I love naps. Much like a cat I could curl up anytime, anywhere, close my eyes for a few daydreams and be out for more than forty winks. I just love to nap. On the couch, on the floor, in a chair, under a desk, on the grass, inflatable beds are lovely, if I could fit on a windowsill I'd be all over it.
Ironically, as easy as it is for me to nap in the most noisy and uncomfortable places, I have difficulty sleeping in an actual bed. Perhaps it's the ritual of getting ready for bed, or maybe the fact that bedtime is so set: "You are lying in bed, you must sleep." Whatever it is, it takes me hours, literally hours, to go to sleep in a bed. Lights need to be off, curtains closed, doors locked, noise must be minimized and the temperature needs to be perfect. And even in ideal situations I will lay there, still as I can be, trying to shut my brain off. There are a lot of buttons in there. You just can't go to the Start Menu and choose "shut down". Instead you have to turn off the bills and money section, then the decisions, the stories, the jokes. You need to wait till the conversation processor slows down and the work matrix has finally flatlined. Still there are tons of ideas floating around up there that need to find a resting place before my eyes get heavy and my muscles relax. But by then I can feel it, just on cusp, sleep is there. My tongue gets heavy and my skin warms...I'm ready...something else will take over for me, make me inhale and exhale, choose where I will roll and what position to stay in - the unconscious Katy has been prepared dreams and images all day - and she's ready for her performance. In a few seconds I'll sleep.
That's usually when my husband comes to bed...or wakes up, rolls over and squeezes my nipple (that's called fore-play). In anycase frisky or not, I'm up. There are two, maybe three, critical seconds where sleep would be possible again, but I have to get rid of the husband and that takes more than three seconds. Nope, once he has woken me up I have to start the whole process over. Start at money and bills and work your way down. And even then sleep may be elusive. If we did decided to get frisky then it's more than elusive. More than likely I won't sleep that night.
And he wonders why I get grouchy. Last night I tried to bite him.
My sleep grumpiness has doubled lately with the introduction of a new piece of furniture to the bedroom: The reading lounge chair.
Shipped from Sweden to be carried home by college students and people with small cars the reading lounge chair is a shiny kind of birch wood. It sits on bowed planks and bounces back and forth more than it rocks. Accompanying the reading lounge chair is a reading lounge chair foot stool that is perfect for holding folded Mexican blankets...and feet. All in all the reading lounge chair makes a good, bouncy, warm, stretched out area for you to read in....and then promptly fall asleep with your book squashing your face.
It calls to me in the morning.
It calls to me in the evening.
It calls, softly at first: Kaaaaaattttyyyy. Oh Kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaty. Look at me...here I am with my warm blanket and my soft white lamp. Here I am...no one to rock me, no one to bounce in me. I am all alone Katy. Who will sit in me? Who will use me for useful purposes? and then it's true nature spring forward in a growl that could only come from the farthest depths of hibernation hell: You will nap in me Katy. You will submit, you will obey. Your eyes are heavy...COME...SLEEP!
And I do. Oh I do. How I love to snuggle in that chair, my cat by my side, reading my lovely books till my eyelids can't help but cover my big brown eyes and off to dreamland I go. I can feel the chair hugging me, holding me in whenever I flutter my lashes open. Oh yes...I could get up and do the dishes, I am perfectly capable of folding those towels, but why really? Why leave this warm, snuggly, bouncy chair to do all that? And when I close my eyes to return to my nap - I swear to god that chair bounces me back to sleep.
My husband never bounced me to sleep. He once got me really drunk...but I don't think that's the same thing.
Now when I crawl into bed all I can think of is the chair. Only a few feet from where my pillow lays is napping nirvana. Only a few steps away and I could be sprawled out on the bouncy chair.
The other night I woke up in the middle of the night with a strong urge to get up from bed, walk around the room and go back to sleep in the chair. I was halfway to throwing off the covers when I realize how stupid this is. But the temptation was too strong. That chair is so nice and bed is so...so...bed-like. I spent the rest of the night with my arms and legs wrapped tightly around my husband. Lashed to my mast I listened to the siren song of the chair all night. It sings pretty.
Unfortunately, lack of use makes the chair stronger. I can hear it calling to me at work. Kaaaaaaaty it says It's Friday my little Katy. Soon you will be able to come home to me, your loving chair, and sleep till you can sleep no more.Till you can sleep NO MORE. I think I like the chair cause it's a little dangerous.
I'm gearing up for battle though. When I arrive home there are two choices...I can go and rake the leaves from the yard...or I can curl up in that devilish reading lounge chair and nap for all I'm worth.
I can't tell you who will win, the chair or my love of raking, but no wonder I'm grouchy.
My napping is keeping me up at night!
Friday, September 30, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Determination and Stubborness
I spent this past weekend with my whole immediate family - including my parents. I was reminded that this may be the last time I get to see them ever - especially my Mother. That's a really hard pill for me to swallow.
Last year my english professor asked us to write about A Significant Moment in Family History. This is what I wrote:
What keeps a family alive? What is that one thing you need to make sure every person survives? My mother has always been ill and when I was twelve she came home pale, weak and unable to breath. This was common but as we went through the all too familiar motions of machines and medicines my mother grabbed me in a vice grip. She yelled "get your Father now!" Not the "go ahead and call 911 and tell your Father" that I normally hear. She was determined not to die without saying goodbye to anyone she could. Once we were assembled she stubbornly tried to keep us there and we stubbornly ran around calling 911, hailing the ambulance outside pulling out the
big tanks. It began a night of fighting, and revealed something inherent in all the members of my family. In order to keep each other together and alive we will dig our heels in and fight every obstacle with blind stubbornness and a healthy disregard for reason. This may be strength, but I think this is love - through fire.
When I left my mother and father to flag down the ambulance he was attempting to inject her with an epi-pen. It's a small hypodermic needle that only dispenses a safe dose. In theory you should be able to stick it quick, push the button and everything is well. When I came back escorting the paramedics my father had my unconscious mother turned upside down with legs draped over his lap, pen stuck and using his fist as a hammer to push the small little black button. He was pounding and screaming like he was about to go into a battle for the freedom of Scotland and the needle was his only sword. I heard the paramedics whisper "I think she's dead." This only made my father re-jab the needle over and over in an effort to get the pen to work. This was it, if only we could give her some ephedrine she would be fine, she'd wake up. I knew my Father believed it. He really did put all his hope into a three inch hypodermic needle.
We all look for things to hold onto in crisis, ideas, memories, keepsakes. Something to give us comfort. We may hold onto a locket of a loved one, but deep down we know that the locket will not bring that loved one back, it will help us but not them. My Father though refused to give into that idea of comfort. He refuse to believe that there was nothing he could do for his wife. He continued to jab and push that button even after the paramedics began their own work. He was stubbornly clinging to the fact that he could save her. Of course he could, he was her husband, she was his wife, they were supposed to be together for eternity. Normal logic would point out that this wasn't always the case, but because this was his family - normal logic didn't count.
My mother was showing off her own stubbornness as well. By all accounts this woman was dead. Her heart had stopped, she wasn't breathing, no amount of screaming was helping to wake her up. But that didn't stop her. The paramedics injected and shocked her and finally attempted to put a tube down her throat. We've all seen this on t.v. The patient lies there unconscious while the doctor guides a green tube gently down using a metal guide and they connect a little bag to force air into the lungs. That is if the patient is willing to stay unconscious. My mother was not. Not only did she not want to stay still and pliant, she did not want that tube down her throat! Later my mother told me she was afraid that they would take away her voice and she needed it to say goodbye to us. My mother said "I was so angry at you all." She didn't need to tell us. My mother, the kind, gentle woman who never raised her voice used soft touches and refused to step on insects started to thrash like a banshee. She clocked one paramedic so well he ended up with two black eyes. We all tackled her as the paramedics attempted to put the tube in again. My mother kicked me so hard I split my lip. A shoe went flying off her foot, all the way across the large room and hit the window. It's still cracked. My father was pummeled and the second paramedic was shoved against the wall by a flailing hand. Dead people don't act like this. Hadn't someone informed my mother that people who are not breathing do not engage in boxing? Did she know that her job was to be
peaceful while the paramedics brought her back to us?
We kept telling her "let them help you." She would have none of this. People talk of seeing white lights and either running towards them or away from them. My mother saw red - red lights, red anger. Her determination to stay with her family and talk with them, tell them exactly what she needed to say, made her fight harder than she had ever fought in her life. Her body, acting subconsciously, acted out her will. She was not dead and she would not die without doing what she thought was most important. Her vigor flies in the face of all science. There are stories of mothers who lift cars to save their children. Women will brave wars and bullets to keep their families together. My mother used the same strength and love that all mothers use to fight her way back to life. No scientific realities could have convinced her that she was not supposed to come back. And her stubbornness insisted she do it her way.
I find the fact that my mother did all that while she was unconscious and unaware of her real surroundings the most telling aspect. A person can consciously choose to not accept a situation. My father could have made the decision to abandon hope and not fight as hard as he did that night. I could have made the choice to stay with my mother till the last minute rather than running away for help. But my mother didn't make a choice. It was instinct that made her fight, it was a part of her that's deeper than thought. Her fighting was an impulse that I don't believe could be denied. It's this impulse that keeps families together. There are so many obstacles that fly in the face of family love, adultery, death, even simple disagreements can break bonds. But the strength of love for one another is so much stronger than all of those elements. It doesn't allow a family to quit even when the individuals want too. It's what keeps families of any shape together, it's what keeps them alive.
Last year my english professor asked us to write about A Significant Moment in Family History. This is what I wrote:
What keeps a family alive? What is that one thing you need to make sure every person survives? My mother has always been ill and when I was twelve she came home pale, weak and unable to breath. This was common but as we went through the all too familiar motions of machines and medicines my mother grabbed me in a vice grip. She yelled "get your Father now!" Not the "go ahead and call 911 and tell your Father" that I normally hear. She was determined not to die without saying goodbye to anyone she could. Once we were assembled she stubbornly tried to keep us there and we stubbornly ran around calling 911, hailing the ambulance outside pulling out the
big tanks. It began a night of fighting, and revealed something inherent in all the members of my family. In order to keep each other together and alive we will dig our heels in and fight every obstacle with blind stubbornness and a healthy disregard for reason. This may be strength, but I think this is love - through fire.
When I left my mother and father to flag down the ambulance he was attempting to inject her with an epi-pen. It's a small hypodermic needle that only dispenses a safe dose. In theory you should be able to stick it quick, push the button and everything is well. When I came back escorting the paramedics my father had my unconscious mother turned upside down with legs draped over his lap, pen stuck and using his fist as a hammer to push the small little black button. He was pounding and screaming like he was about to go into a battle for the freedom of Scotland and the needle was his only sword. I heard the paramedics whisper "I think she's dead." This only made my father re-jab the needle over and over in an effort to get the pen to work. This was it, if only we could give her some ephedrine she would be fine, she'd wake up. I knew my Father believed it. He really did put all his hope into a three inch hypodermic needle.
We all look for things to hold onto in crisis, ideas, memories, keepsakes. Something to give us comfort. We may hold onto a locket of a loved one, but deep down we know that the locket will not bring that loved one back, it will help us but not them. My Father though refused to give into that idea of comfort. He refuse to believe that there was nothing he could do for his wife. He continued to jab and push that button even after the paramedics began their own work. He was stubbornly clinging to the fact that he could save her. Of course he could, he was her husband, she was his wife, they were supposed to be together for eternity. Normal logic would point out that this wasn't always the case, but because this was his family - normal logic didn't count.
My mother was showing off her own stubbornness as well. By all accounts this woman was dead. Her heart had stopped, she wasn't breathing, no amount of screaming was helping to wake her up. But that didn't stop her. The paramedics injected and shocked her and finally attempted to put a tube down her throat. We've all seen this on t.v. The patient lies there unconscious while the doctor guides a green tube gently down using a metal guide and they connect a little bag to force air into the lungs. That is if the patient is willing to stay unconscious. My mother was not. Not only did she not want to stay still and pliant, she did not want that tube down her throat! Later my mother told me she was afraid that they would take away her voice and she needed it to say goodbye to us. My mother said "I was so angry at you all." She didn't need to tell us. My mother, the kind, gentle woman who never raised her voice used soft touches and refused to step on insects started to thrash like a banshee. She clocked one paramedic so well he ended up with two black eyes. We all tackled her as the paramedics attempted to put the tube in again. My mother kicked me so hard I split my lip. A shoe went flying off her foot, all the way across the large room and hit the window. It's still cracked. My father was pummeled and the second paramedic was shoved against the wall by a flailing hand. Dead people don't act like this. Hadn't someone informed my mother that people who are not breathing do not engage in boxing? Did she know that her job was to be
peaceful while the paramedics brought her back to us?
We kept telling her "let them help you." She would have none of this. People talk of seeing white lights and either running towards them or away from them. My mother saw red - red lights, red anger. Her determination to stay with her family and talk with them, tell them exactly what she needed to say, made her fight harder than she had ever fought in her life. Her body, acting subconsciously, acted out her will. She was not dead and she would not die without doing what she thought was most important. Her vigor flies in the face of all science. There are stories of mothers who lift cars to save their children. Women will brave wars and bullets to keep their families together. My mother used the same strength and love that all mothers use to fight her way back to life. No scientific realities could have convinced her that she was not supposed to come back. And her stubbornness insisted she do it her way.
I find the fact that my mother did all that while she was unconscious and unaware of her real surroundings the most telling aspect. A person can consciously choose to not accept a situation. My father could have made the decision to abandon hope and not fight as hard as he did that night. I could have made the choice to stay with my mother till the last minute rather than running away for help. But my mother didn't make a choice. It was instinct that made her fight, it was a part of her that's deeper than thought. Her fighting was an impulse that I don't believe could be denied. It's this impulse that keeps families together. There are so many obstacles that fly in the face of family love, adultery, death, even simple disagreements can break bonds. But the strength of love for one another is so much stronger than all of those elements. It doesn't allow a family to quit even when the individuals want too. It's what keeps families of any shape together, it's what keeps them alive.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Edification
I learned these two songs when I was THREE. I still remember them word for word...maybe not how to spell derry - but give me a break...I was THREE. Spelling Kathryn is hard when you're THREE.
Here are the lyrics to the songs I referenced last post.
The Farmer in the Dell
Traditional Version
The farmer in the dell
The farmer in the dell
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer in the dell
The farmer takes a wife
The farmer takes a wife
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer takes a wife
The wife takes a child
The wife takes a child
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The wife takes a child
The child takes a nurse
The child takes a nurse
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The child takes a nurse
The nurse takes a cow
The nurse takes a cow
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The nurse takes a cow
The cow takes a dog
The cow takes a dog
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cow takes a dog
The dog takes a cat
The dog takes a cat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The dog takes a cat
The cat takes a rat
The cat takes a rat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cat takes a rat
The rat takes the cheese
The rat takes the cheese
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The rat takes the cheese
The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cheese stands alone
The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
I dunno why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a bird;
How absurd, to swallow a bird!
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die
There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.
Imagine that, she swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die
There was an old lady who swallowed a dog.
What a hog! To swallow a dog!
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a goat.
Just opened her throat and swallowed a goat!
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog ...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a cow.
I don't know how she swallowed a cow!
She swallowed the cow to catch the goat... She swallowed the goat to catch the dog...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a horse -
She's dead, of course.
Here are the lyrics to the songs I referenced last post.
The Farmer in the Dell
Traditional Version
The farmer in the dell
The farmer in the dell
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer in the dell
The farmer takes a wife
The farmer takes a wife
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The farmer takes a wife
The wife takes a child
The wife takes a child
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The wife takes a child
The child takes a nurse
The child takes a nurse
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The child takes a nurse
The nurse takes a cow
The nurse takes a cow
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The nurse takes a cow
The cow takes a dog
The cow takes a dog
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cow takes a dog
The dog takes a cat
The dog takes a cat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The dog takes a cat
The cat takes a rat
The cat takes a rat
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cat takes a rat
The rat takes the cheese
The rat takes the cheese
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The rat takes the cheese
The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Hi-ho,The derry-o
The cheese stands alone
The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly
There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
I dunno why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a bird;
How absurd, to swallow a bird!
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll die
There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.
Imagine that, she swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die
There was an old lady who swallowed a dog.
What a hog! To swallow a dog!
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a goat.
Just opened her throat and swallowed a goat!
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog ...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a cow.
I don't know how she swallowed a cow!
She swallowed the cow to catch the goat... She swallowed the goat to catch the dog...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.
There was an old lady who swallowed a horse -
She's dead, of course.
Monday, September 19, 2005
High-Ho the Derry-O
World of Warcraft Roleplaying has degenerated to a debate about sex with Night Elves and what it would like if some hippos had a three way.
In an effort to continue being obnoxious, because he does it so well, one boys yells:
Let's have a debate on which way cheese stands!
I reply, being my silly self:
Alone
Cricket cricket. No one gets it. My quiet, witty, yet subtle joke is lost on the mass of pre-teens now bickering between the choice of upside down and right side up.
I vaguely wonder if they know the kind of wars that have been waged over what side one butters ones bread. Probably not.
As I realize no one will get my joke I lament to my husband about how no one appreciates my wittiness. He then responds:
I don't get it.
What do you mean you don't get it. The cheese stands alone...you know...high-ho the dairy-o
I don't get it.
ARGH! What are they teaching kids now a days. What happened to having to stand in a circle and learning the hard way that sometimes kids are cruel...sometimes we must all be the cheese...yes sometimes - sometimes girls and boys - we must stand alone.
The cheese stands alone my friends, the cheese stands alone. Not because he is an outcast, oh no, but because in that long walk to the center of our proverbial circles we are all alone. All abandoned by our mousy friends and pitchfork lovers. But the cheese is strong in his solitude, he will survive - hey, hey - he will survive...he doesn't need the cat, he doesn't need the dog, the dell can have the Farmer. You know why?
Because he knows why the lady swallowed the fly!
In an effort to continue being obnoxious, because he does it so well, one boys yells:
Let's have a debate on which way cheese stands!
I reply, being my silly self:
Alone
Cricket cricket. No one gets it. My quiet, witty, yet subtle joke is lost on the mass of pre-teens now bickering between the choice of upside down and right side up.
I vaguely wonder if they know the kind of wars that have been waged over what side one butters ones bread. Probably not.
As I realize no one will get my joke I lament to my husband about how no one appreciates my wittiness. He then responds:
I don't get it.
What do you mean you don't get it. The cheese stands alone...you know...high-ho the dairy-o
I don't get it.
ARGH! What are they teaching kids now a days. What happened to having to stand in a circle and learning the hard way that sometimes kids are cruel...sometimes we must all be the cheese...yes sometimes - sometimes girls and boys - we must stand alone.
The cheese stands alone my friends, the cheese stands alone. Not because he is an outcast, oh no, but because in that long walk to the center of our proverbial circles we are all alone. All abandoned by our mousy friends and pitchfork lovers. But the cheese is strong in his solitude, he will survive - hey, hey - he will survive...he doesn't need the cat, he doesn't need the dog, the dell can have the Farmer. You know why?
Because he knows why the lady swallowed the fly!
Friday, September 16, 2005
Busted
Last night my husband and I were making a little chit chat while we waited for a table.
In an effort to start a conversation and light his cigarette at the same time my husband mumbled:
"So I mmmm your mmmmcrab......" Then he stopped and gave me the deer in headlights look.
"What?" I said
Silence.
"You liked my crab?" I interpreted.
"Yes"
The only crab reference I've made in the past month or so has been on the blog...yesterday.
BUSTED!
We both smiled at one another then went on to talk about other things. I knew a few weeks ago he had been reading my blog but if he wasn't going to say anything about it I wasn't. He still won't say anything about it...which is fine. We're both busted...he didn't wanna tell me about reading it...I didn't want to tell him I wrote it.
The blog has been good for me. Not only do I have a place to write all my thoughts out, I don't feel guilty that I'm prattling on to people who find my over-crazed prattling annoying. I talk a lot, at length, and I use a lot of words. The blog has been my guilt-free place to say whatever I want to say, or try whatever writing style I feel like. It's also been something that was all my own - my husband didn't influence it, my bosses didn't bother with it, my friends who read it simply said "oh...it's a blog" and as I wrote earlier...I wanted something that was my own. Something that I didn't have to tailor to anyone else.
I don't think it's all ruined now...I already knew he was reading this long before his crab slip up...but now it's lost a little of it's flavor. I respect him, and I want to put out the best of myself for him...my blog is not my best work.
By the way - honey - you talk in your sleep.
In an effort to start a conversation and light his cigarette at the same time my husband mumbled:
"So I mmmm your mmmmcrab......" Then he stopped and gave me the deer in headlights look.
"What?" I said
Silence.
"You liked my crab?" I interpreted.
"Yes"
The only crab reference I've made in the past month or so has been on the blog...yesterday.
BUSTED!
We both smiled at one another then went on to talk about other things. I knew a few weeks ago he had been reading my blog but if he wasn't going to say anything about it I wasn't. He still won't say anything about it...which is fine. We're both busted...he didn't wanna tell me about reading it...I didn't want to tell him I wrote it.
The blog has been good for me. Not only do I have a place to write all my thoughts out, I don't feel guilty that I'm prattling on to people who find my over-crazed prattling annoying. I talk a lot, at length, and I use a lot of words. The blog has been my guilt-free place to say whatever I want to say, or try whatever writing style I feel like. It's also been something that was all my own - my husband didn't influence it, my bosses didn't bother with it, my friends who read it simply said "oh...it's a blog" and as I wrote earlier...I wanted something that was my own. Something that I didn't have to tailor to anyone else.
I don't think it's all ruined now...I already knew he was reading this long before his crab slip up...but now it's lost a little of it's flavor. I respect him, and I want to put out the best of myself for him...my blog is not my best work.
By the way - honey - you talk in your sleep.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
She lives in Maryland?
Yesterday I found myself standing in Boss #2's office attempting to check things off a list of questions like "Uh...when are you going to Prague?" and "Where are you taking *Random Company President* to dinner?" and "Can you sign the report allowing the company to pay me back for all the crap I buy for you?"
Instead of actually asking these questions he, I and the seafood guy were discussing restaurants that we'd taken the little missus too. Obviously I wasn't actually involved in this one since I am the little missus, but I was present.
They tried to convince me that crab cake was good.
Yeah...right. I know what crabs look like...they don't look like cakes. I do not eat crab cake...who wants caked crab...and what is it caked with really? I like my men like men and my crab like crab...and sometime my crab like men...but never my men like crab.
Obviously, I'm not from around here...
Instead of actually asking these questions he, I and the seafood guy were discussing restaurants that we'd taken the little missus too. Obviously I wasn't actually involved in this one since I am the little missus, but I was present.
They tried to convince me that crab cake was good.
Yeah...right. I know what crabs look like...they don't look like cakes. I do not eat crab cake...who wants caked crab...and what is it caked with really? I like my men like men and my crab like crab...and sometime my crab like men...but never my men like crab.
Obviously, I'm not from around here...
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Non-Battle
(More wifely woes.)
I used to be an overly busy-bee. In addition to working and going to school I did plays, went to shows, was in a dance troupe, took classes like yoga and kickboxing, went to the gym, volunteered for the symphony, the library, the nature conservatory. I cleared forests and washed dogs. I did lots and lots of stuff.
Then my husband came along. When we first moved in together of course we had that giddy "no-one-matters-but-you" period that couples have. I kinda shied away from friends and parties that wouldn't be his scene in order to spend time with him. I also saw it as a duty, although a happy one, to make sure he had dinner and do his laundry and all that stuff. I cut back on this and that so I could be with him as much as possible.
This started about five years ago and I've suddenly realized that I have cut back so much, I have nothing of my own. We had quite a few fights, discussions and "lectures-at-katy" about my priorities. How I should want to spend my weekends and evenings with him more than I should want to go to rehearsal at the theatre. How when I was home I should be more interested in hanging out with him, playing video games with him or watching t.v. with him; rather than writing or reading. He started wanting me to wait to go running or to the gym so we could go together. He was right, there were times when I would get serious tunnel vision when it came to theatre or writing. I wanted things to be perfect so I would let it all go and work towards only one thing. He got the same way too, we often had to be reminded that we weren't one person but two...and we needed to change our ideas.
But while I tried to fix my schedule for school and hobbies - even work - to fit around my husband, my husband was picking up new hobbies. Fishing, autocrossing, acupuncture (believe me, it's a hobby), video games, gardening, cooking. And he expected me to be as interested in them as he was, but never did he show an interest in the few hobbies I kept.
The other day I realized that my life has now dwindled to naught but work and home with nothing that is wholly my own save the car drive home. Even that has been a tad tarnished by a subversive trick to replace all my Barenaked Ladies CD's with Black Eyed Peas and System of a Down. In any other mindset I'd think this was a funny quirk of ours - our different musical tastes, now I feel like it's a guerilla tactic. There is an underlying war going on in my home to prove who actually controls me. Not the relationship, but me, myself. And it's very subtle because both of us are being terribly passive aggressive.
My husband has suddenly grown incredibly clingy. He has become cuddly, sitting on the same chair as me, sleeping on my side of the bed, kissing me often. He never kisses, seriously once I "put out" all kissing stopped. All of a sudden he is all about sticking his tongue down my throat at every opportunity. Is this a renewed sense of passion in him? A conscious effort to remind me he likes me? Or is it a way to claim me as his own personal chew toy?
Our desks are now in the same room. The same room and with the feeling of a cubicle "pit". I can turn around and see his screen, he can turn and see mine. He can also hear everything. Again the music comes into play, his stereo set usually wins. Also, there is an unwritten rule that if I am on the computer, he has to be too, and vice versa. He won't come out and say he doesn't want me on the computer, but he will but he will sigh, huff and puff, then get annoyed and upset if I don't make a move to go spend time with him.
Recently I realized how passive aggressive all these developments came about when I walked away from Hannity and Colmes (hate them) and went upstairs to read my email. I spent maybe five minutes fooling around in World of Warcraft making a new character when I went back downstairs to get a drink.
"I thought you were coming back." He said.
"I was, but I made a mage." I said.
"Oh." And then he stood up and went to the office where he turned on WoW and his warrior followed my mage around the entire time I tried to level her. His computer finally punked out, leaving me to myself, when he decided it was time for bed and continued to yell "Katy, bedtime" over and over until I relented and went to bed.
My mage is only level 3 still.
Is this a desire to play World of Warcraft with me? Spend time in presence? Or does he want to be big brother and make sure I don't role-play my mage with anyone else or level higher than he does?
I decided to declare a "police action". I'm taking drastic action towards this alarming loss of self. I could easily slip into the Katy-that-isn't girl I played so well through high school. Do nothing but find a corner in the room I'm suppose to be in just read quietly - invisibly. Or I can not go softly into whatever stereotype of domestic bliss is in these days and do something for myself. I can be active, productive and happy. If I'm going to be a good wife I need to be a good Katy - and that means doing things I love.
There are four things I really want to do. Learn to play the guitar, learn to speak French, take up yoga and dance again, and learn to draw human figures.
I started looking for some good yoga classes. Wanting to do this right I asked C. to ask his acupuncturist for some recommendations. I figured this would be a way to involve him and get something for me all at the same time. I stipulated that I wanted a nice environment that was free of competition. Somewhere I could just go and "be" while doing something fun. He found a few places and I started to look for some classes that I could take.
That's when he announced he wanted to take yoga too. In fact he wanted to take the same class that I did and that we could meet up after my work and spend time before the class too. I was wary, he always makes physical things a competition. However, it could be a coincidence or peer pressure. Yoga would be good for him, healthy, and taking a class together makes sense. Still, it felt a little like he is trying to make sure I don't stray too far from the leash.
Then I told him about the French class I found. It starts in October and is once a week in the evenings. It's at a local college, but as a non-credit course it's actually really cheap (less than yoga). I was psyched.
"What do you think?"
"When is it again?"
"Starts in October."
"I'm going to be gone for three weeks in October. We can't do it."
Wait! What? I didn't even think he wanted to learn French...and I didn't invite him to take the class with me. In fact I wanted the class for myself...just myself. I want to meet new people and socialize with them...not him. I socialize with him everyday. Once again, C. was trying to take my hill. I rallied the troupes:
"Tuesday is the day you have acupuncture and I'm home alone...I could take a class and we'd get home at the same time and I won't be lonely in the house all night.
"That's true..."
HA!
Unfortunately, this coup feels like I've somehow talked my way into getting a day pass out of jail. The more I think about how I allowed myself to lose my identity to him the more angry and hurt I feel. I'm angry at myself for being such a pushover, and I'm angry at C. for taking advantage of it. Especially since he is the one who spends so much of his time reminding me to stand up for myself - towards everyone else.
Thinking about this stuff makes me feel bad. He could be trying to just be a sweeter, more attentive husband, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm being watched. It feel like the beginning of a Stepford Wives movie. Marriages shouldn't feel like police actions. They shouldn't contain martial law. Maybe my husband is trying to be more dominant, more commanding. But I'm chaffing at the bit - and that means it's being pulled too tight.
I used to be an overly busy-bee. In addition to working and going to school I did plays, went to shows, was in a dance troupe, took classes like yoga and kickboxing, went to the gym, volunteered for the symphony, the library, the nature conservatory. I cleared forests and washed dogs. I did lots and lots of stuff.
Then my husband came along. When we first moved in together of course we had that giddy "no-one-matters-but-you" period that couples have. I kinda shied away from friends and parties that wouldn't be his scene in order to spend time with him. I also saw it as a duty, although a happy one, to make sure he had dinner and do his laundry and all that stuff. I cut back on this and that so I could be with him as much as possible.
This started about five years ago and I've suddenly realized that I have cut back so much, I have nothing of my own. We had quite a few fights, discussions and "lectures-at-katy" about my priorities. How I should want to spend my weekends and evenings with him more than I should want to go to rehearsal at the theatre. How when I was home I should be more interested in hanging out with him, playing video games with him or watching t.v. with him; rather than writing or reading. He started wanting me to wait to go running or to the gym so we could go together. He was right, there were times when I would get serious tunnel vision when it came to theatre or writing. I wanted things to be perfect so I would let it all go and work towards only one thing. He got the same way too, we often had to be reminded that we weren't one person but two...and we needed to change our ideas.
But while I tried to fix my schedule for school and hobbies - even work - to fit around my husband, my husband was picking up new hobbies. Fishing, autocrossing, acupuncture (believe me, it's a hobby), video games, gardening, cooking. And he expected me to be as interested in them as he was, but never did he show an interest in the few hobbies I kept.
The other day I realized that my life has now dwindled to naught but work and home with nothing that is wholly my own save the car drive home. Even that has been a tad tarnished by a subversive trick to replace all my Barenaked Ladies CD's with Black Eyed Peas and System of a Down. In any other mindset I'd think this was a funny quirk of ours - our different musical tastes, now I feel like it's a guerilla tactic. There is an underlying war going on in my home to prove who actually controls me. Not the relationship, but me, myself. And it's very subtle because both of us are being terribly passive aggressive.
My husband has suddenly grown incredibly clingy. He has become cuddly, sitting on the same chair as me, sleeping on my side of the bed, kissing me often. He never kisses, seriously once I "put out" all kissing stopped. All of a sudden he is all about sticking his tongue down my throat at every opportunity. Is this a renewed sense of passion in him? A conscious effort to remind me he likes me? Or is it a way to claim me as his own personal chew toy?
Our desks are now in the same room. The same room and with the feeling of a cubicle "pit". I can turn around and see his screen, he can turn and see mine. He can also hear everything. Again the music comes into play, his stereo set usually wins. Also, there is an unwritten rule that if I am on the computer, he has to be too, and vice versa. He won't come out and say he doesn't want me on the computer, but he will but he will sigh, huff and puff, then get annoyed and upset if I don't make a move to go spend time with him.
Recently I realized how passive aggressive all these developments came about when I walked away from Hannity and Colmes (hate them) and went upstairs to read my email. I spent maybe five minutes fooling around in World of Warcraft making a new character when I went back downstairs to get a drink.
"I thought you were coming back." He said.
"I was, but I made a mage." I said.
"Oh." And then he stood up and went to the office where he turned on WoW and his warrior followed my mage around the entire time I tried to level her. His computer finally punked out, leaving me to myself, when he decided it was time for bed and continued to yell "Katy, bedtime" over and over until I relented and went to bed.
My mage is only level 3 still.
Is this a desire to play World of Warcraft with me? Spend time in presence? Or does he want to be big brother and make sure I don't role-play my mage with anyone else or level higher than he does?
I decided to declare a "police action". I'm taking drastic action towards this alarming loss of self. I could easily slip into the Katy-that-isn't girl I played so well through high school. Do nothing but find a corner in the room I'm suppose to be in just read quietly - invisibly. Or I can not go softly into whatever stereotype of domestic bliss is in these days and do something for myself. I can be active, productive and happy. If I'm going to be a good wife I need to be a good Katy - and that means doing things I love.
There are four things I really want to do. Learn to play the guitar, learn to speak French, take up yoga and dance again, and learn to draw human figures.
I started looking for some good yoga classes. Wanting to do this right I asked C. to ask his acupuncturist for some recommendations. I figured this would be a way to involve him and get something for me all at the same time. I stipulated that I wanted a nice environment that was free of competition. Somewhere I could just go and "be" while doing something fun. He found a few places and I started to look for some classes that I could take.
That's when he announced he wanted to take yoga too. In fact he wanted to take the same class that I did and that we could meet up after my work and spend time before the class too. I was wary, he always makes physical things a competition. However, it could be a coincidence or peer pressure. Yoga would be good for him, healthy, and taking a class together makes sense. Still, it felt a little like he is trying to make sure I don't stray too far from the leash.
Then I told him about the French class I found. It starts in October and is once a week in the evenings. It's at a local college, but as a non-credit course it's actually really cheap (less than yoga). I was psyched.
"What do you think?"
"When is it again?"
"Starts in October."
"I'm going to be gone for three weeks in October. We can't do it."
Wait! What? I didn't even think he wanted to learn French...and I didn't invite him to take the class with me. In fact I wanted the class for myself...just myself. I want to meet new people and socialize with them...not him. I socialize with him everyday. Once again, C. was trying to take my hill. I rallied the troupes:
"Tuesday is the day you have acupuncture and I'm home alone...I could take a class and we'd get home at the same time and I won't be lonely in the house all night.
"That's true..."
HA!
Unfortunately, this coup feels like I've somehow talked my way into getting a day pass out of jail. The more I think about how I allowed myself to lose my identity to him the more angry and hurt I feel. I'm angry at myself for being such a pushover, and I'm angry at C. for taking advantage of it. Especially since he is the one who spends so much of his time reminding me to stand up for myself - towards everyone else.
Thinking about this stuff makes me feel bad. He could be trying to just be a sweeter, more attentive husband, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm being watched. It feel like the beginning of a Stepford Wives movie. Marriages shouldn't feel like police actions. They shouldn't contain martial law. Maybe my husband is trying to be more dominant, more commanding. But I'm chaffing at the bit - and that means it's being pulled too tight.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Things Could Be Worse
I'm about to post some more highly opinionated not-so-fun stuff again. Bare with me here - I just want to get this off my chest - I promise I'll get drunk tomorrow and write about the alien tapped groundhog that is attempting to take over the world from my backyard hose faucet.
Opinionistas wrote another provocative post today about the brevity of life, especially for those in high stress jobs, and the way in which her work world deals with it.
Now to just get this out of the way - I work for an amazing company that offers emotional, financial and physical support in a million ways to a million employees around the world. More. And I also work in a big division who have made it a point to hire people based on heart as well as skill and experience. The company and the people are all supportive of everyone they work with and for. It's like being in a family - with a dress code.
However, that is only part of my life. Every morning I wake up knowing full well how lucky I am to have one more day with my husband home. I drive by a gate guarded by 18 year olds holding M-16's twice daily - I know how tenuous my homelife is.
It was brought home with a vengeance last week, which makes the post by Opinionista so much more timely.
A few years ago my husband was serving on a Carrier that was part of the Pacific fleet. He went on two deployments (one that lasted extra long because of OIF). Between deployments he did almost a year worth of work-ups (training deployments) in less than 14 months. While he was gone I was part of the wives club...which held meetings and tried to support one another as we all tried to cope with a family life missing 50% of the family.
People may not know this, or choose not to acknowledge this, but before the "War in Iraq", Iraq was at war with us. They shot at us every single day. My husband spent most of his first deployment writing to me about the shock of walking past body bags on his way to eat. Not only did people get hurt and killed from wayward bullets and anti-aircraft fire, but from work related incidents. People falling off the side of the boat and never being found, aircraft crashes, machinery faults, all sorts of things. And of course stress - being in the military is the highest stress job you will ever find, and they work in the most dangerous areas too - even in peacetime.
When my husband was on the ship it was commonplace for me to show up to a meeting and realize that people I knew were missing because they were no longer wives but widows. It was also not uncommon to find myself baby-sitting kids who were left unattended in our all-military apartment because their mothers just had to get away. That was the worst - you start wondering if she'll come back, if she'll be able to face all the pain and the work that she has ahead of her now, or if these children would lose more than just their fathers. Sometimes they did, sometimes it was just too much.
Now that we have shore duty, I haven't been in that environment. Most of the other spouses I know haven't even gone through a ship duty with their spouse. Life feels okay, sometimes you can even forget that threat looming out in the void called "combat".
Last week though a very close friend who I had not talked to since living in California emailed. Her boyfriend, another friend of mine, is dead and she's just got out of the hospital after a bad breakdown. She is 21 and has two kids, both his. Her rent is too high now and she doesn't have a place to live, she doesn't have a job and she's staring down the beginning of a completely frightening existence. And she's not going to get a lot of help - she's not military anymore - not really, she wasn't to begin with since they were waiting to get married -after- he came home. She said she already feels like a third rate citizen, as opposed to the second rate status spouses get, even worse if you're just a "girlfriend" (a status I know all too well myself). No church, no family, no military, heck, no 800 number to call. Boy did that hit me like a ton of bricks - there are just far too many people dealing with tragedy.
But...she'll be okay...because she has too. His buddies who had to watch him die will be alright because they have too. The people who knew him and her and loved them both will be alright because we have too. If anything the one thing we'll learn from this is that life is very short and very hard and there will be no support from the people we work for. All we have is our own strength and hopefully the extra others can spare.
My boss, an executive and an Army veteran, told me something that ran through my head, in addition to all my other thought, as I read about the horrors of a dead colleague in a law firm. It must be horrible to deal with that loss and still go to work everyday and take on all that stress - but as he put it "There is a roof over my head and no one is shooting at me - this is a pretty damn good life."
Opinionistas wrote another provocative post today about the brevity of life, especially for those in high stress jobs, and the way in which her work world deals with it.
Now to just get this out of the way - I work for an amazing company that offers emotional, financial and physical support in a million ways to a million employees around the world. More. And I also work in a big division who have made it a point to hire people based on heart as well as skill and experience. The company and the people are all supportive of everyone they work with and for. It's like being in a family - with a dress code.
However, that is only part of my life. Every morning I wake up knowing full well how lucky I am to have one more day with my husband home. I drive by a gate guarded by 18 year olds holding M-16's twice daily - I know how tenuous my homelife is.
It was brought home with a vengeance last week, which makes the post by Opinionista so much more timely.
A few years ago my husband was serving on a Carrier that was part of the Pacific fleet. He went on two deployments (one that lasted extra long because of OIF). Between deployments he did almost a year worth of work-ups (training deployments) in less than 14 months. While he was gone I was part of the wives club...which held meetings and tried to support one another as we all tried to cope with a family life missing 50% of the family.
People may not know this, or choose not to acknowledge this, but before the "War in Iraq", Iraq was at war with us. They shot at us every single day. My husband spent most of his first deployment writing to me about the shock of walking past body bags on his way to eat. Not only did people get hurt and killed from wayward bullets and anti-aircraft fire, but from work related incidents. People falling off the side of the boat and never being found, aircraft crashes, machinery faults, all sorts of things. And of course stress - being in the military is the highest stress job you will ever find, and they work in the most dangerous areas too - even in peacetime.
When my husband was on the ship it was commonplace for me to show up to a meeting and realize that people I knew were missing because they were no longer wives but widows. It was also not uncommon to find myself baby-sitting kids who were left unattended in our all-military apartment because their mothers just had to get away. That was the worst - you start wondering if she'll come back, if she'll be able to face all the pain and the work that she has ahead of her now, or if these children would lose more than just their fathers. Sometimes they did, sometimes it was just too much.
Now that we have shore duty, I haven't been in that environment. Most of the other spouses I know haven't even gone through a ship duty with their spouse. Life feels okay, sometimes you can even forget that threat looming out in the void called "combat".
Last week though a very close friend who I had not talked to since living in California emailed. Her boyfriend, another friend of mine, is dead and she's just got out of the hospital after a bad breakdown. She is 21 and has two kids, both his. Her rent is too high now and she doesn't have a place to live, she doesn't have a job and she's staring down the beginning of a completely frightening existence. And she's not going to get a lot of help - she's not military anymore - not really, she wasn't to begin with since they were waiting to get married -after- he came home. She said she already feels like a third rate citizen, as opposed to the second rate status spouses get, even worse if you're just a "girlfriend" (a status I know all too well myself). No church, no family, no military, heck, no 800 number to call. Boy did that hit me like a ton of bricks - there are just far too many people dealing with tragedy.
But...she'll be okay...because she has too. His buddies who had to watch him die will be alright because they have too. The people who knew him and her and loved them both will be alright because we have too. If anything the one thing we'll learn from this is that life is very short and very hard and there will be no support from the people we work for. All we have is our own strength and hopefully the extra others can spare.
My boss, an executive and an Army veteran, told me something that ran through my head, in addition to all my other thought, as I read about the horrors of a dead colleague in a law firm. It must be horrible to deal with that loss and still go to work everyday and take on all that stress - but as he put it "There is a roof over my head and no one is shooting at me - this is a pretty damn good life."
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Purging Wickedness
I don't know how it happened, but today someone felt the need to tell me that Hurricane Katrina was God's hand purging sin and wickedness.
I remember hearing things like this during the Tsunami, the Hurricanes last year, the attacks on the World Trade Center, the attack on the USS Cole, the bombing in Chicago. I've heard it a lot.
So for years and years God has been striking down purging sin all over the world. Yet, the people who can look at a small child who is starving, hurt and alone and call them sin incarnate for being born out of wedlock - still walk around healthy, happy, and with wagging tongues?
God has very bad aim.
I remember hearing things like this during the Tsunami, the Hurricanes last year, the attacks on the World Trade Center, the attack on the USS Cole, the bombing in Chicago. I've heard it a lot.
So for years and years God has been striking down purging sin all over the world. Yet, the people who can look at a small child who is starving, hurt and alone and call them sin incarnate for being born out of wedlock - still walk around healthy, happy, and with wagging tongues?
God has very bad aim.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Drunk off a Kiss
A daydream has been swimming through my head.
I was putting down a bottle of cheap wine in a pretty blue bottle. The glass bottom slid and scrapped against the smooth counter top and my mind wrapped itself around this idea. A flash of a memory that never happened, first quick, like a blip on a film strip, now more defined, darker, pervasive.
Still in the kitchen, bare feet soaking up the coolness from the pink stone floor. The windows are black as pitch, letting me see a reflection of myself standing in an empty, dark, cold room. I think I feel you more than see you walk down the long dark hallway behind me. There's a shadow in the glass, but the shadow looks like me, small-dwarfed by an empty, dark expanse that lacks any part of home. There is no light, I'm not casting a shadow. I can't turn around to see who's behind me, but I know you're there. I hear your footsteps, heavy, hard-wood heels clicking on hard stone floor. I know you're breathing, the whistle of air rushing from your mouth to my neck is thundering in my ears. I squint into the window to see you, see me, see past us towards the tall trees scrapping against one another. The roar of the cicadas ebbing and flowing, up - down - loud - soft - many - one...threatening to drown out the sound of your skin.
I don't hear your arm move against fabric, but I feel it lift and brush my side, fingers trailing prickling my flesh. Am I dressed? Are you? I can't tell. I feel comfortable, cool, not shy or vulnerable. You must have clothes, the fabric scratches across my shoulder blades as I'm turned around roughly. You're tall, so I know I don't know you, my eyes don't move but stay staring at your chest. It's as black as the window, no it's your shirt that's black. The small buttons are just as shiny as the glass, dutifully holding the fabric in check, lining up the seams.
Your fingers dig into my arms, I can feel soft tips and sharp nails, squeezing hard, holding me in place even though I don't want to move. Your nails drag up my arm, I don't flinch. Your thumb feels thick and insistent when it presses into my chin, fingers guiding my head up. Your eyes look like the buttons, dark discs that don't reflect anything just spark. I know I'm mirrored in them. I must look so small from that height, so needy, so wanton. I know you now, I used to, I will.
Our lips meet, it takes forever, it's a surprise. Your lips part, I can see your teeth, they could tear my skin, rip me open, you're so gentle. Your breath slams into me, your lips barely brush against me.
And I taste it, sweet wine. Smooth, cool liquid at first slipping over my own lips, sliding down my tongue. Overwhelming me, it bites into my lips, it burns my mouth, tingling and painful, a rush of fire, rolling hot lava, straight down my throat, searing my insides. I'm speared, torn open, torn apart, hot, burning, pain. Your buttons are red, your eyes are black. Then fruit, apple, pear, peach...soft warm summer fruit, the smell of grass and flowers that grow back home.
And your lips brush past mine. No hard kisses, no panicked invasion, no need for anything more, no promise of anything more. I'm not disappointed, you smell like wine and curry, you taste like fire and wood. I'm hungry for a real meal - this was enough to fill me.
You hardly touched me...our mouths are still closed.
And I look into the window and only see the trees and I'm cold and lonely and the stone floor is hard against my knees, but I'm going to stay here and wait.
I fully intend to get another bottle of that cheap wine in the pretty blue bottle.
I was putting down a bottle of cheap wine in a pretty blue bottle. The glass bottom slid and scrapped against the smooth counter top and my mind wrapped itself around this idea. A flash of a memory that never happened, first quick, like a blip on a film strip, now more defined, darker, pervasive.
Still in the kitchen, bare feet soaking up the coolness from the pink stone floor. The windows are black as pitch, letting me see a reflection of myself standing in an empty, dark, cold room. I think I feel you more than see you walk down the long dark hallway behind me. There's a shadow in the glass, but the shadow looks like me, small-dwarfed by an empty, dark expanse that lacks any part of home. There is no light, I'm not casting a shadow. I can't turn around to see who's behind me, but I know you're there. I hear your footsteps, heavy, hard-wood heels clicking on hard stone floor. I know you're breathing, the whistle of air rushing from your mouth to my neck is thundering in my ears. I squint into the window to see you, see me, see past us towards the tall trees scrapping against one another. The roar of the cicadas ebbing and flowing, up - down - loud - soft - many - one...threatening to drown out the sound of your skin.
I don't hear your arm move against fabric, but I feel it lift and brush my side, fingers trailing prickling my flesh. Am I dressed? Are you? I can't tell. I feel comfortable, cool, not shy or vulnerable. You must have clothes, the fabric scratches across my shoulder blades as I'm turned around roughly. You're tall, so I know I don't know you, my eyes don't move but stay staring at your chest. It's as black as the window, no it's your shirt that's black. The small buttons are just as shiny as the glass, dutifully holding the fabric in check, lining up the seams.
Your fingers dig into my arms, I can feel soft tips and sharp nails, squeezing hard, holding me in place even though I don't want to move. Your nails drag up my arm, I don't flinch. Your thumb feels thick and insistent when it presses into my chin, fingers guiding my head up. Your eyes look like the buttons, dark discs that don't reflect anything just spark. I know I'm mirrored in them. I must look so small from that height, so needy, so wanton. I know you now, I used to, I will.
Our lips meet, it takes forever, it's a surprise. Your lips part, I can see your teeth, they could tear my skin, rip me open, you're so gentle. Your breath slams into me, your lips barely brush against me.
And I taste it, sweet wine. Smooth, cool liquid at first slipping over my own lips, sliding down my tongue. Overwhelming me, it bites into my lips, it burns my mouth, tingling and painful, a rush of fire, rolling hot lava, straight down my throat, searing my insides. I'm speared, torn open, torn apart, hot, burning, pain. Your buttons are red, your eyes are black. Then fruit, apple, pear, peach...soft warm summer fruit, the smell of grass and flowers that grow back home.
And your lips brush past mine. No hard kisses, no panicked invasion, no need for anything more, no promise of anything more. I'm not disappointed, you smell like wine and curry, you taste like fire and wood. I'm hungry for a real meal - this was enough to fill me.
You hardly touched me...our mouths are still closed.
And I look into the window and only see the trees and I'm cold and lonely and the stone floor is hard against my knees, but I'm going to stay here and wait.
I fully intend to get another bottle of that cheap wine in the pretty blue bottle.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
When the cat's away...
...the mice get stuck chasing themselves.
Both the "main" bosses are out of the office and will continue to be off and on.
It might be fair to assume that having them both gone would mean I'd have it pretty easy. No such luck, things are even crazier than before, so crazy in fact that although I have a hundred different things I want to blog about, I have no time for any of them.
Instead I'm writing reports about the slaughter of bovine and the hook torture of fish.
Working at a food distributor will make anyone a vegetarian. I eat considerably less meat, in fact less food, than I did before I started working here 50 hours a week.
And I didn't realize this until I posted the exact same comment on someone else's blog.
*sigh*
Both the "main" bosses are out of the office and will continue to be off and on.
It might be fair to assume that having them both gone would mean I'd have it pretty easy. No such luck, things are even crazier than before, so crazy in fact that although I have a hundred different things I want to blog about, I have no time for any of them.
Instead I'm writing reports about the slaughter of bovine and the hook torture of fish.
Working at a food distributor will make anyone a vegetarian. I eat considerably less meat, in fact less food, than I did before I started working here 50 hours a week.
And I didn't realize this until I posted the exact same comment on someone else's blog.
*sigh*
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
A wife's laundry list of complaints
(ALERT: Uninteresting whining to follow)
MEMO
TO: Earth's inhabitants
The earth's axis has moved. It now resides straight down the center of my living room...very near the area where my husband is.
Please be advised that the earth now revolves around him. All plans involving gravity, the seasons, weather, tides or what you're going to have for breakfast will need to be revised in order to fit with this new phenomena.
Thank you.
My husband hurt his legs. He actually hurt them a few years ago and just recently went to see a doctor for them. I'd just like to point out that I told him to see a doctor a few years ago when the pain first started, told him often, even used my nag voice, but he refused until just a few months ago.
Unfortunately they can't do anything for him anymore. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not physical therapy (not that he goes mind you), not surgery, no medications. All we can do is take it easy and pray. My husband is doing the first part. I'm doing the second.
I'm praying he gets better soon because he's driving me insane! According to the doctors "taking it easy" means he needs to do his leg exercises (with this freaky looking green rubber thing) everyday, go to physical therapy at least once a week and make sure he walks a lot to keep up his strength. No running, just easy walking.
According to my husband "taking it easy" means not raking the lawn, not performing any of his designated chores, not performing any of my designated chores instead, yelling obnoxiously for me to fetch him things either upstairs or downstairs (where ever he may be), attending autocrosses where he spends hours running ON CEMENT, and in general being a big baby.
And he is a mean big baby too. I can't win. He's either lecturing me or yelling at me. And when I bellow back...I'm suddenly the selfish insensitive wife.
Things came to a head this morning when I found myself stuck with exactly nine minutes to shower, change, iron the clothes, and do my hair and makeup. I found myself with this time limit because my husband, who was supposed to dutifully get up at 5am to do his exercises (which he didn't) and then take a shower and go to work, decided to spend an hour puttering on the computer. Thus, after I finally threw his butt in the shower and got him dressed I had nine minutes...exactly...to get myself ready. I wasted 30 seconds of my nine minutes to let my husband know he was a "selfish, lazy, oaf"
Then he wasted 120 more seconds of my nine minutes letting me know what a wench I was.
It was a bad way to start the day. It came at the end of a bad weekend. In general, I am disenchanted with the married life.
It's not so much that he's hurt and needs more help. I'm happy to do for him whatever needs done. What bothers me is the way he is milking it to get out of doing things that need to be done, and therefore having more time to do the extraneous things.
I know I'm not making much sense, this is pretty much just a laundry list of complaints...but I can't help it. I'm angry, I'm angry at him and I'm angry that I'm angry. I'm annoyed at him, I'm annoyed at myself. I'm even angry at things that happen YEARS ago.
I'm also upset that after a weeks worth of belly aching over how he can't put together furniture or help me clean up the lawn and the house, he invited a bunch of people over for a party Saturday.
Party Saturday, my parents come to visit the Saturday after that, then we all go to a family thing the Saturday after that, followed closely by the end of the month - D-Day in terms of my husbands employment, and the last weekend to pack for his big three week trip away from home.
It would be overwhelming doing all this with him at 100%...it's just plain stressful now that I'm the only one doing anything at all.
My husband gets the axis, but the I have the whole world on top of me.
MEMO
TO: Earth's inhabitants
The earth's axis has moved. It now resides straight down the center of my living room...very near the area where my husband is.
Please be advised that the earth now revolves around him. All plans involving gravity, the seasons, weather, tides or what you're going to have for breakfast will need to be revised in order to fit with this new phenomena.
Thank you.
My husband hurt his legs. He actually hurt them a few years ago and just recently went to see a doctor for them. I'd just like to point out that I told him to see a doctor a few years ago when the pain first started, told him often, even used my nag voice, but he refused until just a few months ago.
Unfortunately they can't do anything for him anymore. Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not physical therapy (not that he goes mind you), not surgery, no medications. All we can do is take it easy and pray. My husband is doing the first part. I'm doing the second.
I'm praying he gets better soon because he's driving me insane! According to the doctors "taking it easy" means he needs to do his leg exercises (with this freaky looking green rubber thing) everyday, go to physical therapy at least once a week and make sure he walks a lot to keep up his strength. No running, just easy walking.
According to my husband "taking it easy" means not raking the lawn, not performing any of his designated chores, not performing any of my designated chores instead, yelling obnoxiously for me to fetch him things either upstairs or downstairs (where ever he may be), attending autocrosses where he spends hours running ON CEMENT, and in general being a big baby.
And he is a mean big baby too. I can't win. He's either lecturing me or yelling at me. And when I bellow back...I'm suddenly the selfish insensitive wife.
Things came to a head this morning when I found myself stuck with exactly nine minutes to shower, change, iron the clothes, and do my hair and makeup. I found myself with this time limit because my husband, who was supposed to dutifully get up at 5am to do his exercises (which he didn't) and then take a shower and go to work, decided to spend an hour puttering on the computer. Thus, after I finally threw his butt in the shower and got him dressed I had nine minutes...exactly...to get myself ready. I wasted 30 seconds of my nine minutes to let my husband know he was a "selfish, lazy, oaf"
Then he wasted 120 more seconds of my nine minutes letting me know what a wench I was.
It was a bad way to start the day. It came at the end of a bad weekend. In general, I am disenchanted with the married life.
It's not so much that he's hurt and needs more help. I'm happy to do for him whatever needs done. What bothers me is the way he is milking it to get out of doing things that need to be done, and therefore having more time to do the extraneous things.
I know I'm not making much sense, this is pretty much just a laundry list of complaints...but I can't help it. I'm angry, I'm angry at him and I'm angry that I'm angry. I'm annoyed at him, I'm annoyed at myself. I'm even angry at things that happen YEARS ago.
I'm also upset that after a weeks worth of belly aching over how he can't put together furniture or help me clean up the lawn and the house, he invited a bunch of people over for a party Saturday.
Party Saturday, my parents come to visit the Saturday after that, then we all go to a family thing the Saturday after that, followed closely by the end of the month - D-Day in terms of my husbands employment, and the last weekend to pack for his big three week trip away from home.
It would be overwhelming doing all this with him at 100%...it's just plain stressful now that I'm the only one doing anything at all.
My husband gets the axis, but the I have the whole world on top of me.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Watch out for that tree!
Yesterday, in an attempt to get away from all the troubles of my household, and the men who are creating all the troubles, I took a nice long walk around my neighborhood.
Armed with my ZEN player, a handful of very angry rock & roll and some good old fashioned "I hate men" songs I headed out towards our local soccer park growling at the world.
Who needs 'em! I thought to myself, Men are nothing but trouble. A bunch of overgrown boys who can't do anything for themselves. I don't even know why I bother. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them! I was really hitting my stride.
Then my stride was cut off. As I rounded the corner and was about to turn right I was nearly run over by Lance-freaking-Armstrong on some dinky lowriding mountain bike. I brush the dust out of my eyes and recover all the life memories that went flying past me (first day of school, first time I realized Ballerina Barbie could kiss Doctor Barbie instead of Dead-beat Ken, first-time I read the Babysitters Club, first-time I ate Dippin-dots - you know...the important stuff) just as a second bike comes rolling by - but much slower this time. He turns to look at me standing on the corner: hips hung to one side, toe-tapping, skirt blowing in the wind from his stupid friend, then he turns to look some more, and some more. He finally blows past and I look the other way checking for anymore bikers coming to get me when I hear
SCCCRRREEEEECCCHHH! THUNK! AHHHHHHHH
I turn to see Biker #2 crash headlong into a tree - head turned almost all the way around his neck Exorcist style.
His buddy rides back to him and laughs (gotta loves friends) saying loud enough that I can hear it over my angry rock "Shit dude, I got whiplash but at least I didn't crash into a tree."
Oh, I think THAT'S why I bother with men.
Armed with my ZEN player, a handful of very angry rock & roll and some good old fashioned "I hate men" songs I headed out towards our local soccer park growling at the world.
Who needs 'em! I thought to myself, Men are nothing but trouble. A bunch of overgrown boys who can't do anything for themselves. I don't even know why I bother. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them! I was really hitting my stride.
Then my stride was cut off. As I rounded the corner and was about to turn right I was nearly run over by Lance-freaking-Armstrong on some dinky lowriding mountain bike. I brush the dust out of my eyes and recover all the life memories that went flying past me (first day of school, first time I realized Ballerina Barbie could kiss Doctor Barbie instead of Dead-beat Ken, first-time I read the Babysitters Club, first-time I ate Dippin-dots - you know...the important stuff) just as a second bike comes rolling by - but much slower this time. He turns to look at me standing on the corner: hips hung to one side, toe-tapping, skirt blowing in the wind from his stupid friend, then he turns to look some more, and some more. He finally blows past and I look the other way checking for anymore bikers coming to get me when I hear
SCCCRRREEEEECCCHHH! THUNK! AHHHHHHHH
I turn to see Biker #2 crash headlong into a tree - head turned almost all the way around his neck Exorcist style.
His buddy rides back to him and laughs (gotta loves friends) saying loud enough that I can hear it over my angry rock "Shit dude, I got whiplash but at least I didn't crash into a tree."
Oh, I think THAT'S why I bother with men.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Spam Burger
So, I have, like all the rest of the Blogger faithful, received a few spam comments. No biggie, they aren't that numerous and I think the few people who may happen upon them are bright enough to know not to click on their links.
However, today I received one calling me fat.
This is simply unacceptable.
I can deal with the ads offering to enlarge my penis (which if they could enlarge mine they are worth every damn penny). I can deal with the offers to refinance my house and cut down on my debt. I don't mind the Nigerian trust lawyers stopping by, they are always very respectful (they are, you can tell by the way they type "Respectfully yours"). I can handle spam telling me that my boobs are a little too small, I don't like it, but then again I'm not Pamela Anderson either. I certainly don't mind being sent porn (we already knew I'm sorta a slut).
However, when something named after a fake meat product calls me fat...there is something seriously wrong. I'm overweight? What about your 200+ caloried ass? At least I don't have yellow gel hanging off my gut like you do.
Punk.
He thinks I'm thorough now...wait till I find his big Treet ass and thoroughly grind it into spam musubi!
Of course, he's Spam so I can't do much about the fact he showed up on my blog (other than delete it and thus make this whole post useless). What will I do instead of throwing the white glove at the Hormel miscreants feet?
Ask my husband if I really do look fat over and over again till he responds:
"My darling Katy, you are the most beautiful thing to have ever crossed my humble path. Now shut up so I can go to sleep."
Ah offending spam...I feel a war coming your way...a war lead by a thousand under-rested husbands. Bet you wish you hadn't called me fat now huh?
However, today I received one calling me fat.
This is simply unacceptable.
I can deal with the ads offering to enlarge my penis (which if they could enlarge mine they are worth every damn penny). I can deal with the offers to refinance my house and cut down on my debt. I don't mind the Nigerian trust lawyers stopping by, they are always very respectful (they are, you can tell by the way they type "Respectfully yours"). I can handle spam telling me that my boobs are a little too small, I don't like it, but then again I'm not Pamela Anderson either. I certainly don't mind being sent porn (we already knew I'm sorta a slut).
However, when something named after a fake meat product calls me fat...there is something seriously wrong. I'm overweight? What about your 200+ caloried ass? At least I don't have yellow gel hanging off my gut like you do.
Punk.
He thinks I'm thorough now...wait till I find his big Treet ass and thoroughly grind it into spam musubi!
Of course, he's Spam so I can't do much about the fact he showed up on my blog (other than delete it and thus make this whole post useless). What will I do instead of throwing the white glove at the Hormel miscreants feet?
Ask my husband if I really do look fat over and over again till he responds:
"My darling Katy, you are the most beautiful thing to have ever crossed my humble path. Now shut up so I can go to sleep."
Ah offending spam...I feel a war coming your way...a war lead by a thousand under-rested husbands. Bet you wish you hadn't called me fat now huh?
Those crazy, hazy, lazy days of College...
I have a friend who goes to George Washington University. He's very fond of telling everyone that he goes to George Washington University.
I go to (County here) Community College. My friend who goes to George Washington University like to remind me that I only go to (County here) Community College and because of that he is in fact smarter.
That's a debatable point. However, I can't debate with him because he doesn't know what the word "debate" means.
I've received some bad news from my bank account statement recently. Funds are actually quite flush right now, but not flush enough to deal with the uncertainty of my roommates new unemployment and my husbands potential unemployment (and the medical bills that come with the reason he may be unemployed).
Oh we'll be alright, things might just be tight depending on how the Navy times things and how soon the boys can get rehired. It's not dire, but we need to do some preventative planning.
That means that I won't be going to college this semester. Things should be fine by next semester. I'll have been at my company long enough to get reimbursed for education expenses, I won't need to work so much overtime, and the boys should have found new jobs by then. If I were a weather caster the outlook would be slight showers with beautiful sunshine in the afternoon. Honestly, we're lucky.
Which is why I felt guilty for being disappointed. I was looking forward to getting back to school and even more excited about the prospect of finishing more classes and getting that much closer to a degree. It's horrid of me to feel this way. I know I'm blessed that we can weather problems like this so easily. A lot of people are much worse off than I am. I should be joyful.
And I did a good job of it for awhile too. I was able to put away the selfish feelings and remind myself how lucky I am until my friend who goes to George Washington University called me to whine about having to pick new fancy classes and buy brand new things for his new dorm. I couldn't help it, in the face of the excitement from a real college student, my woes came tumbling out in a very un-grown-up like whine.
His response? "Why don't you just charge the tuition to your credit card if the money isn't in the bank?"
My credit card? Blink blink blink? Besides the fact that we used our two small credit cards for moving expenses last month, I have almost never used credit money in an amount greater than my bank account.. Sure, I've had a few emergencies like high hospital bills and such, but beyond that I simply used the card for things that I could pay for with cash, but would be easier to pay for in installments. The idea of charging my tuition to the card and not knowing if I'll be able to pay it off in a month or two is frightening. I'm listening to my friend ramble on the phone while I picture huge chunks of my pay check being torn out and given to someone in a three piece suit while I scramble to find the pennies to feed three people and a cat for a month. Maybe I have an overactive imagination. I tell him about how I'd rather save the money for a rainy day and he responds:
"You'll still have the money, it's just your credit card."
Again I'm left blinking and confused till a thought crosses my brain.
"Who pays your bills?" I ask cautiously.
"What bills?"
"You're credit card bills. Your car insurance? Who pays for your books? Who pays for your gas."
"My parents set up an account. It's all deducted from there automatically."
"An account of your money, or theirs?"
"It's my allowance."
"Oh." I say. I stop talking for the rest of the conversation. He rattles on about the hot chicks who are near his dorm room and how he's has a Starbucks right across the street which he visits three times a day. I go "uh-huh" "yeah" "okay" every 2 minutes or so until he hangs up.
I'm still thinking about the allowance. I never had an allowance. My Dad did give me lunch money, I suppose that's an allowance. 75 cents a day for lunch.
Mostly though I had odd jobs. Doing the menial work at theatres and offices. Answering phones, taking out the trash, cleaning. They throw me a few bucks and I got to work in a place I liked. And then I did work-study at school, basically being the modern version of the AV kid. It was enough to go out to a movie every once in awhile.
When I moved out of my house my parents helped me with the travel and I was on my own for the rest. My Father would occasionally send me $50 with a letter..."just cause". He still does that...but randomly and usually he'll just send a book or something instead.
But boy, wouldn't life be nice with an allowance? Wouldn't it be nice to be so unburdened with paychecks and bank statements? I could quit my job, go to school exclusively. No more bargaining with the Professors to let me come in to class late on Thursdays because I have a market report to finish. No staying up till 4am so I can finish my essay, I could do it during the day, because I wouldn't be at work.
I could actually research my research papers rather than pasting together a bibliography of a text book and four websites.
I want an allowance! I want to be able to use my credit card without fear the bills will be too much. I want to stay in a cozy dorm room and live with my parents in the summer - where they will pay my food bill for three whole months, and probably 12 months when I leave.
I can pretend to be independent and free and not have to really worry if I fail.
Instead of substituting my classes this semester with trips to the physical therapist I want to indulge in study groups at Starbucks where I won't feel the least bit guilty about spending $5 on a small cup of coffee and warm milk.
Most of all I want to spend my life living only on a campus and not socializing with the "townies" and feel superior because I go to a good school whose name makes people nod solemnly.
But instead of all that, I should probably just stop talking to my friend who goes to George Washington University for awhile.
I go to (County here) Community College. My friend who goes to George Washington University like to remind me that I only go to (County here) Community College and because of that he is in fact smarter.
That's a debatable point. However, I can't debate with him because he doesn't know what the word "debate" means.
I've received some bad news from my bank account statement recently. Funds are actually quite flush right now, but not flush enough to deal with the uncertainty of my roommates new unemployment and my husbands potential unemployment (and the medical bills that come with the reason he may be unemployed).
Oh we'll be alright, things might just be tight depending on how the Navy times things and how soon the boys can get rehired. It's not dire, but we need to do some preventative planning.
That means that I won't be going to college this semester. Things should be fine by next semester. I'll have been at my company long enough to get reimbursed for education expenses, I won't need to work so much overtime, and the boys should have found new jobs by then. If I were a weather caster the outlook would be slight showers with beautiful sunshine in the afternoon. Honestly, we're lucky.
Which is why I felt guilty for being disappointed. I was looking forward to getting back to school and even more excited about the prospect of finishing more classes and getting that much closer to a degree. It's horrid of me to feel this way. I know I'm blessed that we can weather problems like this so easily. A lot of people are much worse off than I am. I should be joyful.
And I did a good job of it for awhile too. I was able to put away the selfish feelings and remind myself how lucky I am until my friend who goes to George Washington University called me to whine about having to pick new fancy classes and buy brand new things for his new dorm. I couldn't help it, in the face of the excitement from a real college student, my woes came tumbling out in a very un-grown-up like whine.
His response? "Why don't you just charge the tuition to your credit card if the money isn't in the bank?"
My credit card? Blink blink blink? Besides the fact that we used our two small credit cards for moving expenses last month, I have almost never used credit money in an amount greater than my bank account.. Sure, I've had a few emergencies like high hospital bills and such, but beyond that I simply used the card for things that I could pay for with cash, but would be easier to pay for in installments. The idea of charging my tuition to the card and not knowing if I'll be able to pay it off in a month or two is frightening. I'm listening to my friend ramble on the phone while I picture huge chunks of my pay check being torn out and given to someone in a three piece suit while I scramble to find the pennies to feed three people and a cat for a month. Maybe I have an overactive imagination. I tell him about how I'd rather save the money for a rainy day and he responds:
"You'll still have the money, it's just your credit card."
Again I'm left blinking and confused till a thought crosses my brain.
"Who pays your bills?" I ask cautiously.
"What bills?"
"You're credit card bills. Your car insurance? Who pays for your books? Who pays for your gas."
"My parents set up an account. It's all deducted from there automatically."
"An account of your money, or theirs?"
"It's my allowance."
"Oh." I say. I stop talking for the rest of the conversation. He rattles on about the hot chicks who are near his dorm room and how he's has a Starbucks right across the street which he visits three times a day. I go "uh-huh" "yeah" "okay" every 2 minutes or so until he hangs up.
I'm still thinking about the allowance. I never had an allowance. My Dad did give me lunch money, I suppose that's an allowance. 75 cents a day for lunch.
Mostly though I had odd jobs. Doing the menial work at theatres and offices. Answering phones, taking out the trash, cleaning. They throw me a few bucks and I got to work in a place I liked. And then I did work-study at school, basically being the modern version of the AV kid. It was enough to go out to a movie every once in awhile.
When I moved out of my house my parents helped me with the travel and I was on my own for the rest. My Father would occasionally send me $50 with a letter..."just cause". He still does that...but randomly and usually he'll just send a book or something instead.
But boy, wouldn't life be nice with an allowance? Wouldn't it be nice to be so unburdened with paychecks and bank statements? I could quit my job, go to school exclusively. No more bargaining with the Professors to let me come in to class late on Thursdays because I have a market report to finish. No staying up till 4am so I can finish my essay, I could do it during the day, because I wouldn't be at work.
I could actually research my research papers rather than pasting together a bibliography of a text book and four websites.
I want an allowance! I want to be able to use my credit card without fear the bills will be too much. I want to stay in a cozy dorm room and live with my parents in the summer - where they will pay my food bill for three whole months, and probably 12 months when I leave.
I can pretend to be independent and free and not have to really worry if I fail.
Instead of substituting my classes this semester with trips to the physical therapist I want to indulge in study groups at Starbucks where I won't feel the least bit guilty about spending $5 on a small cup of coffee and warm milk.
Most of all I want to spend my life living only on a campus and not socializing with the "townies" and feel superior because I go to a good school whose name makes people nod solemnly.
But instead of all that, I should probably just stop talking to my friend who goes to George Washington University for awhile.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
On a happier note - Blog Day!
I've added a new blog to the "Blogs I Like" list.
And I learned of a new wacky day. It's call Blog Day and it's on 31/08...or August 31st for us American types.
Mezba listed my blog on his blog for Blog Day. Because I have statcounter and can look at where people come from I saw his post.
I'm kinda surprised that someone who I don't actually know personally reads this blog. I mean, it's on the internet, it would stand to reason that someone I don't know will read it...but up to this point it's mostly been my friends who will call me and tell me I'm crazy.
In anycase, I'm glad I did get a chance to find his blog though because I'm enjoying reading it. He is a far more interesting read than my blog so everyone should head over and read it. Mezba's Blog
Reading his blog reminds me of one of the reasons I really like blogs. In the Catcher in Rye there is a part where Holden mentions that a really good book is the kind that when you finish reading it you feel like calling the author and talking about it. (I incidentally did want to call J.D. Salinger after I read the Catcher in the Rye and ask him why he would write such a horrible book then force high school students everywhere to read it. I was not a fan.)
The great thing about blogs is...you can call the authors and talk to them about it. Or at least you can post comments. Ask questions, it's like reading one chapter of a book then getting to extend the chapter over and over until the next installment. And for a girl who likened having to wait for the next chapter for the next nights bedtime to torture...this is great!
Now I just need to get the courage to post more.
In anycase. Go, read, learn, post, be merry!
And I learned of a new wacky day. It's call Blog Day and it's on 31/08...or August 31st for us American types.
Mezba listed my blog on his blog for Blog Day. Because I have statcounter and can look at where people come from I saw his post.
I'm kinda surprised that someone who I don't actually know personally reads this blog. I mean, it's on the internet, it would stand to reason that someone I don't know will read it...but up to this point it's mostly been my friends who will call me and tell me I'm crazy.
In anycase, I'm glad I did get a chance to find his blog though because I'm enjoying reading it. He is a far more interesting read than my blog so everyone should head over and read it. Mezba's Blog
Reading his blog reminds me of one of the reasons I really like blogs. In the Catcher in Rye there is a part where Holden mentions that a really good book is the kind that when you finish reading it you feel like calling the author and talking about it. (I incidentally did want to call J.D. Salinger after I read the Catcher in the Rye and ask him why he would write such a horrible book then force high school students everywhere to read it. I was not a fan.)
The great thing about blogs is...you can call the authors and talk to them about it. Or at least you can post comments. Ask questions, it's like reading one chapter of a book then getting to extend the chapter over and over until the next installment. And for a girl who likened having to wait for the next chapter for the next nights bedtime to torture...this is great!
Now I just need to get the courage to post more.
In anycase. Go, read, learn, post, be merry!
Common Violence
(Warning: Random, Confused, Disjointed Ramblings Follow)
Last night I curled up on our nice, soft, warm bed. I played with my sweet, warm, happy cat who stretched out lazily and purred as I rubbed her tummy. She closed her eyes and sent soft kitty kisses towards me. She was without a single care in the world. She was so happy, it was a serene moment. The two people I love the most (husband and kitty) were near by, I was safe, our bellies were full of food.
And in the background my husband was reading me statistics of what was happening in New Orleans.
"The south is effectively a third world country" he finally announced.
I looked at our cat. She wasn't worried.
It was another surreal moment, compounded with the same raw, distant fear and stomach clenching anxiety that I felt when London was attacked, when New York and Washington D.C. was attacked, when the Tsunami hit, when Shock and Awe started. God? I keep thinking all those people are in so much pain. Why?
I said the same thing to C. He didn't look worried either. As I sat there feeling that too-familiar wave of panic and worry build up in my body he continued to spit out statistics about the levees. About the looting and the crime, the crazy panic growing in the south with people going crazy hoarding gas and food. He read me articles about the way gas works and how the shortages only happen when we begin to horde. It was all very complicated and took a lot of concentration. I think C. needed to concentrate on the numbers, it helped us not think of our friends and neighbors who live down there. He spouted casualty numbers and prices. How many feet of water, how much damage.
When I turned on the news this morning there was a speech with our President doing the same thing. Here are some numbers. Let's concentrate on the numbers and try to forget that the bodies that are floating under the water had names like Adam and Kristy. Let's just count.
Then the news talked to reporters who said that the same hallmarks you see in a war torn country can be found in Louisiana. People are shooting one another for ice. Stealing, reports of rape, beatings, waving assault rifles and yelling expletives towards the police.
At work we talk about the devastation at office birthday parties. One man mentions a picture of a sign saying "You loot, I shoot." Everyone laughs.
My husband read about a looter shooting a police man in the head and the major prison uprising calling soldiers away from trying to protect a hospital...he thinks the National Guard should shoot to kill.
Where in our hearts does this ugliness live? And why is it coming out now? Why, in the face of random tragedy, are we trying to hurt one another? Is this our baser survival instincts finally breaking through, or is this something we have bred and fed waiting for the opportunity? Waiting for a time when we can defy convention, decency and consequences. A time when we can be the monsters we're just waiting to be.
I worry that the latter is true, that as we cater to decadence and a "me-first" mentality, we are really creating monsters. I worry it's our society that has erased the idea that our actions effect others. I worry we are slowly destroying community...the one thing that keeps us living and working together.
But it's not just the south, it's not just America. Today I read about the stampede on a Baghdad Bridge. Shiite pilgrims trampled one another to death because of a false rumor there was a suicide bomber on the bridge. 950 pilgrims died. There was no bomber on the bridge.
Again accusations are flying. Shiite leaders are blaming Shiite AND Sunni leaders that they didn't protect the roads as well as they should. Pilgrims blame Americans for fighting at the temple (where there were terrorists). Everyone wants to hurt someone else to make themselves feel better.
And the worst part is so many people died because no one bothered to help them when they fell down. No one wanted to stop and help someone else, they all wanted to save themselves...even if it meant trampling their brother - literally.
I could pull more stories out of the recent news as examples of this mentality, but why? Of course we all know evil comes from ourselves. We commit the crimes, we speak the lies. The fact that I can pull the same kind of stories from around the world - London, New Orleans, Gaza, Baghdad, Beijing - just brings it home.
The world is breeding monsters, and we always have. We are still fighting the same wars, both externally and internally, that we have for thousands of years.
How is it a that a species that can create philosophy, art, music, science, and religion can't seem to change the fundamental things that keep us from progressing? Why can we teach ourselves to solve incredibly complex mathematical problems, but we can't stop beating one another up?
People often surprise me. They can perform amazing feats of kindness and they can perform astronomical amounts of violence. You never know what conditions will bring either about.
Last night, as my husband and I walked through the mall I passed a woman who had to have been in her 40's. She was looking into the face of a small teddy bear and had the softest, sweetest Mona Lisa type smile on her face. She was sitting around dozens of people, but she stood out because she was glowing.
I wish a teddy bear could help everyone feel what she was feeling. Or a soft warm purring cat. I wish there was something that could bring us all back to that calm, happy feeling where we can accept the hardships that come our way because we know we won't have to face them alone.
I wish.
Last night I curled up on our nice, soft, warm bed. I played with my sweet, warm, happy cat who stretched out lazily and purred as I rubbed her tummy. She closed her eyes and sent soft kitty kisses towards me. She was without a single care in the world. She was so happy, it was a serene moment. The two people I love the most (husband and kitty) were near by, I was safe, our bellies were full of food.
And in the background my husband was reading me statistics of what was happening in New Orleans.
"The south is effectively a third world country" he finally announced.
I looked at our cat. She wasn't worried.
It was another surreal moment, compounded with the same raw, distant fear and stomach clenching anxiety that I felt when London was attacked, when New York and Washington D.C. was attacked, when the Tsunami hit, when Shock and Awe started. God? I keep thinking all those people are in so much pain. Why?
I said the same thing to C. He didn't look worried either. As I sat there feeling that too-familiar wave of panic and worry build up in my body he continued to spit out statistics about the levees. About the looting and the crime, the crazy panic growing in the south with people going crazy hoarding gas and food. He read me articles about the way gas works and how the shortages only happen when we begin to horde. It was all very complicated and took a lot of concentration. I think C. needed to concentrate on the numbers, it helped us not think of our friends and neighbors who live down there. He spouted casualty numbers and prices. How many feet of water, how much damage.
When I turned on the news this morning there was a speech with our President doing the same thing. Here are some numbers. Let's concentrate on the numbers and try to forget that the bodies that are floating under the water had names like Adam and Kristy. Let's just count.
Then the news talked to reporters who said that the same hallmarks you see in a war torn country can be found in Louisiana. People are shooting one another for ice. Stealing, reports of rape, beatings, waving assault rifles and yelling expletives towards the police.
At work we talk about the devastation at office birthday parties. One man mentions a picture of a sign saying "You loot, I shoot." Everyone laughs.
My husband read about a looter shooting a police man in the head and the major prison uprising calling soldiers away from trying to protect a hospital...he thinks the National Guard should shoot to kill.
Where in our hearts does this ugliness live? And why is it coming out now? Why, in the face of random tragedy, are we trying to hurt one another? Is this our baser survival instincts finally breaking through, or is this something we have bred and fed waiting for the opportunity? Waiting for a time when we can defy convention, decency and consequences. A time when we can be the monsters we're just waiting to be.
I worry that the latter is true, that as we cater to decadence and a "me-first" mentality, we are really creating monsters. I worry it's our society that has erased the idea that our actions effect others. I worry we are slowly destroying community...the one thing that keeps us living and working together.
But it's not just the south, it's not just America. Today I read about the stampede on a Baghdad Bridge. Shiite pilgrims trampled one another to death because of a false rumor there was a suicide bomber on the bridge. 950 pilgrims died. There was no bomber on the bridge.
Again accusations are flying. Shiite leaders are blaming Shiite AND Sunni leaders that they didn't protect the roads as well as they should. Pilgrims blame Americans for fighting at the temple (where there were terrorists). Everyone wants to hurt someone else to make themselves feel better.
And the worst part is so many people died because no one bothered to help them when they fell down. No one wanted to stop and help someone else, they all wanted to save themselves...even if it meant trampling their brother - literally.
I could pull more stories out of the recent news as examples of this mentality, but why? Of course we all know evil comes from ourselves. We commit the crimes, we speak the lies. The fact that I can pull the same kind of stories from around the world - London, New Orleans, Gaza, Baghdad, Beijing - just brings it home.
The world is breeding monsters, and we always have. We are still fighting the same wars, both externally and internally, that we have for thousands of years.
How is it a that a species that can create philosophy, art, music, science, and religion can't seem to change the fundamental things that keep us from progressing? Why can we teach ourselves to solve incredibly complex mathematical problems, but we can't stop beating one another up?
People often surprise me. They can perform amazing feats of kindness and they can perform astronomical amounts of violence. You never know what conditions will bring either about.
Last night, as my husband and I walked through the mall I passed a woman who had to have been in her 40's. She was looking into the face of a small teddy bear and had the softest, sweetest Mona Lisa type smile on her face. She was sitting around dozens of people, but she stood out because she was glowing.
I wish a teddy bear could help everyone feel what she was feeling. Or a soft warm purring cat. I wish there was something that could bring us all back to that calm, happy feeling where we can accept the hardships that come our way because we know we won't have to face them alone.
I wish.
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