have to wear skinny jeans with those. And if you're like me, you've avoided the whole skinny jean thing for a very long time considering most of us are not built like a 13-year-old boy. BUT jeans in boots = cute. So now I guess I need skinny jeans too. As of yet, none of this potential outfit is even accessorized. I re-check the cash in my pocket. Depression sinks in...
RE-evaluation: I go to Forever 21. Where I think...I hate teenagers AND their stupid clothing. Barf. Also: hot pink flannel? really?
How bout Macy's? That seems middle of the road, semi-affordable and semi-well-constructed. I accidentally end up in the high-end section first. The cutest BCBG stuff assaults me. I'm spinning. When I finally get to "my" section, everything looks cheap and old. I leave immediately.
Three hours deep in mall-ville, I ended up with a pair of work shoes and Aveda foundation to replace what I've run out of. I also gained a severe need for bipolar meds. Oh my mega mall. You bring out the worst in me.
Yes, I know I can go to Target, and sure, I could perhaps piece together an outfit a month there. People are starving, for pete's sake, my thoughts are so small.
But today, I dreamt and swore. I want to get all debaucherous on shopping. Just once (or thrice). I want to just blow a wad of cash on what I love. Rub quality fabrics all over my skin and walk haughty in my super-fly new heels, my well-constructed dress.
I know these thoughts won't get me to heaven. But I'd ask for forgiveness afterwards. I promise.
It seems like prices haven't really moved at all. The recession hasn't made any retailers really anti-up their $50 sweaters into $15 sweaters, or even $30, or dammit, even $40. What's wrong with them? Whose buying this stuff? Seriously? Almost everybody I know is hurting.
Sure, there's richies everywhere, but the majority of the people are in the $17 sweater range. Let's be honest. Is everyone still putting this shit on credit? Isn't that what got us into this mess? I refuse to charge a thing.
The cash in the pocket. It's real. Tangible. I have X amount of dollars per month to spend on clothes. And my taste could kill it on a nice pair of shoes. I love clothes. Shoes. Material things. Shallow I know. Sometimes when I'm in the mall, it's like a torture chamber. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...
I resist. Every time. Bite my lip. I'm an outfit shopper, so going piece by piece is a bit like tearing my flesh off in strips. I tend to over think things anyway, ask anyone I know, so you can imagine the analyzation of trying to make my tired wardrobe sing one sweater per month.
It all goes a bit like this...
I start out practical. I go to Charlotte Russe. I mean, they have cute stuff. Cheap. Yet immediately upon entrance, I can't help but think...I'm thirty, aren't I too old for this? And plus, the clothes, they last four wears and they are done. Isn't that a waste of money too? Perhaps I need to invest more in quality pieces...
So I then go to Express. They have more sophisticated, classic clothing. I see a dress I like. $79.99. Damn. One dress. Which really wouldn't be the end of the world, except I need an ENTIRE winter wardrobe. F$#%.
It's here I start to notice the impossibility of building this phantom wardrobe. First off, this season's sweaters are noticeably missing sleeves. Which to me is just clever marketing. They make you buy a long-sleeved undershirt too. Which is two pieces, as opposed to one whole sweater. That equals more money for them. Trend? Or clever recession strategy?
Second that, with the whole flat boot thing. Absolutely adorable. BUT. You have to wear skinny jeans with those. And if you're like me, you've avoided the whole skinny jean thing for a very long time considering most of us are not built like a 13-year-old boy. BUT jeans in boots = cute. So now I guess I need skinny jeans too. As of yet, none of this potential outfit is even accessorized. I re-check the cash in my pocket. Depression sinks in...
RE-evaluation: I go to Forever 21. Where I think...I hate teenagers AND their stupid clothing. Barf. Also: hot pink flannel? really?
How bout Macy's? That seems middle of the road, semi-affordable and semi-well-constructed. I accidentally end up in the high-end section first. The cutest BCBG stuff assaults me. I'm spinning. When I finally get to "my" section, everything looks cheap and old. I leave immediately.
Three hours deep in mall-ville, I ended up with a pair of work shoes and Aveda foundation to replace what I've run out of. I also gained a severe need for bipolar meds. Oh my mega mall. You bring out the worst in me.
Yes, I know I can go to Target, and sure, I could perhaps piece together an outfit a month there. People are starving, for pete's sake, my thoughts are so small.
But today, I dreamt and swore. I want to get all debaucherous on shopping. Just once (or thrice). I want to just blow a wad of cash on what I love. Rub quality fabrics all over my skin and walk haughty in my super-fly new heels, my well-constructed dress.
I know these thoughts won't get me to heaven. But I'd ask for forgiveness afterwards. I promise.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Day 114 - Retail Woes
Place: A Retail Store in Anywhere, CA
Time: All day long
Anonymous Sales Associate gets treated like dogshit. Because, really, that's what retail sales associates are. Dogshit. And if you have a shitty life, you should go into any store anywhere and ask ridiculous questions that you could easily answer yourself. All day long.
If you sense any amount of impatience on the sales associate's part, you should then feel free to be a complete and utter asshole. Because you can. Complain as soon as possible. Ask to speak to their supervisor. Fill out a comment card. Tell them how you'd like them to act. Tell them what you want and why you deserve it. Let them know that you're entitled.
Act like sales associates are the enemy. Start your own mini-war in every store you go into. Emotional violence is key. Shoot your nebulous anger at your faceless targets. It's their fault. React. Be uncontrollable. Inconsolable.
You should always talk to the sales associate in a demeaning way. Assume all of them are stupid. Say, "Listen dear" to the young girls behind the counter. Scare them with your power. They aren't human anyway.
In fact, you should fling shit at them. Because that's what you want to do anyway. They can't really say anything back to you. The endless corporate chain trained them to bend over backwards or else. And you know that. That's why you do it. They're scared witless to lose their jobs. Threaten them with that anytime you can. You're the king, remember?
You're not crazy. You're right. And you're out to prove it. You know exactly how people should act in your presence. Mostly, you want service NOW. You have things to do. You have a life.
The only thing you know is your base emotions. And goddamnit you just don't have time for this waiting patiently in a long line to ring up your purchases. Why are they doing this to you? If they would only do what you think they should do, this wouldn't be happening to you. You're mad. Mad as hell.
You should tap your foot and stare at them. Spit on them if you're close enough.
It's your world. Yup. Just yours.
At the end of the day, the person you're yelling at is in the mirror. Face it. What you're so busy trying to control is beyond your control. All your frustrations and angers and hates go right back into you. Or at least, that's what some people are hoping...This thought alone makes Anonymous Sales Associate feel good. The fact that if there is a hell, you might be going there. That brings much comfort to the Anonymous Sales Associate.
Better yet, Anonymous Sales Associate hopes that one day you might walk out of your own personal hell and stop spreading it like a disease and hopes one day you can stop being such a fucking prick. That's what he/she hopes for you. Because Anonymous Sales Associate doesn't want to hate you like you hate them. But you're making it hard. Really really really hard.
Stop it. Just. Stop. It.
Time: All day long
Anonymous Sales Associate gets treated like dogshit. Because, really, that's what retail sales associates are. Dogshit. And if you have a shitty life, you should go into any store anywhere and ask ridiculous questions that you could easily answer yourself. All day long.
If you sense any amount of impatience on the sales associate's part, you should then feel free to be a complete and utter asshole. Because you can. Complain as soon as possible. Ask to speak to their supervisor. Fill out a comment card. Tell them how you'd like them to act. Tell them what you want and why you deserve it. Let them know that you're entitled.
Act like sales associates are the enemy. Start your own mini-war in every store you go into. Emotional violence is key. Shoot your nebulous anger at your faceless targets. It's their fault. React. Be uncontrollable. Inconsolable.
You should always talk to the sales associate in a demeaning way. Assume all of them are stupid. Say, "Listen dear" to the young girls behind the counter. Scare them with your power. They aren't human anyway.
In fact, you should fling shit at them. Because that's what you want to do anyway. They can't really say anything back to you. The endless corporate chain trained them to bend over backwards or else. And you know that. That's why you do it. They're scared witless to lose their jobs. Threaten them with that anytime you can. You're the king, remember?
You're not crazy. You're right. And you're out to prove it. You know exactly how people should act in your presence. Mostly, you want service NOW. You have things to do. You have a life.
The only thing you know is your base emotions. And goddamnit you just don't have time for this waiting patiently in a long line to ring up your purchases. Why are they doing this to you? If they would only do what you think they should do, this wouldn't be happening to you. You're mad. Mad as hell.
You should tap your foot and stare at them. Spit on them if you're close enough.
It's your world. Yup. Just yours.
At the end of the day, the person you're yelling at is in the mirror. Face it. What you're so busy trying to control is beyond your control. All your frustrations and angers and hates go right back into you. Or at least, that's what some people are hoping...This thought alone makes Anonymous Sales Associate feel good. The fact that if there is a hell, you might be going there. That brings much comfort to the Anonymous Sales Associate.
Better yet, Anonymous Sales Associate hopes that one day you might walk out of your own personal hell and stop spreading it like a disease and hopes one day you can stop being such a fucking prick. That's what he/she hopes for you. Because Anonymous Sales Associate doesn't want to hate you like you hate them. But you're making it hard. Really really really hard.
Stop it. Just. Stop. It.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Day 104 - Hashimoto's Revenge
Soooo....remember how I told you I was going to get my thyroid checked? That Dave and I wanted to make wee ones and so I needed to check out where my levels were from years ago. Back when they told me I had what's called Hashimoto's--an autoimmune disease that eats the thyroid like a sandwich. Until its gone.
The disease itself is in the same category as psoriasis or arthritis. It's where an overactive immune system thinks that healthy tissue is actually foreign and toxic. It attacks. The wrong thing (my thyroid gland). Until its gone.
Being that in my (not-so) distant past, I've had quite the perchance to destroy things that are healthy, feed things that are toxic, I understand this disease's dilemma. My insides simply don't know what's good for them. I empathize.
According to many doctors, once the process of Hashimoto's begins, it's irreversible and untreatable. It simply runs willy-nilly, unchecked. It's only mission is to destroy. After chomping away at your thyroid, Hashimoto's eventually causes its consequence: a condition called hypothyroidism.
Now, hypothyroidism IS treatable, much to the medical community's relief. Your thyroid is no longer functioning, therefore you introduce synthetic thyroid hormones to replace what you're missing. Simple as pie right?
Well, not so much. It gets a little dicey is in situations like mine.
I first found out about this civil war being waged inside of me approximately four years ago. It was a routine blood test, recommended by what I considered an overzealous doctor, after she learned thyroid problems ran in my family. I thought 'she-crazy.' I had no symptoms, no complaints, nothing. Imagine my surprise.
Her: "You have Hashimoto's thyroiditis."
Me: "What did you just say to me?"
Her: "It is destroying your thyroid gland, and you are now hypothyroid."
Me:" Huh? I feel great, how could this be?"
Her: "You need to take synthetic thyroid for the rest of your life. Here's your prescription. Have a nice day."
Me: (practically holding door open...)"Wait! What about eating better? Quitting smoking? I'm not the healthiest."
Her: "Nope. Sorry. It's unrelated. No reversing."
Me: wtf...
I went home and researched like crazy. For the most part, what she said rang true in nearly everything I read. Whether I read medical abstracts or Internet chat forums, I found the same information. Once you're hypothyroid, you need to take your pills. Once you're over a certain level (according to your blood test), about 100% percent of doctors agree: treat, treat, treat.
But the problem was, I wasn't over that certain level yet where 100% of doctors agree. I belonged to a small area of hypothyroid people called mild hypothyroid (approx. bt. 4 to 12 TSH). And in this little grey area of the medical community, the opinions of doctors swayed from one end of the spectrum to the other. Some say treat. Some say don't. There simply wasn't a clear answer.
So, I ignored her prescription. For the next three months before my check-up I did three things: I quit smoking; I ate better; and I did more yoga.
Lo and behold, on my next appointment, the doctor cheerfully remarked that my medication was working. I was within the normal ranges, and therefore not hypothyroid at all anymore. With pride and bitterness, I said, "I didn't take the pills." I never went back.
Since then, I've vascillated back and forth over smoking, eating well, and exercising. Considering my consconsistency, when I went to see my new San Diego doctor recently, I was sure my levels would be a complete and utter mess.
I thought, after four years of my slowly disintegrating thyroid due to Hashi's, I would definitely fall in the category of treat, treat, treat. And then, that I would take the medication. That I would succumb to this because I knew that if we wanted to conceive, it was absolutely necessary for the health of the unborn little guy. I wanted to lay down my sword, raise the white flag.
My new doctor agreed. And after hearing my story, his professional opinion bet that my levels would also be out of control. Imagine our surprise.
Turns out, I am well within the normal range. Therefore, I am not hypothyroid. Therefore, he does not recommend any treatment whatsoever.
Of course, my doctor did note, my little Japanese nemesis, Mr. Hashimoto, still lives in me. But he apparently isn't much of an eater because my thyroid remains intact.
I sighed so loud. I couldn't believe it.
And then I got pissed! Not just pissed in general, like pissed the cashier overcharged me, but like pissed off for the world in general. You're telling me, that had I listened to my previous doctor's advice, that I would have been taking synthetic thyroid hormone for four years?!
First, that would have been well over two thousand dollars in medicine that I didn't apparently need. And secondly, just by taking the medication, it reduces your thyroid's ability to naturally produce its own hormones. Therefore, I would actually NEED the medication, just by virtue of taking the medication.
How reckless of her! I mean, like I mentioned earlier, she's not alone in her opinion. Many doctors think you should treat mild hypothyroidism. But doesn't the medical community owe it to the patient to at least TELL you when there's a discrepancy in opinions?! She DID NOT tell me this. Even when I practically begged her for a different answer. I found all this out on my own, after hours and hours of research.
Why isn't there some form of regulation on this? Shouldn't the patient, in cases of grey areas of medicine, be given the information and the CHOICE???!!!
I imagine people with all sorts of other conditions run into similar problems. It's not fair! Most people trust what doctors say, and why shouldn't they, they went to fucking medical school for gawd's sake. We didn't.
How many people with mild hypothyroid are running around downing synthetic hormones, when a simple change of diet would have sufficed?
I hate the attitude of treat, treat, treat! What about taking responsibility for our health? Thank gawd for The Information Age or I would not have been brave enough to shirk her careless advice. (Mind you, I'm not saying all medical advice sucks. If you are regular hypo, you need your meds.) Arg. Arg. Triple Arg.
In the end, my new doctor said to me about Hashimoto's, "Well, you're one of the rare cases where you know you're going to be hypothyroid at some point in your life. You just kind of watch it happen."
I nodded. But on the inside I said, "We'll see..."
(p.s. some doctors and others have seen Hashi's go away completely. Plus, it is not 100% certain that you'll become hypothyroid if you have Hashi's (although 9 times out of 10, you will). But still, how the f*%& would the doctor know that I couldn't be in that 10%??!! It pisses me off that doctors don't HAVE to tell you this.
A guy, like me, confounded at his doctor's cold-hearted diagnosis of Hashi's with mild hypothyroidism, actually self-published a book he wrote called "How I Reversed My Hashimoto's Thyroiditis." With research, alternative therapies and healthy habits, he changed his diagnosis. What's up now doc?)
The disease itself is in the same category as psoriasis or arthritis. It's where an overactive immune system thinks that healthy tissue is actually foreign and toxic. It attacks. The wrong thing (my thyroid gland). Until its gone.
Being that in my (not-so) distant past, I've had quite the perchance to destroy things that are healthy, feed things that are toxic, I understand this disease's dilemma. My insides simply don't know what's good for them. I empathize.
According to many doctors, once the process of Hashimoto's begins, it's irreversible and untreatable. It simply runs willy-nilly, unchecked. It's only mission is to destroy. After chomping away at your thyroid, Hashimoto's eventually causes its consequence: a condition called hypothyroidism.
Now, hypothyroidism IS treatable, much to the medical community's relief. Your thyroid is no longer functioning, therefore you introduce synthetic thyroid hormones to replace what you're missing. Simple as pie right?
Well, not so much. It gets a little dicey is in situations like mine.
I first found out about this civil war being waged inside of me approximately four years ago. It was a routine blood test, recommended by what I considered an overzealous doctor, after she learned thyroid problems ran in my family. I thought 'she-crazy.' I had no symptoms, no complaints, nothing. Imagine my surprise.
Her: "You have Hashimoto's thyroiditis."
Me: "What did you just say to me?"
Her: "It is destroying your thyroid gland, and you are now hypothyroid."
Me:" Huh? I feel great, how could this be?"
Her: "You need to take synthetic thyroid for the rest of your life. Here's your prescription. Have a nice day."
Me: (practically holding door open...)"Wait! What about eating better? Quitting smoking? I'm not the healthiest."
Her: "Nope. Sorry. It's unrelated. No reversing."
Me: wtf...
I went home and researched like crazy. For the most part, what she said rang true in nearly everything I read. Whether I read medical abstracts or Internet chat forums, I found the same information. Once you're hypothyroid, you need to take your pills. Once you're over a certain level (according to your blood test), about 100% percent of doctors agree: treat, treat, treat.
But the problem was, I wasn't over that certain level yet where 100% of doctors agree. I belonged to a small area of hypothyroid people called mild hypothyroid (approx. bt. 4 to 12 TSH). And in this little grey area of the medical community, the opinions of doctors swayed from one end of the spectrum to the other. Some say treat. Some say don't. There simply wasn't a clear answer.
So, I ignored her prescription. For the next three months before my check-up I did three things: I quit smoking; I ate better; and I did more yoga.
Lo and behold, on my next appointment, the doctor cheerfully remarked that my medication was working. I was within the normal ranges, and therefore not hypothyroid at all anymore. With pride and bitterness, I said, "I didn't take the pills." I never went back.
Since then, I've vascillated back and forth over smoking, eating well, and exercising. Considering my consconsistency, when I went to see my new San Diego doctor recently, I was sure my levels would be a complete and utter mess.
I thought, after four years of my slowly disintegrating thyroid due to Hashi's, I would definitely fall in the category of treat, treat, treat. And then, that I would take the medication. That I would succumb to this because I knew that if we wanted to conceive, it was absolutely necessary for the health of the unborn little guy. I wanted to lay down my sword, raise the white flag.
My new doctor agreed. And after hearing my story, his professional opinion bet that my levels would also be out of control. Imagine our surprise.
Turns out, I am well within the normal range. Therefore, I am not hypothyroid. Therefore, he does not recommend any treatment whatsoever.
Of course, my doctor did note, my little Japanese nemesis, Mr. Hashimoto, still lives in me. But he apparently isn't much of an eater because my thyroid remains intact.
I sighed so loud. I couldn't believe it.
And then I got pissed! Not just pissed in general, like pissed the cashier overcharged me, but like pissed off for the world in general. You're telling me, that had I listened to my previous doctor's advice, that I would have been taking synthetic thyroid hormone for four years?!
First, that would have been well over two thousand dollars in medicine that I didn't apparently need. And secondly, just by taking the medication, it reduces your thyroid's ability to naturally produce its own hormones. Therefore, I would actually NEED the medication, just by virtue of taking the medication.
How reckless of her! I mean, like I mentioned earlier, she's not alone in her opinion. Many doctors think you should treat mild hypothyroidism. But doesn't the medical community owe it to the patient to at least TELL you when there's a discrepancy in opinions?! She DID NOT tell me this. Even when I practically begged her for a different answer. I found all this out on my own, after hours and hours of research.
Why isn't there some form of regulation on this? Shouldn't the patient, in cases of grey areas of medicine, be given the information and the CHOICE???!!!
I imagine people with all sorts of other conditions run into similar problems. It's not fair! Most people trust what doctors say, and why shouldn't they, they went to fucking medical school for gawd's sake. We didn't.
How many people with mild hypothyroid are running around downing synthetic hormones, when a simple change of diet would have sufficed?
I hate the attitude of treat, treat, treat! What about taking responsibility for our health? Thank gawd for The Information Age or I would not have been brave enough to shirk her careless advice. (Mind you, I'm not saying all medical advice sucks. If you are regular hypo, you need your meds.) Arg. Arg. Triple Arg.
In the end, my new doctor said to me about Hashimoto's, "Well, you're one of the rare cases where you know you're going to be hypothyroid at some point in your life. You just kind of watch it happen."
I nodded. But on the inside I said, "We'll see..."
(p.s. some doctors and others have seen Hashi's go away completely. Plus, it is not 100% certain that you'll become hypothyroid if you have Hashi's (although 9 times out of 10, you will). But still, how the f*%& would the doctor know that I couldn't be in that 10%??!! It pisses me off that doctors don't HAVE to tell you this.
A guy, like me, confounded at his doctor's cold-hearted diagnosis of Hashi's with mild hypothyroidism, actually self-published a book he wrote called "How I Reversed My Hashimoto's Thyroiditis." With research, alternative therapies and healthy habits, he changed his diagnosis. What's up now doc?)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Day 71 - I Wanted To Write You Something Beautiful
I wanted to write you something beautiful today. I wanted the words to fall out of my mouth and shape themselves into something lovely. I wanted you to take them home with you, damp in your closed fist. Then, you might unfurl your palm under the yellow kitchen lights and show your loved ones, "See look, look what I have found."
But I have only trinkets today. I offer you kitsch. Bits of hope. I've been meaning to tell you...The truth is: my list of goals for this year, the whole point of all this (I'm hoping you've forgotten), has fallen by the wayside. As I work more, the sparkling to-do list that brightens my futures, fades.
I keep looking back at my list, even after I've buried it in my sidebar. Sometimes I accidently glance at it, nostalgic. I want it still and still it's not completely lost.
In a way it's refreshing, because I can forgive myself. These past couple years of spoiled life have also caused me to yell at myself, "Why haven't you accomplished these things you've wanted to?" Now I'm remembering why my colors got pushed aside all those years: I've been working my ass off since age 13!
But still, I'm conscious now and so I'm still pushing. Just slower, slowly. I can't let time rush into the darkness. To be left open-mouthed and silent, with my imperceptible breath.
To be fair to my self-violent ego, there's been advances. The eating has improved by leaps and bounds. There's greens more. And my juicy fruits. There's buckets of whole grains.
Quitting smoking is a success, a two-oops breeze. Also, art swirls its shapes still and tonight, I'll command a brush after pushing these keys into words.
What's failed most: exercise seems like a silly dream. My book brainstorm is actually an idea in my brain but has neglected to storm the page. For now, I make pixel words here. And volunteering, while I claimed an organization and ideas and communication with a higher up, my action remains mostly inaction.
3 out of 6? Ain't half bad.
Well technically, it IS half bad. (slaps knee, chuckles to herself)...
294 days to go...
But I have only trinkets today. I offer you kitsch. Bits of hope. I've been meaning to tell you...The truth is: my list of goals for this year, the whole point of all this (I'm hoping you've forgotten), has fallen by the wayside. As I work more, the sparkling to-do list that brightens my futures, fades.
I keep looking back at my list, even after I've buried it in my sidebar. Sometimes I accidently glance at it, nostalgic. I want it still and still it's not completely lost.
In a way it's refreshing, because I can forgive myself. These past couple years of spoiled life have also caused me to yell at myself, "Why haven't you accomplished these things you've wanted to?" Now I'm remembering why my colors got pushed aside all those years: I've been working my ass off since age 13!
But still, I'm conscious now and so I'm still pushing. Just slower, slowly. I can't let time rush into the darkness. To be left open-mouthed and silent, with my imperceptible breath.
To be fair to my self-violent ego, there's been advances. The eating has improved by leaps and bounds. There's greens more. And my juicy fruits. There's buckets of whole grains.
Quitting smoking is a success, a two-oops breeze. Also, art swirls its shapes still and tonight, I'll command a brush after pushing these keys into words.
What's failed most: exercise seems like a silly dream. My book brainstorm is actually an idea in my brain but has neglected to storm the page. For now, I make pixel words here. And volunteering, while I claimed an organization and ideas and communication with a higher up, my action remains mostly inaction.
3 out of 6? Ain't half bad.
Well technically, it IS half bad. (slaps knee, chuckles to herself)...
294 days to go...
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Day 70 - Conversations in Retail
Place: A Frame Store in Anywhere, CA
Time: Mid-morning
Customer: Excuse miss, do you work here?
Me: Yes, I do. How can I help you?
Customer: I have this very important picture of Our Holy Mother Mary, The Queen of Heaven that needs framing. Do you think this frame would work?
(She holds up a cheap metal silver frame of thin and dubious construction)
Me: Hmm...do you have the picture with you?
Customer: Yes, I do.
(She reveals a very ornate print of the Virgin Mary looking very pious. None of the colors or theme match the frame she has chosen)
Me: Perhaps a more suitable frame would be these over here?
(I point out a few wooden frames with nice detailing that reflect the tone and color of the print)
Customer: Oh no. Those aren't classy enough for Our Holy Mother Mary, The Queen of Heaven. You have to remember, honey, she's going to be hanging up next to Jesus...
Time: Mid-morning
Customer: Excuse miss, do you work here?
Me: Yes, I do. How can I help you?
Customer: I have this very important picture of Our Holy Mother Mary, The Queen of Heaven that needs framing. Do you think this frame would work?
(She holds up a cheap metal silver frame of thin and dubious construction)
Me: Hmm...do you have the picture with you?
Customer: Yes, I do.
(She reveals a very ornate print of the Virgin Mary looking very pious. None of the colors or theme match the frame she has chosen)
Me: Perhaps a more suitable frame would be these over here?
(I point out a few wooden frames with nice detailing that reflect the tone and color of the print)
Customer: Oh no. Those aren't classy enough for Our Holy Mother Mary, The Queen of Heaven. You have to remember, honey, she's going to be hanging up next to Jesus...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Day 68 - It's My Cat's Birthday Today
I tried to find you the video of Danny McBride baking a cake for his cat, but I guess I'm not so video tekkie savvy yet. Monday, August 17, is Diego's birthday of one year old. Well, we kind of made that up, but we figured it's a good guess. We found him at three weeks old and we worked backwards. I really wanted it to be August 15th so it would be easier to remember, but Dave INSISTED he was born on the 17th. Dave did grow up on a farm, so naturally, we defer to him.
Besides sketching in the weekend details in the blog (dive below), today I went to meet our new doctor. I found him in San Diego magazine's yearly Top Doctor feature story. Plus, he's in my neighborhood and takes our insurance. Check and check.
I've had so many bad doctor experiences, I'm tempted to dive right into a lengthy diatribe about health care reform and the idiocy of one particular side of the debate. But I'll hold myself back because I don't have the patience for it right now. However, I promise you that one in the future.
Anyway, I'm more than pleased (downright ecstatic) to tell you how much I love it there. I clicked immediately with the staff and him. He patiently answered all of my questions, minus any "you-must-be-dumb-AND-a-worrywart" looks at all. He talked about building relationships with his patients for the long haul. I trust him.
I am here to check all my thyroid levels. My thyroid is more than likely completely out of whack since not taking the recommended medication years ago. I am absolutely terrified to take anything not provided already by my body. My doctor understands this, senses the fear in my voice, and reassures me, "It's not 'medication' in the traditional sense, it's more of a 'supplementation' for something you are not getting." Everything he says mirrors what I've read on my own.
I swallow this and still I fear. But if I need it, I'm doing it. Dave and I want to start a family within the next year, and for pregnancy, it's very important to have those levels tightly under control. The doctor tells me this too...
A gallon of blood leaves my body and I'm gone. I walk past the wailing kid with the eye patch and the hunched over old woman in the wheelchair. I think about their unknown struggles as the automatic door opens and the cool San Diego air clips me. I breathe again at the trees and the grey.
I realize I am happy to start taking care of this. I am happy to let go...
Besides sketching in the weekend details in the blog (dive below), today I went to meet our new doctor. I found him in San Diego magazine's yearly Top Doctor feature story. Plus, he's in my neighborhood and takes our insurance. Check and check.
I've had so many bad doctor experiences, I'm tempted to dive right into a lengthy diatribe about health care reform and the idiocy of one particular side of the debate. But I'll hold myself back because I don't have the patience for it right now. However, I promise you that one in the future.
Anyway, I'm more than pleased (downright ecstatic) to tell you how much I love it there. I clicked immediately with the staff and him. He patiently answered all of my questions, minus any "you-must-be-dumb-AND-a-worrywart" looks at all. He talked about building relationships with his patients for the long haul. I trust him.
I am here to check all my thyroid levels. My thyroid is more than likely completely out of whack since not taking the recommended medication years ago. I am absolutely terrified to take anything not provided already by my body. My doctor understands this, senses the fear in my voice, and reassures me, "It's not 'medication' in the traditional sense, it's more of a 'supplementation' for something you are not getting." Everything he says mirrors what I've read on my own.
I swallow this and still I fear. But if I need it, I'm doing it. Dave and I want to start a family within the next year, and for pregnancy, it's very important to have those levels tightly under control. The doctor tells me this too...
A gallon of blood leaves my body and I'm gone. I walk past the wailing kid with the eye patch and the hunched over old woman in the wheelchair. I think about their unknown struggles as the automatic door opens and the cool San Diego air clips me. I breathe again at the trees and the grey.
I realize I am happy to start taking care of this. I am happy to let go...
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Day 62 - Caution: Unchecked Rage Ahead
Three Songs that are popular right now that drive me absolutely batty and why...
1. Leona Lewis - Bleeding Love. The music itself and her voice is actually really lovely and melodic. I even sing along for awhile in the beginning everytime I hear it, forgetting that I detest this song.
Then suddenly (about midway) through, I start to wonder "Is this song skipping in the player?" One portion continues to replay. Over and over again, her lyrics whine, "I keep bleeding, I keep keep bleeding. I keep bleeding, I keep keep bleeding. I keep bleeding, I keep keep..." Omg, WOULD SOMEBODY GET THIS WOMAN A FRIGGIN BAND-AID?
I get it, gawd. He "cuts you open." But i can't help but think, 'Why are you with someone who makes you feel so awful; you're comparing it to a slow death via significant blood loss? Sounds like you need therapy! I dislike this song so much my ears are bleeding.
2. New Boyz - You're a Jerk. How in the f$#% did this get on the radio? It scratches my face with its obnoxious continuous repeating of "You're a jerk, you're a jerk, you're a jerk." I get it, you like the sample!! But does it really have to be played over and over and over again throughout the ENTIRE song? Turn it off you jerk!
You really ARE a jerk that you made an entire song celebrating that you're a jerk. What's wrong with the entire fabric of our society that this is actually acceptable on ANY airwave, let alone EVERY airwave EVERY ten minutes?
3. I Kissed a Girl - Katy Perry. Oh gosh, you're so free and crazy Katy! You're so funky, you don't even care. I think you're the coolest! Um, not.
Listen, why don't you go and fix the spelling of your name and then how bout' you stop singing altogether? Every time I hear that sing-song-y voice of yours whine "I kissed a girl and I liked it," it makes me want to punch you in the face. Or myself in the face if I have to listen to that silly song again.
O wow. You even tasted her cherry chapstick? How retro pin-up of you. You just made yourself famous by tapping into the cheap fantasy of every half-brained guy in the country. If you were a true lesbian--sure, I might respect you--coming out and telling us your feelings and all. But you're not. You're just some girl who got drunk and messed around at a party and now you're so damn proud of yourself, you're singing a very lame song about.
p.s. Congratulations, you just inspired countless little hetero girls in their tweens to go make out with other girls, giving them unneccessary am-i-gay complexes into atleast their early twenties. O, Claps to you. You're so cool...
1. Leona Lewis - Bleeding Love. The music itself and her voice is actually really lovely and melodic. I even sing along for awhile in the beginning everytime I hear it, forgetting that I detest this song.
Then suddenly (about midway) through, I start to wonder "Is this song skipping in the player?" One portion continues to replay. Over and over again, her lyrics whine, "I keep bleeding, I keep keep bleeding. I keep bleeding, I keep keep bleeding. I keep bleeding, I keep keep..." Omg, WOULD SOMEBODY GET THIS WOMAN A FRIGGIN BAND-AID?
I get it, gawd. He "cuts you open." But i can't help but think, 'Why are you with someone who makes you feel so awful; you're comparing it to a slow death via significant blood loss? Sounds like you need therapy! I dislike this song so much my ears are bleeding.
2. New Boyz - You're a Jerk. How in the f$#% did this get on the radio? It scratches my face with its obnoxious continuous repeating of "You're a jerk, you're a jerk, you're a jerk." I get it, you like the sample!! But does it really have to be played over and over and over again throughout the ENTIRE song? Turn it off you jerk!
You really ARE a jerk that you made an entire song celebrating that you're a jerk. What's wrong with the entire fabric of our society that this is actually acceptable on ANY airwave, let alone EVERY airwave EVERY ten minutes?
3. I Kissed a Girl - Katy Perry. Oh gosh, you're so free and crazy Katy! You're so funky, you don't even care. I think you're the coolest! Um, not.
Listen, why don't you go and fix the spelling of your name and then how bout' you stop singing altogether? Every time I hear that sing-song-y voice of yours whine "I kissed a girl and I liked it," it makes me want to punch you in the face. Or myself in the face if I have to listen to that silly song again.
O wow. You even tasted her cherry chapstick? How retro pin-up of you. You just made yourself famous by tapping into the cheap fantasy of every half-brained guy in the country. If you were a true lesbian--sure, I might respect you--coming out and telling us your feelings and all. But you're not. You're just some girl who got drunk and messed around at a party and now you're so damn proud of yourself, you're singing a very lame song about.
p.s. Congratulations, you just inspired countless little hetero girls in their tweens to go make out with other girls, giving them unneccessary am-i-gay complexes into atleast their early twenties. O, Claps to you. You're so cool...
Monday, August 10, 2009
Day 61 - What a Mess
While life as a wife is pretty lovely (and pretty much almost exactly the same as before), I worry that I'm slip-sliding into complete domestification. Then I remember no no, that's impossible. I'll always be lacking in at least one area of Darcy Stewart-dom...
I can't really clean worth a damn.
If I pick something up, take it out, open it--anything--you better believe I'll leave it on the counter. I don't know why. I get it. It's annoying. Gross even. Have you seen dried up bits of oranges on a countertop? Right next to the used knife of course. If I try something on from my closet and decide against it, it goes on the floor.
None of it's premeditated. I seriously just don't go beyond the "I need this" stage. Once I've exhausted its usefulness, it seems to just drop from my consciousness completely. Only to reappear in some ghastly moment of epiphany, "BY GAWD, this house is a mess."
I've frustrated many a' roommate and family member with my slovenly ways. When old roommates of mine get together, there's sure to be a "Darcy sure is messy" story. Where they all laugh together hysterically and one-up each other with their stories of how slobby they think I am. hahahah.... Yeah, that IS funny. Again. No, seriously, it never gets old.
Mind you, I'm also aesthetically insane. Light and color and furniture matter to me. So when the house is washed and vacuumed, it feels cozy and serene--all the shapes and colors in a quiet crescendo. It's when I have no time to think about hangers and dishwashers that plastic grocery bags get dropped on the floor.
I'm lucky I have met Dave. Because he's really not the cleanest either, so we tend to not really care if the other is not washing or drying or wiping or mopping. Truth be told, I'm probably the more clutter-prone of the two, but make up for it by more sink scrubbings. The bottom line is, there's few times we fuss about it.
In Phoenix, it's self-awareness that inspired us to periodically hire a couple of friends of ours with a cleaning business to visit our two bedroom abode. They polished our tubs and windows, baseboards and ceiling fans, oven tops and coffee pots. We considered it an investment--buying back time and peace of mind.
This is a very important aspect of our relationship. One that few think of when determining a long-term mate. Differences in cleanliness (without resolution) can make people go batty. I've watched people unravel, developing coiled knots of resentment and anger at their friends or mates, threatening the very foundation of their love.
Naturally tidy people do not at all understand this plight of the disorganized. The offender's messy ways give them heart murmurs and hernias. If you're a true neat freak, this blog is probably giving you nightmares.
I realize that cleanliness is the preferred choice. I mean, I'm not crazy. I just don't care enough to change enough. I've tried and failed faster than you can say 'Windex.' It simply takes too much concentrated brain power. I know that sounds loopy to you, but listen: my messiness is as natural to me as cleanliness is to you.
So ultimately, I'm crossing my fingers that we break down here in San Diego and buy someone else's time. Because let's face it, someone's got to do it.
I can't really clean worth a damn.
If I pick something up, take it out, open it--anything--you better believe I'll leave it on the counter. I don't know why. I get it. It's annoying. Gross even. Have you seen dried up bits of oranges on a countertop? Right next to the used knife of course. If I try something on from my closet and decide against it, it goes on the floor.
None of it's premeditated. I seriously just don't go beyond the "I need this" stage. Once I've exhausted its usefulness, it seems to just drop from my consciousness completely. Only to reappear in some ghastly moment of epiphany, "BY GAWD, this house is a mess."
I've frustrated many a' roommate and family member with my slovenly ways. When old roommates of mine get together, there's sure to be a "Darcy sure is messy" story. Where they all laugh together hysterically and one-up each other with their stories of how slobby they think I am. hahahah.... Yeah, that IS funny. Again. No, seriously, it never gets old.
Mind you, I'm also aesthetically insane. Light and color and furniture matter to me. So when the house is washed and vacuumed, it feels cozy and serene--all the shapes and colors in a quiet crescendo. It's when I have no time to think about hangers and dishwashers that plastic grocery bags get dropped on the floor.
I'm lucky I have met Dave. Because he's really not the cleanest either, so we tend to not really care if the other is not washing or drying or wiping or mopping. Truth be told, I'm probably the more clutter-prone of the two, but make up for it by more sink scrubbings. The bottom line is, there's few times we fuss about it.
In Phoenix, it's self-awareness that inspired us to periodically hire a couple of friends of ours with a cleaning business to visit our two bedroom abode. They polished our tubs and windows, baseboards and ceiling fans, oven tops and coffee pots. We considered it an investment--buying back time and peace of mind.
This is a very important aspect of our relationship. One that few think of when determining a long-term mate. Differences in cleanliness (without resolution) can make people go batty. I've watched people unravel, developing coiled knots of resentment and anger at their friends or mates, threatening the very foundation of their love.
Naturally tidy people do not at all understand this plight of the disorganized. The offender's messy ways give them heart murmurs and hernias. If you're a true neat freak, this blog is probably giving you nightmares.
I realize that cleanliness is the preferred choice. I mean, I'm not crazy. I just don't care enough to change enough. I've tried and failed faster than you can say 'Windex.' It simply takes too much concentrated brain power. I know that sounds loopy to you, but listen: my messiness is as natural to me as cleanliness is to you.
So ultimately, I'm crossing my fingers that we break down here in San Diego and buy someone else's time. Because let's face it, someone's got to do it.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Day 57 - Like a Dear in Headlights
My husband flew to Alaska today. He grew up there. But he's not going there to visit, he's going there to fish. That's right. Fish. What??? This is not the man I married. I thought I made sure of it...
I was born and corn-fed raised on the golden plains of North Dakota. Smack dab in the middle of the Midwest. Growing up here, one notices some pretty distinct patterns. Specifically, most of your male relatives, such as grandfathers and fathers and uncles and cousins, hunt or fish. With the same intensity a Midwestern woman plans baby showers, these men plan their seasonal killing excursions.
They pack their guns or tackle (depending upon the target animal), a few coolers of Bud Light, and they bounce away in their dusty pick-up trucks.
My father claims these killing sprees are simply the male species elaborate opportunity to bond, or in other words, to drink. I remember watching an old video of a very young version of my father and his friends, camouflaged in matching tan gear, moving a dead deer by its antlers. I was repulsed and fascinated by this secret club. As a Midwestern girl, you are not invited on these trips, like your same-age boy cousins. Why don't you run along and help your aunt with the dishes?
Thankfully, when my father lost his taste for liquor and also moved out of the region, he also lost his desire to shoot furry mammals. I am relieved to hear my father's genuineness when he sounds as flabbergasted by the whole thing as I am.
The pervasiveness of the hunting culture in North Dakota is overwhelming though. Take, for example, my 11th grade Anatomy class. One day during hunting season, my teacher offered extra credit for bringing in deer hearts. The next day, few students arrived empty-handed.
I remember how nonchalantly the shapeless blubbery masses sat on the long tables. As class wore on, they started to dethaw (most were pulled straight out of parents' freezers), and drops of blood dripped onto the grey tile below. Mortified, I refused to participate when the dissection period began. The frustrated teacher docked me ten points. By then, the pus and blood was everywhere.
So imagine my delight when, during our courtship phase, my now husband recounted his meek hunting tales. While he grew up in Alaska, his father is a born and bred Minnesota man. So, like any good Midwestern father, he takes his son out in the field. With a gun. And teaches him to shoot things.
Much to my absolute joy, Dave never shot anything. Ever. O he went, sure, but either he couldn't bring himself to do it, or he really just never saw ANYTHING. His father would drag countless bucks down the hill on their excursions, but they never died by Dave's bullets.
The one time where Dave had to kill something, it was a chicken. Since he grew up on small farm, it was bound to happen. I'll spare you the details, but I'll tell you this: When Dave tells it, he is noticeably disturbed. The execution left a deep scar and he firmly says no to any future death missions. I hold that story in a little box near my heart.
Fast-forward to present time...
Dave has 'gone fishin.' Apparently, while we covered his hunting preferences, we never covered his fishing ones. An obvious oversight on my part. Although I do realize fishing isn't even NEAR hunting, it must just give me flashbacks to my childhood or something, cause I accidentally threw a little fit.
He assures me it was his buddy's earnest idea. His friend wanted to see Alaska with an Alaskan, and also experience the United States' greatest great outdoors.
Dave sees it as a rare opportunity to do something different, and also a chance for him to see his family. O.k., sure. I get it.
I think I'm hoping he doesn't catch anything. Or if he does, he gets all grossed out by ripped gills and eyeballs, that he throws his rented poles in the pond.
I was born and corn-fed raised on the golden plains of North Dakota. Smack dab in the middle of the Midwest. Growing up here, one notices some pretty distinct patterns. Specifically, most of your male relatives, such as grandfathers and fathers and uncles and cousins, hunt or fish. With the same intensity a Midwestern woman plans baby showers, these men plan their seasonal killing excursions.
They pack their guns or tackle (depending upon the target animal), a few coolers of Bud Light, and they bounce away in their dusty pick-up trucks.
My father claims these killing sprees are simply the male species elaborate opportunity to bond, or in other words, to drink. I remember watching an old video of a very young version of my father and his friends, camouflaged in matching tan gear, moving a dead deer by its antlers. I was repulsed and fascinated by this secret club. As a Midwestern girl, you are not invited on these trips, like your same-age boy cousins. Why don't you run along and help your aunt with the dishes?
Thankfully, when my father lost his taste for liquor and also moved out of the region, he also lost his desire to shoot furry mammals. I am relieved to hear my father's genuineness when he sounds as flabbergasted by the whole thing as I am.
The pervasiveness of the hunting culture in North Dakota is overwhelming though. Take, for example, my 11th grade Anatomy class. One day during hunting season, my teacher offered extra credit for bringing in deer hearts. The next day, few students arrived empty-handed.
I remember how nonchalantly the shapeless blubbery masses sat on the long tables. As class wore on, they started to dethaw (most were pulled straight out of parents' freezers), and drops of blood dripped onto the grey tile below. Mortified, I refused to participate when the dissection period began. The frustrated teacher docked me ten points. By then, the pus and blood was everywhere.
So imagine my delight when, during our courtship phase, my now husband recounted his meek hunting tales. While he grew up in Alaska, his father is a born and bred Minnesota man. So, like any good Midwestern father, he takes his son out in the field. With a gun. And teaches him to shoot things.
Much to my absolute joy, Dave never shot anything. Ever. O he went, sure, but either he couldn't bring himself to do it, or he really just never saw ANYTHING. His father would drag countless bucks down the hill on their excursions, but they never died by Dave's bullets.
The one time where Dave had to kill something, it was a chicken. Since he grew up on small farm, it was bound to happen. I'll spare you the details, but I'll tell you this: When Dave tells it, he is noticeably disturbed. The execution left a deep scar and he firmly says no to any future death missions. I hold that story in a little box near my heart.
Fast-forward to present time...
Dave has 'gone fishin.' Apparently, while we covered his hunting preferences, we never covered his fishing ones. An obvious oversight on my part. Although I do realize fishing isn't even NEAR hunting, it must just give me flashbacks to my childhood or something, cause I accidentally threw a little fit.
He assures me it was his buddy's earnest idea. His friend wanted to see Alaska with an Alaskan, and also experience the United States' greatest great outdoors.
Dave sees it as a rare opportunity to do something different, and also a chance for him to see his family. O.k., sure. I get it.
I think I'm hoping he doesn't catch anything. Or if he does, he gets all grossed out by ripped gills and eyeballs, that he throws his rented poles in the pond.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Day 56 - Some Sharp Remarks about Table Service
Hmmm...I've been a bit sappy and light lately. That's not a bad thing, but I'm feeling frisky and pissy today, so let's just run with it...
The older I get, the more I can't stand shitty customer service. Like waiters/waitresses for example. And don't get all defensive and weepy on me. I used to BE a waitress. Since I was fifteen actually. And on and off until my mid-twenties. So trust me. I get it. It's hard. I'm supposed to give you a break.
But that's exactly why I'm NOT giving you a break. It's not THAT hard. I mean really, there's five components: 1) get the beverage 2) take the order 3) bring the order 4) provide bill and facilitate payment transaction. 5) And don't forget, the very essence of the waiter/waitress job, is to make sure they have what they need. i.e. "Do you need anything else?"
That's the sequence. OVER and OVER again. All day. Every day. Since the beginning of time.
So sue me if I flag you down as you frolick by to your zero other tables after I've waited 20 minutes for the check. Or forgive my frustration when I timidly ask you for ketchup AGAIN.
Do not get me wrong. I respect the profession (its earnings helped me through college); it really CAN be hard. Customers suck. BUT I'm not in the sucky customer category. I'm nice.
It's very very easy to make me happy, to get a 20% tip and beyond. I was a waitress for YEARS, remember? I'm an empathetic customer. You follow the aforementioned five components...and you get an A+ from me. You don't even have to smile, I don't give a sh**.
So if it's all so easy, then WHY, in like 50% of my restaurant experiences, I sit without mayo for my fries??? I ASKED for it. Twice. I know you didn't ask me if I needed anything. How could you miss that step? But I told you anyway. Twice. I don't even like fries without mayo. Now they're cold.
Didn't you read the waitress training manual? O. Refer to paragraph three. Or if you forget the steps, just focus on that last one--you know, the very essence of your job.
I WISH I had the gumption to give you a less than 15% tip. Because if I did, I would. But I'm so 'i-used-to-be-a-waitress' engrained, that I fork over my dough for your craptastic service. Result? You got an undeserved tip. And I got my cold overpriced fries without mayo. Argh.
(P.S. I also want to give a shout out to all the good waitresses out there. Who I really really appreciate. When you care--not about me specifically but the human race or anything in general--just a teeny eensy bit, I enjoy my simple feast and I more than gladly thank you monetarily for it. I promise.)
The older I get, the more I can't stand shitty customer service. Like waiters/waitresses for example. And don't get all defensive and weepy on me. I used to BE a waitress. Since I was fifteen actually. And on and off until my mid-twenties. So trust me. I get it. It's hard. I'm supposed to give you a break.
But that's exactly why I'm NOT giving you a break. It's not THAT hard. I mean really, there's five components: 1) get the beverage 2) take the order 3) bring the order 4) provide bill and facilitate payment transaction. 5) And don't forget, the very essence of the waiter/waitress job, is to make sure they have what they need. i.e. "Do you need anything else?"
That's the sequence. OVER and OVER again. All day. Every day. Since the beginning of time.
So sue me if I flag you down as you frolick by to your zero other tables after I've waited 20 minutes for the check. Or forgive my frustration when I timidly ask you for ketchup AGAIN.
Do not get me wrong. I respect the profession (its earnings helped me through college); it really CAN be hard. Customers suck. BUT I'm not in the sucky customer category. I'm nice.
It's very very easy to make me happy, to get a 20% tip and beyond. I was a waitress for YEARS, remember? I'm an empathetic customer. You follow the aforementioned five components...and you get an A+ from me. You don't even have to smile, I don't give a sh**.
So if it's all so easy, then WHY, in like 50% of my restaurant experiences, I sit without mayo for my fries??? I ASKED for it. Twice. I know you didn't ask me if I needed anything. How could you miss that step? But I told you anyway. Twice. I don't even like fries without mayo. Now they're cold.
Didn't you read the waitress training manual? O. Refer to paragraph three. Or if you forget the steps, just focus on that last one--you know, the very essence of your job.
I WISH I had the gumption to give you a less than 15% tip. Because if I did, I would. But I'm so 'i-used-to-be-a-waitress' engrained, that I fork over my dough for your craptastic service. Result? You got an undeserved tip. And I got my cold overpriced fries without mayo. Argh.
(P.S. I also want to give a shout out to all the good waitresses out there. Who I really really appreciate. When you care--not about me specifically but the human race or anything in general--just a teeny eensy bit, I enjoy my simple feast and I more than gladly thank you monetarily for it. I promise.)
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