I’ve heard we’re wearing hats on the all important send-off day. Is this appropriate?
Category: Complaining
Today’s Lesson in Hats
I have been schooled on secret security tactics. I have the pictures to prove it. I have been confounded by no-clue keys leaving me clueless. I have been bombarded with banded business cards. He has shaken his head and laughed at me, not wishing my predicament on anyone. Funny, because he put me here. What could been next? Where is the next lesson coming from? To say that I waited with anticipation would make me a liar pants on fire. I dreaded whatever would happen.
Today’s lesson: hats. He came to me with paintings of hats. No. Let me clarify – each crude, ugly, painting had a hat in it somewhere. An Indian wearing a turban, a Mexican wearing a sombero, a military man wearing a helmet…you get the point. Hats. Elephant wranglers and Turkish dancers…all wearing hats. He came to me with hats; said he wanted them hung up. Was he kidding? Afraid not. He leaves me not with wise words or great guidance, but with hats.
This Should Be Me
Well, turn the beast around and there you have kisa and me. Horse’s ass…that would be me. Beloved kisa and the jackazz. I’m angry to the point of breaking something besides my heart. I want to throw something, punch someone, hide somewhere dark and dirty. He brings things out to his car and laughs at his new I-Could-Care-Less-Attitude. I miss the heart that bled for this place. I miss the I Would Do Anything attitude. I stand back helpless and watch him pack. When he holds up a mug and asks “want this?” I want to puke. Did they beat him down that badly? Does he hate this life that much? Did I push him too hard?
I negotiated for a better life and I got it. Some may say my attempt was feeble, the response, lame. But. But, I have never wanted for more than what I need. Ever. Can I help it if I hate this stage of the game? Feeling like I crawled over a still-warm carcass to grasp the tarnished prize. Watching him walk away is getting harder everyday. I don’t even know his shoe size so how can I even think about standing in them, forget filling them.
Big Dog Bite Me
Talking at me. Everyone is talking at me. G says let’s negotiate. He has dollar signs for eyeballs and greed is in his back pocket. He thinks he can whore me out for a price. K says I’m outta here and good riddance. Middle finger raised on a gentleman’s fist. Head held proud with a fukc you behind the smile. A is offering advice as a friend yet I cannot hear what she says. My husband is offering strategy as a partner. Take ’em for all they’re worth. Don’t sell yourself short. Where have I heard that before? The head honcho is calling me dude. Am I in his back pocket? What should I do? I can’t even ask what would Jesus do without offending someone…mostly myself. The only religion that can help me now is the one called confidence. The big dog can no longer bite because that dog is me. Bigger than what I planned on, bigger than who I am right now. Big man on campus. This is what you wanted. They say its a marriage. New wife…new life, right? How many things can I go about changing in my big corner office?
He says I’m tough on people. That I expect too much and I’m pushing buttons. Better than pushing you. Did I push you? Did we throw cups of hot, scalding coffee at each other to see who ducks faster? Did we? If we did, did I win? I didn’t feel the sting of boiling brew so I must have. Big dog me. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. Everyone talking at me.
Are You There? part one
This is a half kid, half conversation story for Sarah.
Kid part:
I was waiting to leave on the 4:15pm bus. Ahead of me I had a 5.5 hour ride that would normally take only 3. True to form I forgot lunch (and breakfast) and was trying to inhale a bad bag of Cool Ranch. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand people eating stinky food in cramped spaces – there’s no way to escape the smell. Anyway, I was trying to mind my own business while two little girls raced around me. Running, playing on the phones, jumping off the curb, screeching and screaming while their parents were nowhere in sight. Soon enough the older girl spied my bag and asked for a chip. I showed her the emptiness and lamented that the pig in me had emerged. I had nothing to share. That didn’t stop her from striking up a conversation, though. Suddenly deemed safe by some unknown intuition she proceded to question everything about me. Why are you wearing those shoes? Where’s your purse? Are you going home? Have you seen Casper? Did you hear that train? Did you know my mother lets me eat chocolate? I’m going to Worcester. Where are you going?
Soon it was time to board the bus, “Michael’s Teddy” (I came this close to getting on “Princess Tiger Lily”). Out of nowhere mom and dad emerged and herded the two little girls onto “Michael’s Teddy” while carrying a newborn in a carrier. I was a little relieved when dad barked an order for the girls to head to the back of the bus, but equally surprised when one of the little girls burst into tears, crying “I want to stay with the lady!” I looked around for the “lady” only to realize she meant me. I’m the lady. Both girls wanted to sit up front…on my lap.
Five minutes out of the terminal and the younger girl turned out to be a boy. With long, dark, curly hair that hung down his back I could only stare. She had been a sweet girl and suddenly, with the reveal of Superman pull-ups he was a beautiful, dark eyed boy. All of four years old with a fixation on McDonalds. Every time we would pass a sign or restaurant he would scream out “McDonalds!” The older child, definitely still a girl, calling herself Princess, would perk up each and every time and shout “where?!” without fail. Princess taught me a game – something involving singing and clapping about a Miss Merry-Something-Er-Rather. She talked nonstop about school, her friends, her jeans, her homework, her little brother, her mother’s boyfriend, her brother’s dad, her dad (not all the same person), her lost umbrella and hated lunch meat. Every time she would get up to make her way back to see her mom her sneaky brother would bounce into her place beside me and with hungry eyes ask if he could hold my watch, try on my ring, wear my hair ties, look at the book I was reading. He asked me if I liked McDonalds, the Yankees, buses, him. How could I say no?
90 minutes later the children reached their destination and left me without so much as an over-the-shoulder goodbye. I waited for the mother to thank me for entertaining her kids. As she came up the bus aisle I looked up expectantly, prepared to say, “you’re welcome. You have great kids.” Not only did she continue by without a word, she didn’t even look me in the eye. Thanks for nothing. PS~ I hate the Yankees.
To be continued…..
My Hero
I have to blog about this. It might offend someone. No, it probably will offend someone. The truth is in-your-face dirty.
Years ago when I started the whole blog thing I had decided I would write about the first thing that came to my head – the first and only thing. That has been modified to include what’s important to me and what I simply cannot get off the brain. Writing is an effort to nudge some thoughts out of the head, get out what I can’t stop pondering. Here’s what is sticking right now: I have one prescription and I can bet you know what it’s for. Before Walgreens I would, once a month, TRY to remember to call ahead to get it refilled. Calling ahead meant I could run in, state my name, pay, and run back out. BingBangBoom. Sometimes, I would forget and would have to wait while some pimply teenage receptionist boy scrutinized my medical records and got the pharmacist to fill the prescription. This sit-and-wait episode would cause anxiety because of my overactive imagination. It wasn’t like I could pick up the prescription and go. Sitting and waiting meant they, the behind the counter pharmacy men, could put a face to a name, put a pill to person. Me. I am always painfully aware that this pill is a sex pill. Yes, it’s so I can have sex without having to agonize once a month over Am I? or Am I Not? Yeah. Yeah, it has other benefits like an easier time of the month, clearer skin and all that, but more importantly the pill spares me from peeing on a plastic stick and perspiring while expecting the blue line (or happy face or whatever it is these days). But, having to wait while the prescription is being filled is like wearing a sign. I have sex. I told you – overactive imagination at work here. I guess it’s like this for people with more embarrassing ailments, predicaments that a particular pill gives away. When the guy with an STD comes in I imagine the pharmacist shaking his head, thinking “you poor bastard” as he hands him his topical ointment.
So it comes down to this. Walgreens. I love Walgreens. I can’t believe how simple they have made my life. Instead of me calling them to fill the prescription, they call me. Automatically. No more calling ahead. No more forgetting to call ahead. It’s a beautiful thing.
Black Blame Game
This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?
Small House
I met someone who doesn’t believe in fairies or faeries. He does not believe in the kind that gather in P’town, nor the ones we build houses for and make wishes to. Our fanciful ideas are nothing but overactive imaginations for the fairies or faeries of either kind, according to him. I have to say it again. According to him.
I guess after reading this news article I’m still thinking of that lie, “to each his own”, spoken like the truth, like it came from the heart.
I think it’s innovative to let the imagination fly. How enticing to think of what could be, what should be! I have to admit it bugs me when someone says no without considering the possibilities. A flat out no is like a stab to the heart. Where is the maybe? What happened to the we’ll see? Why not possibly? When can we try?
We build faery houses for no other reason than to feel like a kid again; to shirk duty and grownup ways…if only for an afternoon. Crouching down to balance stick to bark, building rock walkways and leafy beds. Taking it all oh so seriously. I remember the faery condo G and I made, imagining ours to be the biggest and the bestest. Awards were made for condos such as this, we thought.
Maybe this is where I learned my love of possibility, of taking dares with Yes. Where the only no heard is the one sandwiched between k and w of “I don’t kNOw.” Because even I don’t know leaves the door open, just a crack, for yes.
Majesty
I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.
Battlefront of Id and Ego
Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.
Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.
What I Don’t Have
What I don’t have is hair sense. I’m the girl who has two styles, ponytail up or just plain down. What I don’t have is the ability to go chignon fancy. What I do have is a friend with classic style and grace.
What I don’t have is matching accessories. I’m the girl with the $5 fish that circles my thumb. What I don’t have is where to start with the silk scarf. What I do have is a friend with maturity and wisdom.
What I don’t have is a cool demeanor. I’m the girl who can rant about razor burn for an hour. What I don’t have is class. What I do have is a friend who is sweet and funny.
What I don’t have is the ability to make small talk with you. I’m the girl who circles her friends and asks their advice. What I don’t have is patience. What I do have is a friend who walks the walk, talks the talk. Straight up.
What I don’t have is strut. I’m the girl who can’t find sexy shoes that fit (but I’m working on it, Ruby). What I don’t have is a stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks swagger. What I have is a friend who is confident and beautiful enough for the both of us.
So, I’m not fancy. I don’t have that kind of personality. I don’t have fukc me pumps so I’ll settle for cute maryjanes. But. But, what I DO have is an amazing group of people in my life who are stylish, graceful, mature, wise, sweet, smart, straight forward, confident and beautiful with a little bogger thrown in for fun. When I asked, they rallied. When I asked, they answered. That’s all that matters.
Thank you.
Number 37
I have decided to be very angry with you. This is in answer to the accusation of MidLifeWhatever. I turn my head in shame because I am tired of you being there in the shadows, so quiet and unassuming. Assume this: you will die that way. You cannot fly when you bind your own wings, sabotage your own flight. Stop living for when and start wanting for now. Come to think of it, what is it that you want? Do you even know? I know there isn’t anything you need. You are not for want. I can assure you that. I can kill your past but only you can keep it dead. When you revive and relive it’s not my fault. Blame games are solo affairs of the cerebral. Think about that. Think about Want. Think about Desire. Think about it, act on it, then thank me later. Thank you now.
Insult to Injury
My husband knows the word “rant” all too well. I’ll go on for hours about something until it becomes nothing – the way writing a single word over and over will start to look strange and lose meaning twenty times later.
First it was about blood work. They wanted my blood and made me make an appointment. They told me when to stick my arm out for the needle. But, when I showed up it was all my fault. “You need to follow up on the appointment.” What? Doublecheck the receptionist to make sure I’m really in the book? “Well, even though you had an appointment you need to make sure the doctor put in the order.” What? So, now I’m following up on the doctor? Let me get this straight so I don’t waste 90 minutes on another day. “You shouldn’t make the appointment so soon after the doctor has seen you.” What? The receptionist told me the opening she had available. I just agreed to show up. Now you’re saying I need to refuse her suggested appointment time. Could I be anymore confused? Insult to injury- the nurse called my machine and said they found the drs order for blood work and I can come in “anytime” (giggle, giggle).
Then it was about my car. When they were done, they wanted to leave it behind the building, locked up, keys in the glove box. They wanted me to pay now and pick it up with my husband’s keys later. Behind the building, locked up. My keys would be in the glove box. It’s not behind the building. It’s not locked up (window is rolled down and door is left completely unlocked). Keys are not in the glove box. Only this is where stupid me, myself and moi come in. We don’t notice this for nearly a week. I call the mechanic six days later. “Do you guys have a spare set of keys lying around?” “Chevy Prism?” “Yup.” “Last name _____.” “Yup.” “Yeah, we got ’em.” “And you couldn’t call me?! Can you bring them to me since you said my car would be locked up with the keys in the glove box and NONE of that happened?” Silence. “Hey. You guys told me you would lock it up and leave the keys in the glove box. Since that didn’t happen you need to bring me my keys.” Who knew I had the brass bra? “*sigh* We’ll see what we can do.” Insult to injury – I was late for work.
Then it was my feet. “Do you have anything in a size 5?” “Nope.” “But I see 5 1/2s here.” “Last year’s stock. We’re not carrying anything smaller than 6 on the adult side. Kids has size 5. Check there.” Insult to injury – size 5 didn’t fit. Neither did 4. I’m a 3 1/2 KIDS if I want to shop at Marshalls.
Gone Nuts
I don’t think anyone can fully appreciate or understand why this picture drives me crazy.
Problems with the Equipment
I have become a pedometer snob. It started slowly since I haven’t always worn one. A little over two years ago I joined the walking nation and clipped on a pedometer to count my steps. I dropped the habit when I started running. Lately, I’ve turned back to walking. It’s a little nerdy and a lot productive. On Mother’s Day I signed myself up for another walking challenge – a virtual walk across the country. It was during this time that I decided I needed a new pedometer. I’ve tried many makes and models – some with radios and headphones, others with heart monitors and calorie readouts. I’ve spent anywhere from $5 to $15, testing the step counters. The current one I am joined to the hip to is one of my earlier purchases. The interface is starting to fade, it’s clunky, boxy and awkward. Soon I was on the hunt for something a little more “glamorous.”
I found Gaiam’s sleek model in Barnes and Noble and shelled out the most ever for what turned out to be the cheapest product ever. I was in love with its sophistication (heart rate monitor included), its capabilities (alarm clock and stop watch!), even it’s color (gray-blue and silver). It even came with a cd (as if I didn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other and simulate walking). I loved it until I walked with it. Basically, I sneeze and suddenly I’ve walked seven steps. Sit down, stand up and I could add another sixteen steps. In the instruction manual they warn against this “overcounting.” Their solution is turning & tightening some screw counter clockwise. That screw must tighten the mechanism that measures movement. Well, I tried that and okay, it helped a little. Sneeze and I’ve only walked four steps. Standing up and sitting down only adds ten. But still! There is no other way to regulate the sensitivity of the product and it drives me crazy!
All is not lost. My old GoWalking pedometer works just fine. It’s still clunky and the numbers are fading, but at least it works!
~*LunaSea*~ 