Category: Complaining

On the Other Side

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Prompted by a return to ThatSpace, I have a few things to say about who my friends are…and will be.

I’ve been trying to put myself in your shoes; trying understand where you are coming from. It hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s downright difficult. It’s not that I’m closed-minded or deliberately, absolutely, stubbornly blind. I truly cannot see your side of things and that saddens me. It’s the means to an end. You say things that simply are not true. You assume things to be the way they actually are not.
I’ve shrugged you off like a winter coat in July. Not because I don’t love you, but because I don’t need you. There is a difference. Like that Bodyguard song goes, I will always love you. People grow up, grow out of love (with obsessions) and grow apart. I think they call that natural progessions. I was dedicated for five years and I think that was loyalty enough. The way I see it there are plenty of others (thanks to me) to take my place. There is no need aside from want. Want I do not have (in your new kind).
It doesn’t hurt me to move on. Your shoes don’t fit. Like a bad ex-football player trial I’m free from the obvious verdict. I can see the other side – I look through and see how it is. But, here’s the thing: I’d rather burn that bridge than try to cross it.

Glass

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To drink or not to drink…not a question. Not a problem. I’ve never really considered alcohol a good friend, or even a friend for that matter. I know someone who gave it up completely. She was my not-really-drinking-drinking-buddy. My something sour to her something strong. She gave it up completely while I still talk to the bottle every now and then.
While on vacation every now and then became every night and then. Thursday night was a big glass of Merlot, chugged at Rosie’s. Friday night was a couple small glasses of Yellow Tail while staring at the ocean. Saturday night was this bottle of out of this world UFO, while watching watching the sun go down. Sunday was Shipyard brew at the Bull. Monday night I cried uncle when a Beaujolais was coming my way. Why? Four days in a row is nothing and there are people who think nothing of it, but to me, I was thinking everything.
Something worth considering.

Dear you

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I know the run today was hard. Only 4 miles and it hurt like hell. Hang in there. Seriously, there are a hundred hooks to hang your blame on – it was too hot, allergies were kicking your butt, too many cars backing out of driveways without looking, too many busy intersections to cross, you never got your breathing settled, and all you could really think about was the humility of going up an underwear size…I know, I know. Let it pass. The important thing is you got out there. You gave it your best and your best is all you’ve ever got, right? Am I right?

Think of it this way. You inhaled lilacs on the bridge; you saw angels in the yard; Christmas is everlasting at house #57; you avoided the dog crap at the maples; that guy finally had his Lab on a leash; instinct told you to stay away from the man with the motorcycle on the bike path; you didn’t smile at unknown kayakers and, and, and you ran 4 miles.
Enough said.

Two Sides of Guilty as Hell

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I told my husband I would blog about this. There is no way that I can’t. The irony struck me in the face last night and I’m still reeling from the assault. I should start from the beginning only I can’t. I won’t. Out of loyalty, out of respect I won’t fuel the fire more than it already has been. BUT just so that I’m not another babbling idiot I will say this – my husband is dealing with more crap than he deserves. Someone in his circle of life has been accused of a crime (well, a few) and there is no way this person is innocent. Not 100%. No way in Hell. Anyway you look at the situation this guy is at fault in some way. Whether it’s 5% guilty or 100% it still spells Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. All the way in trouble and it troubles me. It’s a classic case of he said, she said, she said he did. No way to really sort it out. No way to walk away. Can’t deny, can’t ignore. Especially for kisa. He didn’t ask for this, but there it is.

So that’s one side of guilty – here’s the other. My husband received a letter from the DMV – no wait, RMV…No, I think I had it right the first time – DMV. Anyway, the Registry, Division, Department, the something of Motor Vehicles. I immediately assumed it was a registration renewal or something mundane, something ho hum. Disinterested, I turned back to shaking worcestershire sauce and montreal seasoning on the burgers…until I heard him swearing and muttering “‘not again.” Turns out the state of California thinks my husband travels across the country to treat their roadways as his own private German autobahn…and then drives home again…to New England. The RMV/DMV is revoking his license at the end of the month because someone with his same name and birthday drives like an idiot somewhere on the west coast. There are three driving offenses listed in the letter and kisa was obviously at work for every single one. There is no way he is guilty of anything mentioned in the letter. Nevertheless, here’s the kicker – he has to take time away from his already fukced up life to take care of the situation…again. Yes, this has happened before – before I met him. Kisa’s betting it’s the same wackjob who doesn’t know how to operate a moving vehicle. What are the chances?

So. Last night as I was brushing my teeth I was thinking about guilt – the obvious kind and the obviously not. Kisa operates on the fine line of There Is No Way This Is Happening To Me. Yet it is. Two sides of guilty. Drive carefully.

Where I Started

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I am sick, sick, sick of the mother question. I’m beginning to hate Mother’s Day just because it somehow gives people license to ask me that mother of all questions, “when are you having a baby?” What’s with the when and why are you asking me? Why on Mother’s Day? If it’s not in the form of a question it’s a statement, “well, when you have kids…” Like it’s a given that experience is definitely going to happen. To Me. I think the parenting question should be right up there with sex, politics and religion. Personally, if I don’t offer the information that should mean I don’t want to talk about it. In simpler terms it’s none of your business.
When faced with the When question I think of all the responses I could give. To say we’re not ready implies something shameful. Like we haven’t grown up enough to hurl ourselves into the act raising a child. Like we haven’t prepared enough and will fail the big parenting exam. We’ve been goofing off in the back row of life.
To say we can’t afford children indicates a poverty level beyond the bank account. We’re bankrupt in love for children and can only think (selfishly) of ourselves. We’re not willing to give up, to sacrifice, the luxuries of travel and concerts and good food for the sake of having a junior to call our own. At least that’s the perception if we say kids are expensive.
To say I’m afraid of the pain only results in smirks and looks of IfIDidItWhyCan’tYou? Can’t even go there with mothers who endured labor for endless hours without meds. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I’m not you.” Shame on me.
To say we’re afraid of being bad parents implies we didn’t like our own upbringing; that somehow we’re afraid we’ll turn out just like “them” or worse yet, we’ve insulted our elders. The question that inevitably follows is, “what’s wrong with the way you were raised?” Don’t get me started.
There’s only one Shut-Them-Up answer out there. We can’t have kids. Period. I mean, how does one respond to a woman who point blank says “I’m infertile. Thanks for asking…”? The consequence of such a statement is the danger of coming across as damaged goods, a female with faulty wiring. A royal fukc up in another life. “Do not confront me with my failures…I have not forgotten them” ~ Jackson Brown.

Better not mention adoption unless you want your head bitten off.

NARAL

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NARAL Pro-Choice America came to me in a huge envelope with “priority documents” written all over it. Looking as official as can be they spelled my name wrong. Upon opening the oversized documents the first thing I read was, “No need for women to worry about making personal, private decisions about their bodies. Do YOU want men like these deciding for all women?” and below was a picture of George W. Bush and his cronies. Supposedly, he is caught in the act of signing into the law the first-ever Federal Abortion Ban. He has a smirk on his face.
On the back of the envelope is a fake handwritten note asking me to please help protect reproductive freedom by signing the enclosed petition. I hate that fake, crayon-scrawled, made-to-look-like-my-friend, personal propaganda. They further irritated me by circling my donation bracket, as if I couldn’t decide the dollar amount for myself and could possibly make the wrong choice. Any money I chose to donate should be good enough, but no – they have to tell me what they want me to give. That set the tone for me to ignore the three pre-written petitions to Kennedy, Kerry & Neal on behalf on NARAL. I couldn’t even bear to read the four page “letter” from Nancy Keenan on the matter. NARAL tried to appeal to my sense of womanhood yet they failed to appeal to my sense of intellect. I couldn’t even figure out from the literature I received what NARAL stands for. Going to the website wasn’t that much clearer.

For more information visit NARAL here.

O Bailey

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A friend sent me a letter. This one was to me ( and not about me) and there was no mistaking the message. Angry. I read and reread her words but didn’t respond right away. I couldn’t because her anger had a domino effect and suddenly I was just as spit-nails-mad. I didn’t want to lash out at her, the bearer of bad news. Don’t kill the messenger. Not her fault. Not her fault at all.

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. No, thank you for making it clear to me what I had been missing/avoiding all along. I made excuses for the lies. I spun in frantic circles on my own stage of denial. I didn’t think it could be true even when the evidence was mounting. How many times did I have to be lied to before I finally caught on that I was not worthy of the truth? I have a friend who walked away cold and I confessed I admired her for her cutthroat deleting. Do you really want to delete this “friend”? Yes. How hard is that? Unsubscribe. Delete. Done. Damn.

I can understand the lashing out. The hurt has nowhere to go but directly to the Last In Line. But, why include you or the other her? Just because you are who you are to him? It’s so stupid and I’m So Sorry. But, I’m not sorry you told me. Not sorry I stopped spinning. Not sorry I opened my eyes. Delete. Done. Damn.

Entitled to Tell You So

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How could I not exclaim I Told You So when it was all over? I said it would happen and so it did. Now what? The barbarians have stormed the gates and now we are knee deep in repairs. [I realize that people read these blogs and for most, this particular one is in the shadows. I’ve left the lights off. Sorry you are in the dark, but you wouldn’t understand. It would take forever for me to explain it and the sad thing is I’m not even sure I know. I do know I can say Told You So.]

THEY came on campus today. For less than a week I have known about their arrival. Not enough time to really do anything about it. More than enough time to worry, though. Maybe that was their plan all along because worry I did. For four days I worried in the form of ranting. I felt brick walled, stone walled and walled in. Friends offered advice and while that calmed me it was only a temporary fix. When alone anxiety circled and fear soon followed. My fault is that I don’t have faith. I do not believe.

They came on campus today and asked the questions I anticipated. I opened my mouth before gobbledegook could come from somewhere else. I speculated, I suspected, I assumed, I answered and in the end I promised. Promised I would remedy the situation – the very situation I was made aware of four days ago. I was not as silent as some would have hoped.

They left campus. Gates stormed and now I’m left feeling revealed and vulnerable. As I pick up the pieces of my castle I know this is what I asked for. There is a hint of a smile on my face. I’m in pieces but it’s a chance to rebuild. I didn’t know this would happen. I wish I told you this, too.

Dare Do I?

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What if I want to go onto Knitting Level II? What if I want to take a class called “My First Sweater”? Am I older than my years? Is it enough that I want to do more? I’ve always been suspicious of those people who take on too much. I call them the Promisers. They talk about all the things they have planned. Months later I’m asking what happened? What’s going on with…? Did you say you were going to…? I don’t want to be that person. I’ve been there before. So, when I say I want to pick something up I’m saying I WANT to. No promises.

American Diabetes Association…again

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The American Diabetes Association sent me yet another mailing. The third since January 1, 2007. That means three nickels, three “dear friend” letters, three sheets of address labels. Speaking of the address labels, my real friends could take one look at them and know they aren’t my style. These labels don’t prompt me to donate. Colorful pumps and mules, flowery hats, pink and plump purses. Bright colors and cartoonish, I don’t feel compelled to donate based on getting them.
Yet, I feel bad. My mother was just warning my sister and me about limiting our sugar intake because of our family history. Diabetes is in the jeans and not just the back pocket. Still, I feel pressured because of the multiple mailings. Maybe that was their plan all along. Tricky.
They say every nickel counts yet they keep sending them to me.

Komen for the Cure

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Susan KomenOkay, so the whole charity name is Susan G. Komen for the Cure. The name change is to show their commitment to fighting breast cancer. Okay. I can understand the need for new energy. Just last week I watched a CNN program on how cancer research hasn’t progressed very much. Oh sure, we’re learning all the different ways cancer can crop up. It seems like everything these days “causes cancer.” But, we’re not researching the hot ticket – the real reason why people die from cancer. According to Lance Armstrong we need to focus more on why and how a cancer spreads – metastasizes. If that’s where Komen for the Cure is headed then good for them.
In this particular packet they sent me a membership card. I’m not sure how to take that. It’s not like a diner’s card that gets me special privileges.  Card carrying for cancer – what a concept.

ps~ I met a man who says his wife works for the “other” breast cancer foundation and I shouldn’t mention Komen in her presence. Has the work gone mad? Shouldn’t they be working towards the same thing instead of against each other? Well, I guess that’s corporate America for you – we compete even when it comes to cures for cancer.

Peta

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Peta = People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.Peta

Yesterday they sent me a survey. Stuck to the survey was a fake sticky note from “Ingrid.” Designed to look like a last minute message in blue “friendly” font it read, “you have been chosen to take part in a critical national referendum. Please read this ballot and return it within 10 days. Ingrid” Thanks, Ingrid. The wiseazz in me wants to send the survey back blank with a sticky that reads, “Ingrid, I followed your instructions to the letter. I read the ballot and am sending it back.” But, I can’t do that. I can’t be that sarcastic to an organization I admire.
Back in the day my favorite place to shop for bath products was the Body Shop. I liked the “this product was not tested on animals” sticker on every bottle. I liked that it was a grass roots organization that fostered trade with third world countries. Recycled bottles, handmade Tibetan paper, banana hair masks. It all seemed so back-to-basics good, earthy and wholesome. Until I learned they sold out and the company went corporate. I didn’t trust the labels anymore.
I think I’m schizophrenic because I don’t wear fur, yet I eat meat. And when it comes to testing on animals I like to play devil’s advocate. We want scientific advances for evil things like cancer. We want cures that are 100%. We need to be able to test our scientific breakthroughs to make sure they really do work. I know testing on animals is cruel, but would you rather they strap down your 80 year old blind grandpa? What the hey, he’s gonna die anyway. Save the puppy! Grandpa a bit much? How about testing on your two year old instead!

Okay. I know I being cruel. There’s a commerical running right now about protecting animals against cruelty and everytime I see it my heart breaks. I want to run out and adopt every abused animal out there. But, researchers are caught between a rock and a hard place. I honestly don’t believe testing on cute and fuzzies happens because they’re all Dahmers inside. Yes, we are learning more about testing on cultures of human cells and the organs of donors but if you were dying of cancer would you trust this babynew research?
But, that’s only one side of the story. If researchers are testing for allergens to cosmetics, cleaning products or even worse, military warfare I am dead set against using animals. Go find the Dahmers of society and put them to good use. Seriously.

ps~ True to nonprofit form Peta sent me mailing labels and asked me to donate.
For more information about Peta, go here.

Acting Up

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Who else watched Dave on House last night? I have to admit I’ve never watched an episode of House before and the only reason I watched last night was Dave. Dave and Dave alone. I’ve heard he’s an okay actor (I have yet to rent the kiddie flicks) so I wanted to check him out. I’m a big fan of the man and if you have ever heard his life story you know why. Humility, humor, and heart all there.
House was…well…something else. During a concert Dave will stutter and say silly things that leave me questioning his state of mind. Last night was either brilliant or more evidence that the guy has a screw rattled. He played the part of a savant perfectly. His smiling face was vacant and childlike, scared and innocent. My only problem was trying to separate the musician from the actor. At one point I couldn’t help but blurt out “Oh no, don’t shave Dave’s head!”

Seeing Dave in an acting role was cool. It didn’t make me a fan of House. I didn’t get Dr. House at all. I spent more time wondering if he was always “like that” or was it just this episode? Either way, I watched for Dave.

Waking to the Reality

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I had bad dreams last night. Bad to the point of nightmare, and scary to the point of DidIReallyDoThat? I woke up not knowing which reality was mine – the night visions or the day truths.  I learned something yesterday – something that has me seething twice as terrible today. My barely contained anger has noWhere to go, noWay to be released…so it bubbles in my brain, thrashes like a live wire. Someone tried to help me with the Where and Way but the suggestion is too benign for how electric I am. Right now.

Here’s the thing. You complained in public. You went outside the We Can Handle This Here and got the There involved. You told your side of the story – never mind how twisted and untrue it all is. You talked so horrible until you were told this would ALL be in the open. Everyone would know what you said. Suddenly, you wanted your mommy. Suddenly, you wished you could take it all back. Sad but true. Sad but you. Here’s what I have to say in retaliation (seething aside). The Gloves are off. You told your tale, we’ll tell ours. Yes, we have stories to tell. Documents and documents of stories to tell. We’ve been keeping track, keeping score. There is a price to pay for going public. Don’t think your dirty laundry is your dirty little secret. We’ll go there, too.