(Warning: Blogging in the key of drunk.)
1) I like Formula 1.
2) I'm a Renault fan.
3) I'm a Fernando Alonso fan.
4) I also really like Petter Solberg.
5) Petter Solberg does not drive Formula 1.
6) I like rally too. (Duh.)
7) After a few weeks of work heck keeping me from my blog I am trying to appease by adding this one gem of a post. AND by getting very drunk.
8) We are the champions my friends.
( The clip is of the Renault engine playing "We are the Champions". Alonso sang this as he drove over the finish line in China.)
9) My husband likes Kimi Raikkonen - but I still love him anyway.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Four Eyes
After putting it off, and being put off, for a full two years I have finally dragged my butt to a random Optometrist in a random mall. After learning that, no, in fact my insurance won't pay for this visit after all (thank you United States Government) I plop myself down and watch the t.v. in a almost blind haze.
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
I have no more contacts left and my glasses are broken - they'll have to lead me into the exam room by my hands...and I'll still probably walk into a wall.
The little girl waiting with me is bouncing around happily trying on all the frames and finally picking her favorite - and she hasn't even seen the doctor yet. She seems excited. In my grouchy, blind, poor, starved and work/traffic-stressed mood I think really horrible thoughts - that little girl is headed for years and years of depression and misery. She's already chubby, has flat yellow hair, and now she's going to be wearing glasses. From the way she smiles I can tell she's headed for braces too. Cruelly I think she better be smart because high school is going to be hell otherwise.
I never said I was a nice person. While I picture the poor gawky teenager she'll grow up to be (I was one too) I also mentally imagine where I will stick the pins into my TriCare Representatives VooDoo Doll.
I go through the motions. One or Two, Two or Three. Read this line. F, V, D. Oh no sorry, it's E, Y, B. Not very good at this huh? No shit lady...I CAN'T SEE!
This used to be fun...I used to like going to the Eye Doctor. I used to be fascinated by the fact that little pieces of glass could make such a huge difference. Now it's just a reminder that my eyes are failing more and more and I will have to put plastic against my eyeballs for the rest of my life.
My doctor makes the determination that I have been wearing the wrong contacts for my entire life. Everytime I go to the Eye Doctor they tell me this. Everyone else was wrong, they're right. They give me a new prescription and a new kind of lens. Then push me out the door to fork over vast sums of money. I almost cringe when I hear myself mention that I need new frames, I think the commission based salesmen can hear me...and they are drooling.
But to my surprise the Doctor disappears back into the gloom with my chart and the other salesmen jump up to help some poor man looking for sunglasses. I am left on my own without anyone to guide my frame selection. I notice for the first time that my prescription is actually pretty good and things look cleaner and clearer than they have in a long while. I start to peruse the frames. Don't like those, don't want anything like that...these are cool. I'm wandering aimlessly making small little decisions that will ultimately form my criteria for the perfect frame when it suddenly hits me.
I am all alone. Completely. Totally. This is weird.
I started wearing glasses when I was 10. My Father took me the first time and of course advised me on what frames would be best for me. He seemed to think that double bowed frames are the best choice (it's what he wore) and because I was 10 and trusted my Dad that's what I got.
And that's what I was stuck with for 4 years...renewing the lenses, keeping those terrible frames all through middle school.
The second time I got frames again my Father accompanied me, but this time I was in full rebellion mode. Everyone told me to get thick frames, hopefully plastic, so as to be durable. I got wire thin frames. Painted in psychedelic colors that came from the early 90's. They were actually perfect.
For a year, till the screws started popping loose and the arms started breaking. I wore a safety pin in place of a screw for three years. The amount of "I told you so"'s in that office was enough to make anyone insane. I capitulated by allowing myself to be stuck with a cross-breed of my first pair of glasses and my second. Within the year I had switched to contacts (which my doctor warned would make me go blind) and conveniently hid the awful pair of black wire frames that threatened to plague me with more years of bad photos and old maid looks.
I only escaped for so long. My husband and I shopped for a week for the perfect pair, a little hipster-y, a little catty, very chic for my last appointment. I was madly in love with a specific tiny pair with a nice cat like flair, he liked the rounded ones. After an hour of me hinting that he needed to love the pair I loved, and an hour of him "not getting it", we left the store with a promise to come back when I had my new prescription.
Then my husband abandoned me for some war thing half-way round the world and I once again found myself shopping for glasses in the presence of my parents.
I was sure once they saw the perfect pair they'd instantly agree it was lovely on me, or at least my mother would catch on the signals and pretend to agree. Instead my parents spent an hour playing dress-up while I was not allowed to voice my opinion. Instead of the trendy, thick, dark glasses I wanted I went home with a pair of rim-less frames that matched my hair. I actually liked them. I was really into them for a little while, only slightly disappointed at the loss of my cat-eyes. Then I turn on the news and realize I'm wearing the same glasses as Brit Hume.
I hate them for years.
And now I find myself standing in an eye glass store with no husband, no mom, no dad, no sales man, no doctors. I whip out my cellphone.
"Hey honey, I'm done at the doctors...I'm going to get new glasses."
"Do you want me to come down and help."
"Nope, I know what I want and when I get them you have to say they're cute."
And I do know what I want. The perfect pair. Not the expensive kinds my husband would gravitate too. Not the conservative boring things my parents like. I get the perfect pair. Almost catty, almost not. A perfect blend of sixties librarian and cute chick. Bookish and pretty. They are so me.
I get them, they look good, the adjuster says they're adorable. I slip them on secure in the knowledge my husband will like them, because he has too. He plays his part.
"Cute" he says.
I wiggle into the car happily with my new glasses. Glasses I picked all by myself. Glasses I choose because I liked them. Glasses I liked without any outside influence. I'm proud of myself, I am a push over no longer.
I feel like the girl at the doctors office who was all excited about getting her first pair. And even better because I do not have to face high school anymore.
Then I'm struck with sudden panic.
"Do you really like them?" I ask hesitantly in the voice all men know spells trouble.
"Yes. They're fine." He replies...he already knows he's trapped.
"Just fine? They're not cute?"
"They're cute...they look good."
I stop hassling, for a day. The next night though...
"What do you really think of my glasses?"
"Jesus. They look good."
"You're not just saying that cause I told you too?"
"They're good glasses!"
I'm not convinced. I look for subtle ways to sneak the question in, fish for a compliment. I try to catch him off-guard, bring it up at an odd moment so he can't answer based on what he thinks I think I want to hear.
It's driving him crazy, at least I'm not asking if my glasses make me look fat.
I'm less and less enthused about my glasses. I'm worried they aren't nearly as adorable as I think they are. I still like them, but now I may be falling out of love because C. doesn't like them. I want him to like them. I want him to like me. I want him to think I'm pretty too. If he doesn't like my glasses it might mean he doesn't like me. Maybe he's busy comparing me to other girls who have cute glasses and wear cute clothes and have a round butt instead of a flat one and and and...
Then last night he and I are snuggling in a nice cozy booth. I've made a last ditch effort to love the glasses by forgoing my contacts. Suddenly his nose bumps my glasses particularly hard.
"Hard to cuddle with glasses huh?"
"Yeah. But we've done it before and it didn't suck."
"That's true, we need to practice again."
"Except last time you didn't have a cute pair."
BINGO. He called them cute without my bidding. Completely out of the blue. My glasses have the C. kiss of approval.
They really are the perfect pair. And I picked them out all by myself!
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Walking the Plank
My husband's fate was decided a few weeks ago. He's being given the boot from the Navy. Of course in true Naval form they told him he's being booted, but they won't tell him when - just to make sure that he won't be able to find a job and give them a start date.
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Our hopes were pinned on the place he works now as a sailor. They promised him a MUCH bigger paycheck to do more of the same work (he has orchestrated plans for this place saving the government BILLIONS of dollars and put the whole thing together...he is their go-to guy.) Of course in true Government form they crapped out and offered to pay him less money than he is making now for a position overseeing every one in the department. No more negotiations.
In an ironic twist of fate he's now getting offers from companies that promise to pay him triple what he's making now. The irony comes from the fact that since he won't be working in his department, they'll have to contract someone to do his job, and he will be the contractor. The Government, who refuses to pay my husband $70,000 for this job will now have to pay the contractor upwards of $3 million - for my husband to do the EXACT same job he is doing now. Only he won't be responsible for it and they can't blame him.
Your tax dollars at work.
As we gear up to find out WHEN he will be separated I am trying to use my benefits as an active-duty spouse to my full advantage. Namely, I'm spending everything in my caps. Or trying too.
Today I attempted to make an appointment at my base to see an optometrist. (I wear glasses and contacts.). My first visit in two years. I was informed that if I'm a dependent I can't see an optometrist for the next few months...but I want to I can get a referral to a doctor not in my MTF (Military Treatment Facility). Usually this is taboo for people like me...and means spending a lot of money. And it's still a pain. It took me five hours of phone calls and "We appreciate your patience" music before I finally got an appointment with some random doctor in a MALL. Tricare promises to pay. We'll see. They promised to pay for my life saving operation too...and I'm still a few thousand poorer from that - and have yet to be allowed to have a follow-up appointment for it.
Dentists are worse. I am strictly forbidden to see a Dentist on base. I have to see pre-approved, in program dentists that are no less than 10 miles away from base instead. Big deal right? Every plan is like that. The best part though is I have to get a referral from a dentist I am not allowed to see in order to make an appointment with a dentist I am allowed to see.
It's a dental nightmare. More so when my husbands SSN gets flagged as "About to Separate". Once that happens it's an unwritten rule to not let anyone on that plan get an appointment with anyone.
Probably because they'll do what I'll do which is use up my lifetime caps (thousands and thousands of dollars) getting dental work and doctors appointments before we are no longer with Tricare.
The Navy would prefer us to be sickly and have bad teeth - we're easier to control that way and don't complain about the mushy food.
The last few weeks have been a steady pace of "Bad re-enlistment" days. They just keep bending us over and screwing us with another arbitrary crappy Navy rule or ordinance. They're being even worse to my roommate. And they still plug away at work, going above and beyond what is expected of them...which is precisely why the Navy is kicking them out. They don't want hard, smart, skilled workers who ranks among the best of the best in their field, they want people who don't know how to mop. I'll be glad to be rid of the unorganized, no-nothing, arbitrary, prejudiced, backwards, pussified, fish-slapping, abusive, asinine, old-fashioned dirty old boys club called the Navy.
Do I sound bitter?
Monday, October 10, 2005
Surprising Fruit Oracle
Last night over dinner I quizzed my husband on what order he chooses to eat his food. In a perfectly predictable manner he eats his favorite parts of a meal first so that if he gets full halfway through the meal he will be certain to have had what he wanted. Seems logical right?
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
I on the other hand tend to eat things from least favorite to most, so that the last thing I eat is my favorite thing. Much like when I was a child and had to choke down my share of cow's tongue. I would force the bumpy, grainy meat down my throat, then reward myself for not throwing it up by munching happily on my asparagus and peas.
What I could never understand though was why they always served milk with cow's tongue...that was just gross.
In anycase...I do the same thing today even when I am not faced with such horrors as borscht and cow's tongue (and lord save me - liver). Take my daily fruit salad for instance. The cantaloupe goes first, then the honeydew. Now I like cantaloupe and honeydew fine, in fact I am very favorable towards honeydew, but when in contention with my third and fourth picks (watermelon and grapes) they fall short. I never mix up eating my fruit (like say eating a melon piece then eating a grape) all of them have to be eaten together, at the same time. Then they are broken down by appearance and size as well. Small goes first, juiciest pieces go last. In the end I am left with a salad plate full of grapes to munch on and leave me with a good grape-y feeling all the day.
I have, as my tastes and motor-skills improve, taken my need to separate and rank foodstuffs to a whole new level. I do it in my mouth. A scoop of my favorite ice cream (Coldstone's Sweet Cream with Gummi Bear mix-in's) provide me with infinite tongue exercise. First and foremost is my visual ranking. Red bears first, followed by yellow, green and white etc. Of course since it's mixed in sometimes I miss a couple of bears and end up having to eat a green bear after I've started on the white or something. And this is fine...which I think is a testament to my potential for sanity. I'm not going to be washing my hands five hundred times a day anytime soon.
However, once I have done a quick initial survey of my ice cream there is the problem of the scoop. If I scoop carefully I can get a bite of cream with just one bear present. Once scooped it should be a mere matter to consume. However, it's not. I have to separate, with my tongue, the cream from the bear, completely. I will not chew on the bear till the cream is melted and gone. To the normal onlooker it just seems like I'm enjoying my ice cream and savoring each creamy taste...but so much more is happening.
Once the bear has been separated and cleaned thoroughly, I start to swirl it around to make sure that the first bite will be the deadly jugular-esque guillotine bite. In short - First I bite the head off...then I suck the guts out...oh how they wiggle and squirm.
Okay, maybe not really. But I do bite the head first, then the arms and legs (tricky, cause your mouth is cold and your bear is small). Then I can either suck the rest of the gelatiny mammal to just the idea of sugar, or chomp it all up and start on the next bear.
People wonder why it takes me so long to eat ice cream.
After my discussion with my husband last night, and my observation of other restuarant-goers scarffing down their food indiscriminately - I think I might be weird. More so, because I see my denial of all the good parts of my meal as a challenge, a hurdle, and ultimately a self-punishment.
I'm notorious for not being able to finish my food. Eating is a very delicate thing with me. Eat too late and I can't eat a lot, eat too early and I can't remember to stop before I eat too much. Eat too fast - I get sick. Eat too slow, or allow me to talk during the meal, and I will fill myself on my own bloviating rather than my chicken ceasar salad. It makes me feel guilty. So many people have never seen just one full plate of food and I who am never in want for food can't even finish my own plate. It also makes me guilty when my husband is watching me. He takes me out to nice places, I get something I want and then barely touch it. I end up being that nightmare of all men who date, even if I do always take price into account when ordering food. I don't mean too, but I just can't eat that much at one time, my stomach will not hold it all.
That's where the self-punishment comes in. My husband has made a few jokes about my eating habits, but he never comes off as too annoyed or concerned with it. It may in fact be because he isn't annoyed or concerned, but the fact remains I feel guilty and I can twist that guilt in a hundred different ways till I feel like he is supremely disappointed in me and I have failed him. All from some leftover lettuce.
However, the guilt is relieved when I "punish" myself. If I eat my least favorite foods first and save the best for last...I will have to eat the whole thing in order to get to the last part. If I don't finish this hamburger, I won't get to eat any fries. And if I can't finish the whole meal, the only parts of it I was deprived of were the parts I really wanted...and it's all my own fault for not finishing my plate.
Of course all this is an inner monologue. And as I look back on it - probably a pretty freaky one. However, I get so tired of making so many decisions, of being so rigidly and boringly self-disciplined that I have to find secret ways of rewarding and punishing myself. I don't know where it came from, or why I still do it, other than it is a constant that makes life bearable and sometimes exciting. It extends far beyond food. My MP3 player is ordered in such a way that there are intervals between my favorite songs. So if I run through three Natalie Merchants songs that I sorta like I am rewarded by a quick rest with the Liz Phair song that I really like - and I'll have jogged for an extra 15 minutes longer than normal. If I spend my evening reading a good book then I must stay awake till 1am doing the laundry (instead of, you know, leaving it for later like a normal person.) If I skip washing the car tonight then I have to wax it the next time. Didn't do sit-ups yesterday? Can't wear the jean skirt today. Back and forth, back and forth.
And my life's enemy becomes myself. Perhaps I'm not crazy and other people employ these tactics to stay afloat and grown-up. Perhaps I was just infused with a healthy amount of unanswerable guilt as a kid. Perhaps my bouts of depression are all stemmed from my inability to let these little slip-ups go.
And perhaps my contemplation over a bowl of fruit can give me more insight into myself than I thought it could.
People watching
We went to see Corpse Bride last night. It was cute - the trailer for Harry Potter looks awesome. These facts and opinions are not the purpose of this post.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
We sat in front of a group of girls, or women, probably my age or a little younger before the movie. Their chatter was idiotic and for some reason it ticked my husband off. Of course he didn't want to talk with me and ignore the girls so he sat around being grouchy, swearing every time I tried to bring up a new topic and in general working towards his premium membership in Oscars's Grouch Club. Seriously...I'm buying him a trashcan for Christmas. And an elephant...
Despite my partner's melancholy I still enjoyed listening to the little girls prattle. The best part of the whole conversation was this little gem:
"I haven't spent anything. I mean I could move out, but why spend money on a place of my own when I can live in hell for free."
"With your Mom?"
"Yeah, for free."
Indeed.
However, though our movie was spent surrounded by discontented youth, our dinner before the movie was spent surrounded by babies. One particular baby. She was adorable. While her parents argued over fajitas or taquitos she devised the most fascinating game ever. She took a folded napkin, grabbed hold, moved it up onto the table and smiled. She then proceeded to move the napkin back down to her high chair. And then up to the table again. Then back down. I was enthralled. I could not figure out where the joy in this game came from - but it was certainly there because she did it for the better part of 15 minutes. Impressive - especially for a baby.
When the food came she decided that all tortillas taste better when eaten off one's wrist. And in the process of placing the food on her wrist then gnawing on her mexican-flavored arm my husband caught her eye. The little vixen. We waved.
"Smile." I directed my normally gruff-faced husband. He did. Then went back to his beer.
The baby kept looking.
"You must be funny looking." I stated.
"Must be." he mumbled into his enchilada.
The fact is, he must exude something unseen to normal people. For some reason he attracts the undivided attention of small babies and deadly predators - such as jaguars, tigers, and really mean swans. Having a wife who is, shall we say, kitty-crazy, we go to see the big cats a lot. And every time we do they always follow C. It never fails. I'm not sure if they feel he's a threat to their territory or would just make a pretty good midday snack. Regardless, it's freaky the way they look at him. I swear their eyes glow red.
It's also a little disconcerting how long babies will stare at him. The girl last night did not take her eyes off him till we left. Is this because he looks grouchy? Does it worry the kids that he's such a sourpuss? Is it the fact his hair looks like it'd be fun to pet? (And it is very fun to pet.) Does he have an aura that magnetically attracts babies with little communication skills? Maybe it's cause he's got that round baby face stuck on a very not-baby body.
Whatever it is I sometimes worry that uncaged babies will try to eat him one day. That'd be just awful.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Thursday Poem #1
On Thursdays I publish a report involving a bunch of different commodities. Each group supposedly sends me their report and then I re-do it and format it to be part of the whole.
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
I say supposedly because there are always a few groups that never get me their reports on time. A huge offender is the Seafood team. I have found myself sending so many emails to them every Thursday asking the same damn thing in the same damn way I had to find some way to stop the monotony (and keep the mood light for them). So Thursday Poem Day was started. Initially I was just sending my favorite parts of Lewis Carroll poems and then lacing them in with the reports, but it was brought to my attention that you know I write a lot so I should compose things of my own.
I'm terrible at writing poetry. Honestly I suck at it. My hope is that as I struggle to throw something together every week for my report reminders, maybe I'll get a little better at this poetry thing.
And since I'm embarrassing myself in front of my fish people, why not go all out and embarrass myself on the web too.
Yesterdays Fish Poem Follows:
A fish could never write a book
He's far more concerned with hooks
He swims in schools but never learns
To write about his concerns
Instead we list the end
Of a fish who didn't spend
His fishy-fun time avoiding
Sports like angling and boating
And now our Thursday sport
Is attempting to write a report
Of a fish whose only fate
Is to end up on someone's plate!
In my defense...the reply to my poem from the fish team was:
We're done, at last to grant your wish
Here's our weekly report on fish
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Scaring the Straights
(Scaring the Straights {working title} is a fictional story in installments by Katy.)
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
CHAPTER I: HELLO! MY NAME IS:
A convention center would be lonely looking without conventions. There is too much space, like a sardine can that has no sardines in it, it's just sad. A convention center needs the booths, it needs the people. It gives it shape, it give it breath. A big empty warehouse can be transformed into a teaming mass of flesh that seems impenetrable.
Unless you actually look around.
Thousands of people walk by the steps. Some carrying plates of food, bags of swag and brochures. Most have coffee, or smell like they've had coffee. All of them wear the little blue and white tags that are the bane of every suit designers life: Hello! My name is:
A thousand names flash by. Hello! My name is: John. Hello! My name is: Peggy. My name is Joshua, Dave, Wazir, Julia K., Katrina, Corina, Michael, Matthew, Bob and Robert. Mary wrote her name in cursive, Jeff wrote in block letters. Francesca couldn't find a sharpie so she used a ballpoint. Travis Kovacevich tried to fit his whole name including the Jr. on the tag but had to write the r. on the side so it looks like his last name is smiling. It's rare to find a Kovacevich smiling...
The smell of more coffee. Burnt beans double packed into large urns. Lots of sugar and lots of cream hides the fact that it tastes like cardboard from the dumpsters outside. The good cookies are gone, all that's left are the oatmeal raisin and the bran muffins. People are beginning to break out their blackberries for their third morning check. The managers and CEO's forward all thirty messages on to their minions with little FYI notes. The minions are the ones who are headed for carpal tunnel by trying to posture themselves to their bosses with quick responses typed only by thumbs. I knew about this last week. The market is actually going up and I just spoke with....blah blah blah. Their bosses don't read it anyway and the assistants who are copied only skim to see if a meeting needs to be set up. Otherwise it's just a waste of electrons.
More names float by. Jennifer who adds in parentheses to call her "Jen". There is Indigo...guess how she was conceived. More John's, lots and lots of Johns. Amber, Rob, Robbie, Robert, Joe, Heather, Jules, Mackenzie - but her friends call her Mac, Patrick, Roslyn, Teresa, Lewis, Batman, Roy, Laura...Batman?
"You must be tired this morning."
Batman looks up at me standing on the stairs, he actually does look tired and, like everyone else, he smells of coffee. He's also got that wired vibe, the kind people have when they are awake only because of the four bottles of Jolt they downed last night. Sure they look like corpses but they feel like corpses in the electric chair.
"I'm sorry?" he asks. There's an edge there, like he's kicking himself inside for acknowledging my presence.
"Up all night and then here bright and early."
"What?" Now he's doing the back-off-slowly shuffle, like he was talking to a psycho.
"You know, up all night...fighting crime..." I look pointedly at his name tag...and he thinks I'm the psycho.
He looks pointedly at his name tag too. A light goes off in his head...it makes him look more jittery. In his mind he must be swearing.
"Oh. Right."
"So...do you wear vinyl or polyester or what? I've always wondered." I say casually...honestly "Oh right"? Theres a good conversation filler.
"I'm sorry...it was just a thing."
"Yeah I know all about it. You're parents were murdered so you taught yourself how to fight and then you swore to protect Gotham City..." The poor boy is squirming where he stands. Maybe I should cut him a break. "But really - Batman?"
"I was hoping people would think I was crazy and be too afraid to talk to me."
"Did it work?"
"Till you."
"No I thought you were crazy too."
"You just weren't afraid."
"Why should I be? Batman is a good guy." Then I stood up and put my suit jacket back on. The tag on the front says Hello! My name is:
Catwoman
"If you'll excuse me...I need a cup of coffee." I descend from my people-watching perch and brush past the caped crusader. The convention center seems smaller now, less expansive and packed. It breathes in and sweeps me off into the crowd, exhaling stale cookies and burnt coffee. Batman turns to watch me walk by and ends up bumping into Hello! My name is: Carol. By the time they've disentangled the convention center is big again and I'm just part of the mass of people who are too afraid to talk to Batman.
It's my blog and I'll be happy if I want too.
My cellphone doesn't get very good reception in my house. It works everywhere...but there. So when my Mom called my cell phone last night I didn't even hear it.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
No matter - this morning I had a new voicemail waiting for me. It waited while I trucked my stuff to the car, waited while I sat in traffic on the 295, waited in traffic on the 32. It waited till I had fetched coffee and calendars for my bosses...then it got all my attention.
My Mama had her ultrasound for her biopsy yesterday. Previously these ultrasounds have found bumps and shadows and all sorts of things in the vicinity of her lungs and breasts. But yesterday they couldn't even find a cyst. Nothing...not a thing. No cutting my Mom up and no shooting her full of stuff.
This is good news. During Breast Cancer Awareness Month you're surrounded by stories and memories. My co-workers, my friends, my aunts (every single one of them), my grandma, my great-grandma. The list grows. Then you find out that people you barely know have been battling cancer for years too. The one good thought that comes from BCAM...most of these women are still alive.
In anycase, in the face of all this gloom and horror - there is good news. Sometimes it really is just a dirty film.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Shakedown
I hate to say this (mostly because for some reason there is a high school teacher haunting my blog, otherwise I wouldn't feel guilty) but I learned very little from my AP American History teacher in high school. Actually I learned very little from most of my high school teachers. As I talk more and more with my fellow scholastic-over-achievers from my childhood we've all noticed that most of our skills and knowledge came from our 8th grade Honors English teacher and our parents. Mostly our parents. Public education in Hawaii is some-what...lacking. Of course our high school achievements don't really matter now. Some yellow-sashed kids went to MIT, Harvard and Westpoint. One committed suicide, one dropped out of school to live in Amsterdam and one is now a successful, prize winning scientist. I skipped college, ran away to New York and then married a sailor. The devil is always in the details huh?
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
However! I did learn one extremely useful and interesting (at least to me) skill from my AP History teacher that I probably would never have learned from anyone else - The Art of the Handshake.
Shake on it Kathryn he told me one day when I had successfully argued my way out of one of his dumb recess I-am-a-God-and-you-are-my-minions Fests disguised as extra study time. Shake like a man, let me know who you are. Straighten the arm, but never reach - let them come to you. Fit your thumb into the hand - all the way to the heel, wrap firmly and shake down once. That's how you shake like a man Kathryn, that's how you seal the deal.
It is also, I learned later, a good way to size up a person quickly and let them know exactly where they stand in the pecking order.
Every handshake to me is a little war. A little stand-off on a hill. I'm sure most of it is subconscious in ourselves...but all the little details in a handshake really put forth an idea of the person and the situation. How long do you hold a hand? When do you make eye contact and when do you break it? Do you shake or let it hang? How far do you reach? How hard do you squeeze? One hand or two? There are so many little parts of a handshake that can give away so much.
I particularly enjoy shaking hands with politicians (something you get to do a lot when your Father is a Business and Government Reporter.) Shaking the hand of a politician is like cracking open a bad egg. You sit for hours listening to them posture about their strength and importance, then you shake their hands. The good ones shake male hands firmly, locked in tight, almost like they were sharing a confidence. Female hands they completely enclose, but never firmly. Like they were holding the hand of a porcelain doll. But even if they are good handshakers, politicians always reach - they always come to you. Maybe it's because their job is all about begging, always begging for a vote, for a favor. Maybe they're the ultimate service worker, maybe they just didn't know you should let people come to you.
Business men on the other hand are choosy about who they reach out for. Customers obviously can wait for the hand to come to them, Salesmen need to have long arms. Men will always reach out for women - irregardless of the position that woman holds. Most business men have a firm grip, almost far too tight. You'd think they were holding money in their hand rather than flesh. Business men also like to shake in a closed body position. While most people will face you at least a little and open the torso to shake, Business men will turn their sides to you, even reach over their chests to get to you. If they are facing directly they won't make eye contact, or they will turn their feet opposite. Also, the stronger of the business men will keep both feet on the ground, while the weaker will lift their heels, or even the entire foot.
The more I live within the corporate world the more I realize that this might be a guard against false friends. So many times I see my bosses chatter with associates back and forth about trivial matters. What they had for dinner last night, the next great movie. But they never feel any real interest towards any of these personal subjects. In fact they probably hate one another...but they have to look like their close friends - just to keep everyone else out.
Of course I'm picking on the men because by and large handshaking is a "man" thing. Men have been doing it for a long time...centuries. Back when men offered hands to show they weren't carrying any weapons...women didn't have much call to get out of the house. It's only been recently that female handshakes have come into their own.
And we do have one and it is extremely powerful. As male hands grow bigger and ours remain small we have to find new ways to make the shake even, or perhaps gain ground. A man's hand can engulf a woman's. Often you can see men emphasizing the size difference by doing the double clasp. Grip the woman's hand and hold her arm out, then clasp your second hand over, turn your body completely toward her and lean in close. It's a complete violation of personal space and a big point for the man. He can say I have your arm, I have your space, I have your attention - all without looking like the ass he really is.
A woman's handshake needs to take control to even the odds before he can pull her in. A woman shake is all about withholding something, anything, everything. Maybe that's a metaphor for the way women need to behave in society, maybe it's just a skill we use subconsciously. Women, when they shake like women, only offer their fingers, and sometimes only their fingertips. They never hold their hand out. The elbow stays at our side, our forearm curves towards them, we beckon our victim towards us. Only the tip of the thumb will come in contact with the shakers hand, never the heel of the hand. It's not a hold. We caress their hand with our thumb, maybe rub their knuckle - just a little - to throw them off their guard. Make them look up, tilt their heads away from the shake and into our eyes. Give 'em the look. There are many versions of the look, the one that makes men want to protect us, the one that makes them want to comfort us, the one that makes them want to rip our clothes off. Women practice these looks, I know I did. It's an art, and when well-performed can get us whatever we want - whenever we want. Does this sound unfair? Try being 5'4'' surrounded by seven men who are all above 6'2'' and like to call you "kiddo". I use what I have.
A woman's shake is more about the eyes than about the hand. A good female handshaker will never let a man hold their hand for too long. They never bother to offer it in the first place. When it's good, a woman shaking your hand should feel like a gift. I am allowing you into my world for now...but not too close. Women usually smile - it's disarming. A pretty smile, a soft doe-eyed look, an elusive handshake. You can visibly see men get flustered with this. They straighten their collar, they turn their feet out, their hips slip out of line with their torso, they bend at the waist. All a girl has to do is shake nice.
Of course there are counter-measures to the all powerful feminine shake. I recently had dinner with a salesman who was trying to get my husband to buy his stuff. In addition to his impeccable clothing and brilliantly warm smile he had a very disarming handshake. Instead of reaching out and taking my fingers gently (as most men do) he turned his palm up. Usually, when offering just the tips of ones fingers there is the fear that the other party will hold them far too tight and squeeze the fingers together - even hurt them. My Father is a finger-hurter. No matter what men usually have a hard time not squishing fingers, which I've noticed usually gives the point to the woman. However, this particular salesman by-passed this problem by essentially bringing to my fingers a resting place. With his palm cupped up, fingers curved towards him, my own slender fingers fit perfectly over his. He was able to add pressure from the bottom, but caress my own knuckles instead of smashing my digits. He could have almost kissed my hand. He might have been able to pull it off too (if we weren't in a bar), however most men can't do the hand kissing thing without coming off as really creepy. I don't recommend it.
Kissing or no, the shake was sensuous and completely non-threatening and non-creepy. He certainly put me off my guard by treating me like a woman instead of a pint-sized man. There was no posturing from the double-clasp...just a simple change of the wrist and suddenly he was my guide rather than my follower. It was brilliant.
Beyond the hand-cupping shake men can also gain the "upper hand" of a woman by employing their eyes as well. Men who aren't afraid to hold eye contact with a woman and continue to have their hand get equal ground. Notice I said "have their hand" not "hold" because the perfect way to deal with a feminine shake is to simply let the hand rest, touch, and be. No shaking up and down, no clutching or grasping...simply sharing I suppose. Also, the look is important. A few men I've met can carry off a rather imposing look that is more erotic than condescending. My husband can't pull it off, and most men who think of themselves as "Dominant" or "Alpha Males" are really bad at it. Usually it's the quite ones who can look down at a woman or man...and make knees shake. Whenever I see these looks employed I notice that other men will pull their hands away first and women will keep their hands there longer. This has got to be one of those cave-man left overs...whatever it is...thank god for those looks.
If one can't pull off the uber look, a good friendly disarming smile and crinkling eyes will do the trick. Women will feel flattered and men will feel at ease.
So maybe this isn't a great primer on the intricacies of handshakes. It's really just a mix of my opinions and the many images I see as I go through life. But boy do I love handshakes...and boy do I love trying to read stuff into them. They really make me wag my tail. (Which is a whole 'nother post entirely.)
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Doing It
Last Thursday we went to our first yoga class. I really enjoyed it. The husband liked it too, though you couldn't tell from all the groaning and fussing coming from my left side. I have to admit some of the poses were a tad difficult...but seriously, shush people.
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
Ever notice how it's mostly the men who whine in classes like that. The women stay silent. Maybe it's like a tool for attention or something. I dunno. All I know is that in all the classes I take I rarely hear a girl fuss or groan when we do something hard.
But that's not the point to this post. The point is something our teacher said in the beginning. I'm trying to remember exactly how he said it, but I probably have a few things wrong.
What's it feel like? (silence) What does it feel like to be doing? Doing something? (more silence)
Everyone get these ideas to try something, to do something that may make life better. That little seed gets planted, but for whatever reason the phone call isn't made, the appointment isn't set, the time never comes up. For whatever reason, we just never follow through.
But by virtue of you being here, at this class, you did it. You did something. Where ever the seed came from, you decided to give it a chance. And whether this is the last time you come here, or if you decided to continue, you made that step. You did something.
What does it feel like?
I'm not sure what it feels like. Like I want to keep making steps, like I need to keep making steps. Like I'm finally the one empowered rather than being the one who is empowering.
I think though that that little speech is gonna stick with me.
What does it feel like to be doing something?
Friday, September 30, 2005
The call of the Chair
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!
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!
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.
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