"Damit Penny, can't you do anything right?"
Penny sat on the very edge of the sofa she never wanted to buy and trembled as her husband shouted at her. He'd been shouting for the last 10 minutes. Her throat was constricted with the words she swallowed, over and over.
"Yeah, that's just like you, can't even defend yourself, you're so useless!"
Her hands flew to her throat and she massaged the cords in her neck. Her shaky fingers stroked the cords, down the shoulder, to the collarbone in an effort to ease the tension. The act of lifting her arms to do this, without flailing out, seemed almost impossible. What she wanted to do was punch him squarely in the mouth, hard. Maybe several times. She knew she'd have the advantage of surprise.
"You make me sick, sitting there stroking yourself!" "How is that going to help me, ME?" He moved in closer each time he said 'me', standing over her, pushing his knees against hers.
Penny instantly put her hands down and smoothed her jeans. Her legs were knotted, poised to jump up off the couch if needed. She had strong legs. She could run fast, she was all-star track in high school and she played a mean kick ball with the neighborhood kids.
"I feel your legs trembling you 'fraidy cat." He smiled, then kicked her in the shin. "Stop shaking!"
Penny bit her lip to avoid crying out. He'd kicked her before. Her legs didn't stop shaking. She coiled them closer to the sofa but didn't relax the muscles. She pictured herself springing from the ugly couch and kicking him right in the nuts, then as he doubled over in pain, bringing her knee up into his chest. She might wrap her hand in his hair and slam his face into her knee too.
"Did you say something bitch?" He leaned down, putting his forehead against hers, spraying her with spittle as he yelled even louder "DID YOU?!?"
Penny sat rigid, her back straight, her eyes focused inward. She knew to answer, to say anything, even no, would make him lose control. She thought how easy it would be to rear her head back and slam it into his. As he'd be stunned she could then take her strong legs and push against his chest with all her might and cause him to fly across the room, hitting the glass coffee table on his way down to the floor.
"God you're so pathetic!" "I can't imagine why I married such a weakling!"
She envisioned him lying there, surprised and hurting. She knew she'd jump up without a second's hesitation and lunge on him. She'd stop her fingers from shaking by gouging him in his surprised eyes. She'd kick him over and over as if she meant every thrust to send the kick ball far into the outfield.
"God, I can barely stand the sight of you!" "You gutless wonder!"
She imaged him trying to defend himself, but she knew her anger would fuel a strength almost impossible to stop. She'd be like the Hulk and she wouldn't care. She'd use his hair as the fulcrum to pound his head into the shattered glass. She would stand up and drop her full weight onto her knees, landing in his groin, stomach and chest. She was breathing hard, gasping in air, imagining the effort it would take and the satisfaction it would give her to dole out the punishment she usually got.
"You're a nothing, Penny, N O T H I N G, nothing!" "Don't start crying or I'll have to give you something to cry about!"
If he wouldn't shut up then, she'd kick him straight in the head, then jump on him like he was the exercise trampoline he bought her for her birthday. The energy it took to control her poised-for-violence muscles was making her tired. The adrenaline pumping through her veins as she imagined shutting him up made her tremble even more.
"Penny the Jello, Penny, you're just sickening, sitting on the couch trembling in fear!" "I can't even stand to be in the same room with you!"
And he leaves, this time without hitting her, still believing she trembled in fear.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Oblivion, Population +1
A short, unfinished story inspired by a friend's remark. Please know though this isn't a blog about YOU my friend - that will come later.
Dear Friend,
I'm sitting here in Oblivion, waiting for you to show up. You're a day late and I imagine there is a reason for that. You probably had to stop and call a past girlfriend's father and wish him health. Maybe you spent extra time listening to a friend's story, the same one they told you yesterday. That's you, putting other people first, making me wait here for you.
There are many different people here in Oblivion. That seems kind of oxymoronic don't you think? I assumed everyone in this town would be the same; kind of spectral-like, nothings, bland. People you wouldn't miss because they were people you didn't notice in the first place.
Oblivion, as a town goes, seems pretty average, maybe a little boring. Oh, there's the grocery store, movie theater, gas station, car dealer, beauty salon, a bar or two, some places of worship; just your typical all-American little town. Don't get me wrong here, people in Oblivion don't lack for any of the amenities of the big city, there are just fewer of them.
Oblivionions get up every day and go to their jobs, swiping groceries to the beep, beep, beep of the electronic check-out, pushing the movie ticket out the glassed in window, ringing up your gas. Texting each other about the slow stop light at 10th and Main, and how they are going to be late to the jello pot luck because of it. Giving you a half wave, by rote saying "have a nice day" each and every time they pass you, even if it's five times a day.
Telling you to have a 'nice day' is just silly. All the days are nice in Oblivion. The weather hovers around 70 degrees, an imperceptible breeze blows just a tiny bit and it only rains enough to keep the grass greener on the other side. Even the 1 day winter season is mild in comparison to other cities.
Some people came to Oblivion by choice. Others were forced here in some dramatic relocation to avoid the fame and notoriety they gained in other cities. The majority though, sort of sunk into Oblivion, cushioned by the dreams they gave up to reside here.
While I sat in the station awaiting your arrival, I watched people who came from California, Indiana, Florida and New York. Each one stepped down and looked wide eyed, then disappointed at the city of Oblivion. Every one of them said the same thing "It's just like Crescent City (like Greensburg), (like Wauchula), (like Malone) - I could have stayed home!"
Some of them just sat in the station, stunned. I approached a few and asked them what they had expected Oblivion to be like. The California mom said she thought it would be darker. The Indiana engineer said he thought it would be more comforting, that it would have made him feel safe. I had to laugh when the Florida teen said she thought it would be "chillaxin', like no pressure man, sort of like floating in the ocean." She was very surprised that Oblivion would require her to finish school and get a job.
The station master asked everyone to check their dreams and, if formerly famous, any little statuettes with the Oblivion's good will ambassador. I had your dream in my purse, and tried to give it to the GWA but she wouldn't take it from me. "Dreams can only be checked by the dreamer," she said. "We do sometimes take the little statuettes from agents because the formerly famous are in denial about being here," then she winked at me. Did she think I was moving to Oblivion? Didn't she know I was just there waiting for you?
Dear Friend,
I'm sitting here in Oblivion, waiting for you to show up. You're a day late and I imagine there is a reason for that. You probably had to stop and call a past girlfriend's father and wish him health. Maybe you spent extra time listening to a friend's story, the same one they told you yesterday. That's you, putting other people first, making me wait here for you.
There are many different people here in Oblivion. That seems kind of oxymoronic don't you think? I assumed everyone in this town would be the same; kind of spectral-like, nothings, bland. People you wouldn't miss because they were people you didn't notice in the first place.
Oblivion, as a town goes, seems pretty average, maybe a little boring. Oh, there's the grocery store, movie theater, gas station, car dealer, beauty salon, a bar or two, some places of worship; just your typical all-American little town. Don't get me wrong here, people in Oblivion don't lack for any of the amenities of the big city, there are just fewer of them.
Oblivionions get up every day and go to their jobs, swiping groceries to the beep, beep, beep of the electronic check-out, pushing the movie ticket out the glassed in window, ringing up your gas. Texting each other about the slow stop light at 10th and Main, and how they are going to be late to the jello pot luck because of it. Giving you a half wave, by rote saying "have a nice day" each and every time they pass you, even if it's five times a day.
Telling you to have a 'nice day' is just silly. All the days are nice in Oblivion. The weather hovers around 70 degrees, an imperceptible breeze blows just a tiny bit and it only rains enough to keep the grass greener on the other side. Even the 1 day winter season is mild in comparison to other cities.
Some people came to Oblivion by choice. Others were forced here in some dramatic relocation to avoid the fame and notoriety they gained in other cities. The majority though, sort of sunk into Oblivion, cushioned by the dreams they gave up to reside here.
While I sat in the station awaiting your arrival, I watched people who came from California, Indiana, Florida and New York. Each one stepped down and looked wide eyed, then disappointed at the city of Oblivion. Every one of them said the same thing "It's just like Crescent City (like Greensburg), (like Wauchula), (like Malone) - I could have stayed home!"
Some of them just sat in the station, stunned. I approached a few and asked them what they had expected Oblivion to be like. The California mom said she thought it would be darker. The Indiana engineer said he thought it would be more comforting, that it would have made him feel safe. I had to laugh when the Florida teen said she thought it would be "chillaxin', like no pressure man, sort of like floating in the ocean." She was very surprised that Oblivion would require her to finish school and get a job.
The station master asked everyone to check their dreams and, if formerly famous, any little statuettes with the Oblivion's good will ambassador. I had your dream in my purse, and tried to give it to the GWA but she wouldn't take it from me. "Dreams can only be checked by the dreamer," she said. "We do sometimes take the little statuettes from agents because the formerly famous are in denial about being here," then she winked at me. Did she think I was moving to Oblivion? Didn't she know I was just there waiting for you?
Sometimes, Typing 100 wpm is Just Not Enough
My mind is traveling at 150 mph today.
That's probably dangerous given the small amount of space my brain occupies. Some of the thoughts ricocheting through my mind, in the order in which I can capture them and write them down:
1) Don't take an at home vacation day when they are installing the new, state-of-the-art firefighter command center on your floor. Right outside your door. With high-pitched drills and big, air-powered hammers and hacksaws cutting into steel pipes that shriek with the effort. And loud-voiced men who swear at each other over radios. Ever.
2) I made a promise to myself this weekend; write more, blog more and complete the four (it's ONLY four) classes I need to teach composition at the college/university level.
3) I miss touching and being touched. Working in education, you become wary of expressing yourself via touch - god knows I don't want a law suit. And in my 20 years in this business I've seen it happen - twice. But hugs are important. So are kisses. Hugs are easier to get & give. I am thankful for the people in my life who give hugs freely - expect them even and send me notes that I owe them a hug. And then follow up to get one. You know who you are - thank you!
We caution our children on 'bad touches' but we don't tell them about good touches. When did it become so wrong to squeeze a shoulder in sympathy? To hold someone and let them cry because that is all you can do? To grab your friend's hand in happiness or sadness or 'just because'? To brush a strand of hair off of a frustrated friend's face? I think I've hesitated so often in reaching out in this way that it is no longer natural for me to touch people, in any way. As a person who believes in PDA, this makes me sad. And a bit scared.
4) This apartment is a total mess. There is no empty surface. I need empty surfaces. My minimalist, perfectionist self is in the fetal position crying "no more piles, no more piles". My lazy self is contemplating pushing all this stuff into the one empty closet and telling the perfectionist self 'see, no more piles! stop whining!'
5) How do you start a relationship? Or end one? Or change the path of one?
6) I've always been a little mistrustful. Somehow, in the last year or so, I've become so cynical and jaded that I question even my own best intentions. I've not practiced a random act of kindness in a few months. This is not healthy for me as those random acts of kindness were like vitamin pills to my psyche and soul. It energized me to know I put change in the parking meter, or paid for the next person in line's coffee. Or saw someone paying their $5.56 purchase with change and saying "I've got that." Doing those things gave me peace and made me feel human. Now I ask if I am being selfish in performing these acts. After all, I do get satisfaction in doing good without getting involved. I'm not preventing homelessness or providing for the truly needy. Involvement would mean trusting; trusting that others passed along the random act, trusting myself and my motives, trusting that the little I did made a difference. Only six months ago I was paying forward. I hope Karma doesn't send me a bill.
7) I have to go dancing more. When I first moved to Chicago I went dancing at least two times per month. It was in retaliation for all the things I thought I missed - kind of an "I'll show you" activity. Pretty harmless rebellion, thank god. For various reasons, I stopped going so frequently and now I go about two times a year, and that really is not enough. I'm going to go dancing more often.
8) In the movie "Bringing Out the Dead" one of the drug dens sells "vacations." A drug that puts people in a coma-like state for a few days. The ultimate rest, body and mind, sans death. You don't have to think about anything. Life goes on around you, problems that others counted on you to solve, were solved. Tasks that had your name next to them were completed by others. It doesn't show if these "vacationing" people had dreams, or if they were cognizant of the world continuing without them. I think this could be very useful for us in prioritizing our lives. The trick would be for everyone to believe you weren't coming back (and of course, in the movie that was the case for a good many of the people!), or else they'd just say "Tammy is out for a few days, but when she returns she will solve this."
9) Boomsday is a book that examines, in a farcical way, the impact baby boomers have had on the US economy. And it proposes that they kill themselves at 62 to save it. When SS was implemented, one person paid in for one person retiring. Now one person pays in for three people retiring, so there are more baby boomers retiring than people in the work force to support them. And those paying are getting a little tired of paying so much without the guarantee that they will receive SS benefits when they retire. Offing yourself at 62, in this book, doesn't sound so bad really. Your children will be given tax breaks on their inheritance. You get to choose how you die and no doubt it would be a big event. Planned for like your first Communion, quinceanera and wedding all rolled into one. It would open up a whole new business sector. And it's not as absurd as it sounds when you really think about it.
10) Hershey kisses is expanding their menu. Recently I tried some candy corn kisses and some pumpkin spice kisses. The candy corn kisses are a little too sweet, but I really liked the pumpkin spice kisses. It was like a little pumpkin spice latte melting in my mouth.
11) Last spring a student, a young colleague and I debated the merits of inventing hover shoes. I've been thinking about this a lot as winter approaches. There are some obvious benefits to hover shoes, especially in winter - no fear of slipping on ice, no worrying about whether the sidewalks have been cleared, you'd move faster, so be less exposed to the elements. We thought they'd be great for people with mobility issues and would cost less than overhauling a building to be accessible. Even in the spring we were aware of the cons - you have to have a safe stopping mechanism, we'd probably have to license people to wear/operate them and of course they'd be cumbersome and ugly as heck. Still, I'd like a pair please.
These are only some of the things pinging around the old noodle today. I wish I had the time and energy to write all of them down, and to do so without boring you all to death. I do intend to write more and blog more, so possibly I can put my thoughts down in a way that is entertaining, or thought provoking. Or maybe just to document that I have thoughts other than those associated with my work, which is hard for some to believe. And I do know that putting all my thoughts down is very helpful for me as a writer - you might be surprised to learn what totally random, mundane thought lead to a pretty good story! I want to be more spontaneous and actively engaged in my life, so I think returning to writing will help me. Now I just have to work on that discipline thing and not be so easily distracted. Ohhh, look at that shiny thing over there...
That's probably dangerous given the small amount of space my brain occupies. Some of the thoughts ricocheting through my mind, in the order in which I can capture them and write them down:
1) Don't take an at home vacation day when they are installing the new, state-of-the-art firefighter command center on your floor. Right outside your door. With high-pitched drills and big, air-powered hammers and hacksaws cutting into steel pipes that shriek with the effort. And loud-voiced men who swear at each other over radios. Ever.
2) I made a promise to myself this weekend; write more, blog more and complete the four (it's ONLY four) classes I need to teach composition at the college/university level.
3) I miss touching and being touched. Working in education, you become wary of expressing yourself via touch - god knows I don't want a law suit. And in my 20 years in this business I've seen it happen - twice. But hugs are important. So are kisses. Hugs are easier to get & give. I am thankful for the people in my life who give hugs freely - expect them even and send me notes that I owe them a hug. And then follow up to get one. You know who you are - thank you!
We caution our children on 'bad touches' but we don't tell them about good touches. When did it become so wrong to squeeze a shoulder in sympathy? To hold someone and let them cry because that is all you can do? To grab your friend's hand in happiness or sadness or 'just because'? To brush a strand of hair off of a frustrated friend's face? I think I've hesitated so often in reaching out in this way that it is no longer natural for me to touch people, in any way. As a person who believes in PDA, this makes me sad. And a bit scared.
4) This apartment is a total mess. There is no empty surface. I need empty surfaces. My minimalist, perfectionist self is in the fetal position crying "no more piles, no more piles". My lazy self is contemplating pushing all this stuff into the one empty closet and telling the perfectionist self 'see, no more piles! stop whining!'
5) How do you start a relationship? Or end one? Or change the path of one?
6) I've always been a little mistrustful. Somehow, in the last year or so, I've become so cynical and jaded that I question even my own best intentions. I've not practiced a random act of kindness in a few months. This is not healthy for me as those random acts of kindness were like vitamin pills to my psyche and soul. It energized me to know I put change in the parking meter, or paid for the next person in line's coffee. Or saw someone paying their $5.56 purchase with change and saying "I've got that." Doing those things gave me peace and made me feel human. Now I ask if I am being selfish in performing these acts. After all, I do get satisfaction in doing good without getting involved. I'm not preventing homelessness or providing for the truly needy. Involvement would mean trusting; trusting that others passed along the random act, trusting myself and my motives, trusting that the little I did made a difference. Only six months ago I was paying forward. I hope Karma doesn't send me a bill.
7) I have to go dancing more. When I first moved to Chicago I went dancing at least two times per month. It was in retaliation for all the things I thought I missed - kind of an "I'll show you" activity. Pretty harmless rebellion, thank god. For various reasons, I stopped going so frequently and now I go about two times a year, and that really is not enough. I'm going to go dancing more often.
8) In the movie "Bringing Out the Dead" one of the drug dens sells "vacations." A drug that puts people in a coma-like state for a few days. The ultimate rest, body and mind, sans death. You don't have to think about anything. Life goes on around you, problems that others counted on you to solve, were solved. Tasks that had your name next to them were completed by others. It doesn't show if these "vacationing" people had dreams, or if they were cognizant of the world continuing without them. I think this could be very useful for us in prioritizing our lives. The trick would be for everyone to believe you weren't coming back (and of course, in the movie that was the case for a good many of the people!), or else they'd just say "Tammy is out for a few days, but when she returns she will solve this."
9) Boomsday is a book that examines, in a farcical way, the impact baby boomers have had on the US economy. And it proposes that they kill themselves at 62 to save it. When SS was implemented, one person paid in for one person retiring. Now one person pays in for three people retiring, so there are more baby boomers retiring than people in the work force to support them. And those paying are getting a little tired of paying so much without the guarantee that they will receive SS benefits when they retire. Offing yourself at 62, in this book, doesn't sound so bad really. Your children will be given tax breaks on their inheritance. You get to choose how you die and no doubt it would be a big event. Planned for like your first Communion, quinceanera and wedding all rolled into one. It would open up a whole new business sector. And it's not as absurd as it sounds when you really think about it.
10) Hershey kisses is expanding their menu. Recently I tried some candy corn kisses and some pumpkin spice kisses. The candy corn kisses are a little too sweet, but I really liked the pumpkin spice kisses. It was like a little pumpkin spice latte melting in my mouth.
11) Last spring a student, a young colleague and I debated the merits of inventing hover shoes. I've been thinking about this a lot as winter approaches. There are some obvious benefits to hover shoes, especially in winter - no fear of slipping on ice, no worrying about whether the sidewalks have been cleared, you'd move faster, so be less exposed to the elements. We thought they'd be great for people with mobility issues and would cost less than overhauling a building to be accessible. Even in the spring we were aware of the cons - you have to have a safe stopping mechanism, we'd probably have to license people to wear/operate them and of course they'd be cumbersome and ugly as heck. Still, I'd like a pair please.
These are only some of the things pinging around the old noodle today. I wish I had the time and energy to write all of them down, and to do so without boring you all to death. I do intend to write more and blog more, so possibly I can put my thoughts down in a way that is entertaining, or thought provoking. Or maybe just to document that I have thoughts other than those associated with my work, which is hard for some to believe. And I do know that putting all my thoughts down is very helpful for me as a writer - you might be surprised to learn what totally random, mundane thought lead to a pretty good story! I want to be more spontaneous and actively engaged in my life, so I think returning to writing will help me. Now I just have to work on that discipline thing and not be so easily distracted. Ohhh, look at that shiny thing over there...
If Time Flies, Does Sleep Spider?
I am 50 years old!
I truly love being able to say that. Partly because I am vain and ingloriously self-aware enough to know I don't look 50...whatever 50 is supposed to look like. In general I don't feel 50 (again, whatever 50 is supposed to feel like) and I've been told I don't act 50 years old. I take that as a compliment regardless of how it was meant! I move more slowly, but that is probably due to my weight and not my age.
I am looking forward to asking for my senior discount. And now I can say, sorry I don't have time for that, and not feel bad. I'm 50 and I have to prioritize the time I have left.
Fall is always an introspective time for me - I've always taken my birthday month(October) as a time to reflect on my life. Because it was a momentous birthday, I became even more aware of the time that has passed. It seems to be speeding up. Fifty years has, literally, flown by.
Some of the things I take for granted today haven't been around all that long; cell phones, the internet, email, home computers. These are the every day tools of my life. They make it possible for me to work too damn much yet give me great joy by keeping me connected to family and friends.
I remember when a microwave was a big expense and not everyone could afford one - same with a VHS player or video recorder. These items were not only expensive they were huge! A microwave took up half your counter, so most people purchased a microwave stand. The VHS player took up the entire top of your TV, which was okay, because those 19-inch-screened TV's were encased in little houses that sat in your family room - lots of table-top room on their roofs for doilies, pictures and the VHS player. The camcorder weighed about 25 lbs and looked like something the local news crew would use for a 'man on the street' interview. The first computer I used at work had a black screen and a neon green cursor. I think the language was COBAL. I couldn't send email, but I could enter data that allowed me to print out and send your dental claim to the insurance carrier via the US postal service.
Now your phone, the size of a deck of cards (but weighing less) can do everything but microwave your food....and that's probably coming as soon as they figure out how to ensure you don't accidentally microwave your neighbor as well.
A thought on that last paragraph: Using a deck of cards for comparison probably isn't relevant, since everyone plays solitaire on their phones.
I think all the technology we use has sped up time. That's why 'they' say that 50 is the new 40 and we all look pretty good 'for our age.' It's probably why summer is now only 5 weeks long (at least in Chicago) and the work week requires you to accomplish 80 hours of tasks while being paid for 35 hours of 'work.' Someone should really look into this, but I can't because I am 50 years old and have other things to do.
I truly love being able to say that. Partly because I am vain and ingloriously self-aware enough to know I don't look 50...whatever 50 is supposed to look like. In general I don't feel 50 (again, whatever 50 is supposed to feel like) and I've been told I don't act 50 years old. I take that as a compliment regardless of how it was meant! I move more slowly, but that is probably due to my weight and not my age.
I am looking forward to asking for my senior discount. And now I can say, sorry I don't have time for that, and not feel bad. I'm 50 and I have to prioritize the time I have left.
Fall is always an introspective time for me - I've always taken my birthday month(October) as a time to reflect on my life. Because it was a momentous birthday, I became even more aware of the time that has passed. It seems to be speeding up. Fifty years has, literally, flown by.
Some of the things I take for granted today haven't been around all that long; cell phones, the internet, email, home computers. These are the every day tools of my life. They make it possible for me to work too damn much yet give me great joy by keeping me connected to family and friends.
I remember when a microwave was a big expense and not everyone could afford one - same with a VHS player or video recorder. These items were not only expensive they were huge! A microwave took up half your counter, so most people purchased a microwave stand. The VHS player took up the entire top of your TV, which was okay, because those 19-inch-screened TV's were encased in little houses that sat in your family room - lots of table-top room on their roofs for doilies, pictures and the VHS player. The camcorder weighed about 25 lbs and looked like something the local news crew would use for a 'man on the street' interview. The first computer I used at work had a black screen and a neon green cursor. I think the language was COBAL. I couldn't send email, but I could enter data that allowed me to print out and send your dental claim to the insurance carrier via the US postal service.
Now your phone, the size of a deck of cards (but weighing less) can do everything but microwave your food....and that's probably coming as soon as they figure out how to ensure you don't accidentally microwave your neighbor as well.
A thought on that last paragraph: Using a deck of cards for comparison probably isn't relevant, since everyone plays solitaire on their phones.
I think all the technology we use has sped up time. That's why 'they' say that 50 is the new 40 and we all look pretty good 'for our age.' It's probably why summer is now only 5 weeks long (at least in Chicago) and the work week requires you to accomplish 80 hours of tasks while being paid for 35 hours of 'work.' Someone should really look into this, but I can't because I am 50 years old and have other things to do.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Changing Lanes on the Highway of Life...
My mind wanders today in tandem with my recent journey. A short journey in miles - I moved just a few miles to the northside of Chicago, but a long journey in who I am and who I was and who I will be.
I downsized, simplified and plain old 'got rid of' a lot of THINGS (and I mean things as in possessions) for this move. It was, in the end cathartic, but in the process emotionally and therefore physically draining.
I recommend it to everyone. I especially recommend it to you if you are hesitant about the next step in your life, or a bit afraid of what the future holds, or if you are feeling like your life has 'stuck' in a holding pattern not of your choice. If your circumstances dictate that you move, then look at this as an opportunity to reflect on your life's route, stick out your thumb for help, and just start the journey.
As a matter of fact, this experience was so eyeopening to me that I now plan to make this an annual event in my life. I feel connected to the world. I have a history - it's good, bad and ugly, but it's mine! I think I've made a difference in someone's life. I plan to let others know they've made a difference in mine. Coincidences can't be programmed in GPS.
It started with a DVD made by my uncle shortly after my dad's death in 2000. It had pictures of my dad's parents & their siblings, pictures of my dad's brothers and sisters, their kids, and grandkids - almost 70 years worth of pictures! I also found a CD made from a recording of my father playing the accordian when he was 8 or 10 years old (a special talent for kids of the 40's and 50's - no one plays the accordian anymore!). On that original recording my grandparents and aunts and uncles sent a short note to a family friend...I heard my grandmother's voice as a young woman. She was 10 years younger than I am now - my grandmother! My aunts, some shyly, some boldly, stepping up to the recorder saying "hi". My aunt Ardith, may she rest in peace, was bold and outspoken in my life - the one people listened too, and so it seems from the recording, had this character trait even as a young girl. My aunt Sandy is shy, a killer with kindness, the one whose heart lives on her sleeve; and in the recording, you could hear that.
I kept my wedding dress, and the maid of honor's, our marriage certificate and the cake topper- all there for my children. I reread letters my ex husband and I wrote to each other during our painful separation and eventual divorce. They are heartrending and so real and so full of feeling. I cried a lot reading them, just as I cried a lot going through it. But I see in those letters, two people who didn't know each other until it was too late. And it reaffirms that the choice to divorce was the right choice.
I really liked going through things my children made - things they made just for me of their own accord, or things that every child makes in kindergarten in Iowa (the laminated Christmas tree with their smiling faces in place of the star). I kept coloring books just because they had colored in them. From the one color scribbles all over the page to the multi-colored, intricate pictures, all within the lines, of course! My children colored these, I see their tiny 4 year old selves hunkered down, concentrating on making the picture 'just right' for me. I have their report cards, their birth certificates, and thousands (yes, thousands!) of pictures of them. The amount even surprised me. As a matter of fact, of the 20 or so boxes I moved - almost 1/3 are full of pictures or mementos of my kids.
There are pictures of me as a child with my three brothers (sorry Sis & Ty you weren't born then) and cousins. I looked positively anorexic until puberty set in! My birth certificate - goodness my feet were tiny and...crooked. Maybe that's why they hurt today? Some of my report cards - almost all say I don't live up to my potential. What potential did those elementary teachers see in me? More importantly, how could I, a 7 year old, not live up to it? My high school year books, graduation photos and pictures from high school friends whose short notes on the back almost always describe me as "sweet" and "smart". I have the first book, although coverless, I was ever allowed to purchase from Scholastic Books. "A Room for Kathy" so appropriate for a girl who grew up with three younger brothers!
There were papers and quizzes, and abstracts and loan applications in there from my college years; both undergraduate and graduate. Newspaper clippings of my time as the student body president/vice president, a bronze labeled plaque in recognition as an outstanding alumni and capstone projects, a proposed theory on adult education (presented by me at a national conference I might add). And pictures too of my colleagues, Dr. Earnest (now, just Kurt then), Ms. Ruther, my mentors, Dr. Fairchild and Ms. Morlan and professors, Dr.s Torrie and Hausafras who helped me live up to my potential.
I kept my performance evaluations from Iowa State (wow! I was a go-getter) and the letter offering me the job at DePaul. I kept my first lease without my husband as a co-signer and my first lease in Chicago in a box. Some pictures of me enjoying myself at a size acceptance group, a few pictures of me with men I dated.
There were newspaper obituaries, and funeral programs of loved ones; both my parents, my mother-in-law, who was like a second mom, the grandparents Gumm, aunts and uncles and my dear friend Lisa Lilac who lost her six year battle with breast cancer less than a year ago. I'm glad we put pictures on funeral programs - we show them smiling and living their lives, surrounded by loved ones. It's as it should be.
I looked at pictures and postcards and lots of souvenirs from my travels abroad. Even maps of airports in Kuwait, Turkey and Bahrain - did I really think I was going to get lost in an airport? Is that me riding a camel in the Dubai desert? I celebrated my 40th birthday in Seoul, Korea and that picture of a flushed me with 40 empty glasses? I did NOT drink all those beverages.
I read notes to myself about work, looked at mundane 'to do' lists and found the first few chapters of the book I began writing in 1999. Subsequent chapters were in other layers of stuff.
While I didn't keep all of these things, just looking at them, reading them, feeling the emotions each evoked, helped me realize what path I've been on. As a little girl, I dreamed that my life would consist of travel and a stage. So the stage happened to be in high schools telling people about the opportunities a college education could afford them. I believe that. I am a walking example of that philosophy. So what if, in the dream I was 5 foot 10 and 120 lbs with long, flowing brown hair and drove a lime green sport car? I was still on the same highway. I may not have always followed the prescribed route and sometimes I admit I was lost and did not ask for directions, but I am here - still on that road, still moving forward, with a destination of being the best I can be in mind.
At this time in my life, I am moving into the slow lane. Honk at me if you choose, but I'm here and I know where I am going. Like the little old lady who can barely see over the steering wheel, I will not let your aggressive habits deter me from my destination. I will take a few classes so that I can teach composition at university level, if time allows, I'll earn a PhD. I will set my eyes on the 'early semi-retirement' exit sign and if all the planning and mapping and use of the GPS system fails, then I'll move into the next lane and keep going forward, using my rearview mirror as inspiration and motivation.
I downsized, simplified and plain old 'got rid of' a lot of THINGS (and I mean things as in possessions) for this move. It was, in the end cathartic, but in the process emotionally and therefore physically draining.
I recommend it to everyone. I especially recommend it to you if you are hesitant about the next step in your life, or a bit afraid of what the future holds, or if you are feeling like your life has 'stuck' in a holding pattern not of your choice. If your circumstances dictate that you move, then look at this as an opportunity to reflect on your life's route, stick out your thumb for help, and just start the journey.
As a matter of fact, this experience was so eyeopening to me that I now plan to make this an annual event in my life. I feel connected to the world. I have a history - it's good, bad and ugly, but it's mine! I think I've made a difference in someone's life. I plan to let others know they've made a difference in mine. Coincidences can't be programmed in GPS.
It started with a DVD made by my uncle shortly after my dad's death in 2000. It had pictures of my dad's parents & their siblings, pictures of my dad's brothers and sisters, their kids, and grandkids - almost 70 years worth of pictures! I also found a CD made from a recording of my father playing the accordian when he was 8 or 10 years old (a special talent for kids of the 40's and 50's - no one plays the accordian anymore!). On that original recording my grandparents and aunts and uncles sent a short note to a family friend...I heard my grandmother's voice as a young woman. She was 10 years younger than I am now - my grandmother! My aunts, some shyly, some boldly, stepping up to the recorder saying "hi". My aunt Ardith, may she rest in peace, was bold and outspoken in my life - the one people listened too, and so it seems from the recording, had this character trait even as a young girl. My aunt Sandy is shy, a killer with kindness, the one whose heart lives on her sleeve; and in the recording, you could hear that.
I kept my wedding dress, and the maid of honor's, our marriage certificate and the cake topper- all there for my children. I reread letters my ex husband and I wrote to each other during our painful separation and eventual divorce. They are heartrending and so real and so full of feeling. I cried a lot reading them, just as I cried a lot going through it. But I see in those letters, two people who didn't know each other until it was too late. And it reaffirms that the choice to divorce was the right choice.
I really liked going through things my children made - things they made just for me of their own accord, or things that every child makes in kindergarten in Iowa (the laminated Christmas tree with their smiling faces in place of the star). I kept coloring books just because they had colored in them. From the one color scribbles all over the page to the multi-colored, intricate pictures, all within the lines, of course! My children colored these, I see their tiny 4 year old selves hunkered down, concentrating on making the picture 'just right' for me. I have their report cards, their birth certificates, and thousands (yes, thousands!) of pictures of them. The amount even surprised me. As a matter of fact, of the 20 or so boxes I moved - almost 1/3 are full of pictures or mementos of my kids.
There are pictures of me as a child with my three brothers (sorry Sis & Ty you weren't born then) and cousins. I looked positively anorexic until puberty set in! My birth certificate - goodness my feet were tiny and...crooked. Maybe that's why they hurt today? Some of my report cards - almost all say I don't live up to my potential. What potential did those elementary teachers see in me? More importantly, how could I, a 7 year old, not live up to it? My high school year books, graduation photos and pictures from high school friends whose short notes on the back almost always describe me as "sweet" and "smart". I have the first book, although coverless, I was ever allowed to purchase from Scholastic Books. "A Room for Kathy" so appropriate for a girl who grew up with three younger brothers!
There were papers and quizzes, and abstracts and loan applications in there from my college years; both undergraduate and graduate. Newspaper clippings of my time as the student body president/vice president, a bronze labeled plaque in recognition as an outstanding alumni and capstone projects, a proposed theory on adult education (presented by me at a national conference I might add). And pictures too of my colleagues, Dr. Earnest (now, just Kurt then), Ms. Ruther, my mentors, Dr. Fairchild and Ms. Morlan and professors, Dr.s Torrie and Hausafras who helped me live up to my potential.
I kept my performance evaluations from Iowa State (wow! I was a go-getter) and the letter offering me the job at DePaul. I kept my first lease without my husband as a co-signer and my first lease in Chicago in a box. Some pictures of me enjoying myself at a size acceptance group, a few pictures of me with men I dated.
There were newspaper obituaries, and funeral programs of loved ones; both my parents, my mother-in-law, who was like a second mom, the grandparents Gumm, aunts and uncles and my dear friend Lisa Lilac who lost her six year battle with breast cancer less than a year ago. I'm glad we put pictures on funeral programs - we show them smiling and living their lives, surrounded by loved ones. It's as it should be.
I looked at pictures and postcards and lots of souvenirs from my travels abroad. Even maps of airports in Kuwait, Turkey and Bahrain - did I really think I was going to get lost in an airport? Is that me riding a camel in the Dubai desert? I celebrated my 40th birthday in Seoul, Korea and that picture of a flushed me with 40 empty glasses? I did NOT drink all those beverages.
I read notes to myself about work, looked at mundane 'to do' lists and found the first few chapters of the book I began writing in 1999. Subsequent chapters were in other layers of stuff.
While I didn't keep all of these things, just looking at them, reading them, feeling the emotions each evoked, helped me realize what path I've been on. As a little girl, I dreamed that my life would consist of travel and a stage. So the stage happened to be in high schools telling people about the opportunities a college education could afford them. I believe that. I am a walking example of that philosophy. So what if, in the dream I was 5 foot 10 and 120 lbs with long, flowing brown hair and drove a lime green sport car? I was still on the same highway. I may not have always followed the prescribed route and sometimes I admit I was lost and did not ask for directions, but I am here - still on that road, still moving forward, with a destination of being the best I can be in mind.
At this time in my life, I am moving into the slow lane. Honk at me if you choose, but I'm here and I know where I am going. Like the little old lady who can barely see over the steering wheel, I will not let your aggressive habits deter me from my destination. I will take a few classes so that I can teach composition at university level, if time allows, I'll earn a PhD. I will set my eyes on the 'early semi-retirement' exit sign and if all the planning and mapping and use of the GPS system fails, then I'll move into the next lane and keep going forward, using my rearview mirror as inspiration and motivation.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
It's all fun and games until the Monkey pokes out your eyes...Memories of my Gram Keasey
My mind has traveled to my Gram (my dad's mom) because earlier this week, I was sharing some of the small-town Iowa German-ess of my heritage with a new colleague. Grams always made me laugh, even when she was scaring me, and she influenced my life in many ways. And I loved her more than I can say.
She was a real-life character. I have met very few people who had a Gram like mine, and of those I have, we've bonded instantly. There is something about having a Gram who was bigger than life that makes your childhood unique. She should have been a TV show. I wish I had asked her a few more questions, asked her to expound on her life. But I was probably running from her and the flyswatter she tended to hit us with when we were mouthy (read disagreed with her) 'bohunks'. I think she used the term affectionately, although it has more objectionable and not politically correct meanings.
My Gram (legal name Mildred, friends and family called her Midge) was about 4 foot 9 inches tall and weighed about 150 lbs. Family history has it she was born in the bedpan and premature, in a time when premature babies didn't survive. She was a fighter and she survived. She became the family pet to all her older sisters and brothers, who spoiled her at every opportunity. She developed a sense of entitlement early on.
At the time I remember her best, she was blind in one eye, so wore an eye patch under her cat's eye eyeglasses. She had battleship grey hair cut very short, in the style of a 50's doo-wop singer - that little flip in the front with some wave. I do believe this was a radical haircut for a woman then. It was the early 70's so she wore 'pantsuits' (all the rage and all polyester), and for some reason white nurse shoes. I don't think she was ever a nurse.
In the earlier pictures of Gram, she is wearing an apron over her farm dress, has windblown curly hair and is surrounded by 7 children (she had 9, but two died in infancy); my father the baby of the family for 13 years until his brother was born. My father was also the favorite of my Gram and even though they had emotionally violent differences, he remained her golden child. For some reason a majority of the pics of my father's family have everyone standing by a car. Actually, I've noticed that a lot of 40's & 50's pics have people standing by a car...but that is another topic for my traveling mind.
My grandparents owned a small 'mom and pop' motel and diner in a small close-to-a-college town in Iowa. I have a few, bright memories of the diner, and lots of memories of the motel. The diner was SMALL, like a box car. My grandpa cooked at the diner and for years after it closed, we ate from the diner dishes. Heavy dishes you don't find anymore. The diner became a storage shed on the motel property - painted emerald green and full of who knows what. Once Haystack Calhoun (a very famous tv & mid-west circuit wrestler) stopped at the diner and everyone had their picture taken with him, especially my Gram....he was huge and remember the diner was SMALL. My grandmother loved tv wrestling and never, ever, believed it was choreographed.
Every summer until I was 16 or 17, I lived with my grandparents and uncle in the hotel. And I helped my grandpa with cleaning, laundry, yard work, and taking care of my Gram. She was little, but she was the ruler of her domain, she may have been a dictator, or even a despot. Grandpa had been in the USNavy and was about 6 feet tall, yet I swear, he was slightly afraid of her (as were we all). Each morning Grandpa gave her an insulin injection and then brought her breakfast, which he prepared, of grapefruit slices, poached eggs and toast on a tray. He and I would eat Wheaties in the kitchen before beginning the daily motel chores...I love Wheaties. My uncle, may he rest in peace, was only 7 years older than me and so was much more like an older brother, would have been up tending to his numerous side businesses before heading to work at the local school district. He too influenced my life beyond belief, and I will write about him another time.
Gram had way too many pets: she bred chihuahua dogs, lived with a myna bird, tropical fish, and monkeys. Yes monkeys. Those skinny rat-like monkeys with the long tails and white hairy beards and manes around their faces. Sammy and Susie...right there in their special little cage, in the 'reception' area of the motel. They were mean and they scared the hell out of us, but Gram insisted that we let them play. They would pull our hair, jam their fingers in our ears and nostrils and scream with their mouths wide open showing barred teeth that looked like fangs. For some reason they especially liked to torture my younger brother, Tony, who was about 4 or 5. When in their cages, Sammy masturbated constantly or sexually attacked Susie at frequent intervals - all to our wide-eyed questioning. Gram would tell us to 'never mind that' and not answer our questions. She bought special fruits for them, in particular little, tiny bananas. Today that doesn't seem such a sacrifice, but I am sure then they were harder to find.
This was the 60's and 70's - the reception area of the motel was actually the living room of my grandparents home. It had two couches covered with a thousand crocheted pillows and dolls or holiday accessories. There was a TV next to the stand-alone heater, Georgie Porgie (the myna bird)next to the motel entrance door, the special built cage for Sammy and Susie, a big fish aquarium filled with tropical fish in very bright yellow and blue colors, the 'reception desk' with the candy stand....oh the candy stand.
Behind the reception desk - which was metal gray and about chest high to an average sized adult - was the candy stand. Motel customers could buy candy; big blocky klondike bars, hershey bars, gum and pop (soda to you non-Iowans). They could also buy Tums, Bayer aspirin, and other things someone traveling along route 69 in the midwest might need. And it was so enticing and off-limits to the grandchildren. My Gram, who was diabetic, would hide some candy every once in a while (okay more than she should have) in her pantsuit pocket and eat it but still forbid us from doing so.
The motel was called the Poplar Motel due to the string of poplar trees that used to be behind it and down by the small creek that ran beside it. By the time I lived there, the trees were spindly and dying or spindly and newly planted. Each room opened onto the sidewalk which ran in front of the motel. A little roof topped the sidewalk and was held up with black, wrought-iron posts. Some metal rocking lawn chairs were set out along the sidewalk, under yellow insect-repellent light bulbs for patrons who wanted to watch the traffic pass by. The motel sign was like that you see in the Psycho movies - a big, neon adorned sign set close to the road, advertising 'vacancy' or 'no vacancy', blinking a big yellow arrow toward the motel set not more than 50 feet from the entrance. Each year my grandpa planted flowers in the brick base of the motel sign...one year I pulled them all thinking they were weeds. They were Bachelor's Buttons and years later at my own home I planted them again...they DO look like weeds until they bloom.
Each room had a double bed (0r two) and 12x12 inch square tile floors, a TV, a separate bathroom with a tiled shower. One very tiny window in the bedroom and bathroom, with spun glass curtains hung on rods with very sharp pleat-enhancing hooks. A lamp (or two) with a twisty neck, bolted to the wall or bedside table. No artwork that I can remember on the walls. No big fluffy towels, no special ginger-mint soaps or shampoos. An individually wrapped bar of dial soap and two white, well-worn, rough, but absorbent towels and face cloths was the standard. Just thinking about the motel, I can smell Dial soap, although I've never used it other than at Gram's all those years ago.
The myna bird, Georgie Porgie who "kissed the girls and made them cry" as he liked to tell us, learned very early to mimic my Gram. Now my Gram could swear like a sailor, she cheated at cards and sometimes she judged the actions of her family and the motel patrons pretty harshly. This made for a wonderful repetoire for Georgie. Georgie was vindictive and hated my Grandpa. Grandpa didn't really like him either, but often had to be the one to clean out his cage and assist Georgie in his bathing ritual. I watched this bird, and if Gram helped him bathe, he was all kisses and sweetness, saying "thank you" and "Georgie's clean". When Grandpa did it, Georgie was swearing and cussing and throwing water all over the place. I know he hated Grandpa because one of the things Georgie repeated ad nausem was the creaking of the motel reception area door. Each time the door opened, Georgie 'creeeaaaaaaked'...and each time my Gram would say "G*dDammit Roy, oil that door". Eventually, Georgie went right from the 'creeeaaaak' to "G*dammit Roy"...and so Gram realized that Grampa HAD oiled the door and now we had to cover Georgie Porgie up anytime non-family came to the door. Sometimes Grandpa 'forgot' to uncover him for hours afterwards.
As I mentioned earlier, Gram bred & sold Chihuahua dogs. For the most part Chihuahuas are tiny, trembling things. They have a sharp bark and a Napolean complex - every time anyone came near Gram her breeder dogs/pets would growl and perk up their ears as a warning to us. Except for her favorite, Jinglehopper. Jinglehopper was shaped like a football. This is a very unusual shape for a chihuahua, she was...fat, incredibly fat. She wasn't always fat, when Gram first got her, she was tiny, so Gram put a little christmas bell around her neck so Grandpa, so tall and unaware, wouldnt' step on her. Jinglehopper's name came quite naturally - she had the bell around her fat little neck and she had only three legs causing her gait to be a little choppy. Believe me, this little chichuahua could not HOP up on anthing...so Gram often picked her up and carried her about, or sat watching wrestling on TV with Jinglehopper preening by her side.
Gram crocheted as if her life depended on it. She made Barbie doll clothes for the grandaughters. She made us sweaters. She crocheted smocking on flirty dresses for our baby pictures. She made doll pillows, she made dolls whose skirts covered the toilet paper roll. Dolls whose skirts coverd the toaster and the blender. She made potholders, oven mitts, baby booties and blankets. Doilies that covered every square inch of furniture or table top. She taught me to crochet and I have made....bed throws. That is it. But I remember Gram teaching me - I had to make a long (and I mean LONG) chain of stitches that all looked the same before she would let me make a square for a blanket. She taught me crocheting perfection.
I have so many stories about Gram. Next time I will talk about her cheating at cards and chasing us with flyswatters. I will explore the relationship she had with my dad and hence my mother and how I fit into that complex, sometimes hurtful triangle. I will share her wise words when I started being interested in boys and her advice on the perils of loving men. I'll invite you into her world of hoarding, and how when she passed, we found her tiny, tiny shoes from the 1930's and 40's stashed in her bedroom under every present her 7 children had ever given her. I'll talk about how she became a CB Radio queen and the clubs she joined and the jamborees she attended. And that will lead us into my uncle's life and how important he was to me as well.
As I would say when staying with my grandparents, Walton family style: Good night Grampa, Good night D, Good night Gram. Thank you for loving me. I love you.
She was a real-life character. I have met very few people who had a Gram like mine, and of those I have, we've bonded instantly. There is something about having a Gram who was bigger than life that makes your childhood unique. She should have been a TV show. I wish I had asked her a few more questions, asked her to expound on her life. But I was probably running from her and the flyswatter she tended to hit us with when we were mouthy (read disagreed with her) 'bohunks'. I think she used the term affectionately, although it has more objectionable and not politically correct meanings.
My Gram (legal name Mildred, friends and family called her Midge) was about 4 foot 9 inches tall and weighed about 150 lbs. Family history has it she was born in the bedpan and premature, in a time when premature babies didn't survive. She was a fighter and she survived. She became the family pet to all her older sisters and brothers, who spoiled her at every opportunity. She developed a sense of entitlement early on.
At the time I remember her best, she was blind in one eye, so wore an eye patch under her cat's eye eyeglasses. She had battleship grey hair cut very short, in the style of a 50's doo-wop singer - that little flip in the front with some wave. I do believe this was a radical haircut for a woman then. It was the early 70's so she wore 'pantsuits' (all the rage and all polyester), and for some reason white nurse shoes. I don't think she was ever a nurse.
In the earlier pictures of Gram, she is wearing an apron over her farm dress, has windblown curly hair and is surrounded by 7 children (she had 9, but two died in infancy); my father the baby of the family for 13 years until his brother was born. My father was also the favorite of my Gram and even though they had emotionally violent differences, he remained her golden child. For some reason a majority of the pics of my father's family have everyone standing by a car. Actually, I've noticed that a lot of 40's & 50's pics have people standing by a car...but that is another topic for my traveling mind.
My grandparents owned a small 'mom and pop' motel and diner in a small close-to-a-college town in Iowa. I have a few, bright memories of the diner, and lots of memories of the motel. The diner was SMALL, like a box car. My grandpa cooked at the diner and for years after it closed, we ate from the diner dishes. Heavy dishes you don't find anymore. The diner became a storage shed on the motel property - painted emerald green and full of who knows what. Once Haystack Calhoun (a very famous tv & mid-west circuit wrestler) stopped at the diner and everyone had their picture taken with him, especially my Gram....he was huge and remember the diner was SMALL. My grandmother loved tv wrestling and never, ever, believed it was choreographed.
Every summer until I was 16 or 17, I lived with my grandparents and uncle in the hotel. And I helped my grandpa with cleaning, laundry, yard work, and taking care of my Gram. She was little, but she was the ruler of her domain, she may have been a dictator, or even a despot. Grandpa had been in the USNavy and was about 6 feet tall, yet I swear, he was slightly afraid of her (as were we all). Each morning Grandpa gave her an insulin injection and then brought her breakfast, which he prepared, of grapefruit slices, poached eggs and toast on a tray. He and I would eat Wheaties in the kitchen before beginning the daily motel chores...I love Wheaties. My uncle, may he rest in peace, was only 7 years older than me and so was much more like an older brother, would have been up tending to his numerous side businesses before heading to work at the local school district. He too influenced my life beyond belief, and I will write about him another time.
Gram had way too many pets: she bred chihuahua dogs, lived with a myna bird, tropical fish, and monkeys. Yes monkeys. Those skinny rat-like monkeys with the long tails and white hairy beards and manes around their faces. Sammy and Susie...right there in their special little cage, in the 'reception' area of the motel. They were mean and they scared the hell out of us, but Gram insisted that we let them play. They would pull our hair, jam their fingers in our ears and nostrils and scream with their mouths wide open showing barred teeth that looked like fangs. For some reason they especially liked to torture my younger brother, Tony, who was about 4 or 5. When in their cages, Sammy masturbated constantly or sexually attacked Susie at frequent intervals - all to our wide-eyed questioning. Gram would tell us to 'never mind that' and not answer our questions. She bought special fruits for them, in particular little, tiny bananas. Today that doesn't seem such a sacrifice, but I am sure then they were harder to find.
This was the 60's and 70's - the reception area of the motel was actually the living room of my grandparents home. It had two couches covered with a thousand crocheted pillows and dolls or holiday accessories. There was a TV next to the stand-alone heater, Georgie Porgie (the myna bird)next to the motel entrance door, the special built cage for Sammy and Susie, a big fish aquarium filled with tropical fish in very bright yellow and blue colors, the 'reception desk' with the candy stand....oh the candy stand.
Behind the reception desk - which was metal gray and about chest high to an average sized adult - was the candy stand. Motel customers could buy candy; big blocky klondike bars, hershey bars, gum and pop (soda to you non-Iowans). They could also buy Tums, Bayer aspirin, and other things someone traveling along route 69 in the midwest might need. And it was so enticing and off-limits to the grandchildren. My Gram, who was diabetic, would hide some candy every once in a while (okay more than she should have) in her pantsuit pocket and eat it but still forbid us from doing so.
The motel was called the Poplar Motel due to the string of poplar trees that used to be behind it and down by the small creek that ran beside it. By the time I lived there, the trees were spindly and dying or spindly and newly planted. Each room opened onto the sidewalk which ran in front of the motel. A little roof topped the sidewalk and was held up with black, wrought-iron posts. Some metal rocking lawn chairs were set out along the sidewalk, under yellow insect-repellent light bulbs for patrons who wanted to watch the traffic pass by. The motel sign was like that you see in the Psycho movies - a big, neon adorned sign set close to the road, advertising 'vacancy' or 'no vacancy', blinking a big yellow arrow toward the motel set not more than 50 feet from the entrance. Each year my grandpa planted flowers in the brick base of the motel sign...one year I pulled them all thinking they were weeds. They were Bachelor's Buttons and years later at my own home I planted them again...they DO look like weeds until they bloom.
Each room had a double bed (0r two) and 12x12 inch square tile floors, a TV, a separate bathroom with a tiled shower. One very tiny window in the bedroom and bathroom, with spun glass curtains hung on rods with very sharp pleat-enhancing hooks. A lamp (or two) with a twisty neck, bolted to the wall or bedside table. No artwork that I can remember on the walls. No big fluffy towels, no special ginger-mint soaps or shampoos. An individually wrapped bar of dial soap and two white, well-worn, rough, but absorbent towels and face cloths was the standard. Just thinking about the motel, I can smell Dial soap, although I've never used it other than at Gram's all those years ago.
The myna bird, Georgie Porgie who "kissed the girls and made them cry" as he liked to tell us, learned very early to mimic my Gram. Now my Gram could swear like a sailor, she cheated at cards and sometimes she judged the actions of her family and the motel patrons pretty harshly. This made for a wonderful repetoire for Georgie. Georgie was vindictive and hated my Grandpa. Grandpa didn't really like him either, but often had to be the one to clean out his cage and assist Georgie in his bathing ritual. I watched this bird, and if Gram helped him bathe, he was all kisses and sweetness, saying "thank you" and "Georgie's clean". When Grandpa did it, Georgie was swearing and cussing and throwing water all over the place. I know he hated Grandpa because one of the things Georgie repeated ad nausem was the creaking of the motel reception area door. Each time the door opened, Georgie 'creeeaaaaaaked'...and each time my Gram would say "G*dDammit Roy, oil that door". Eventually, Georgie went right from the 'creeeaaaak' to "G*dammit Roy"...and so Gram realized that Grampa HAD oiled the door and now we had to cover Georgie Porgie up anytime non-family came to the door. Sometimes Grandpa 'forgot' to uncover him for hours afterwards.
As I mentioned earlier, Gram bred & sold Chihuahua dogs. For the most part Chihuahuas are tiny, trembling things. They have a sharp bark and a Napolean complex - every time anyone came near Gram her breeder dogs/pets would growl and perk up their ears as a warning to us. Except for her favorite, Jinglehopper. Jinglehopper was shaped like a football. This is a very unusual shape for a chihuahua, she was...fat, incredibly fat. She wasn't always fat, when Gram first got her, she was tiny, so Gram put a little christmas bell around her neck so Grandpa, so tall and unaware, wouldnt' step on her. Jinglehopper's name came quite naturally - she had the bell around her fat little neck and she had only three legs causing her gait to be a little choppy. Believe me, this little chichuahua could not HOP up on anthing...so Gram often picked her up and carried her about, or sat watching wrestling on TV with Jinglehopper preening by her side.
Gram crocheted as if her life depended on it. She made Barbie doll clothes for the grandaughters. She made us sweaters. She crocheted smocking on flirty dresses for our baby pictures. She made doll pillows, she made dolls whose skirts covered the toilet paper roll. Dolls whose skirts coverd the toaster and the blender. She made potholders, oven mitts, baby booties and blankets. Doilies that covered every square inch of furniture or table top. She taught me to crochet and I have made....bed throws. That is it. But I remember Gram teaching me - I had to make a long (and I mean LONG) chain of stitches that all looked the same before she would let me make a square for a blanket. She taught me crocheting perfection.
I have so many stories about Gram. Next time I will talk about her cheating at cards and chasing us with flyswatters. I will explore the relationship she had with my dad and hence my mother and how I fit into that complex, sometimes hurtful triangle. I will share her wise words when I started being interested in boys and her advice on the perils of loving men. I'll invite you into her world of hoarding, and how when she passed, we found her tiny, tiny shoes from the 1930's and 40's stashed in her bedroom under every present her 7 children had ever given her. I'll talk about how she became a CB Radio queen and the clubs she joined and the jamborees she attended. And that will lead us into my uncle's life and how important he was to me as well.
As I would say when staying with my grandparents, Walton family style: Good night Grampa, Good night D, Good night Gram. Thank you for loving me. I love you.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Lord, cure me of my self-reliance, no seriously, I mean it this time!
Thank you RebeccaofSunnybrook for the wonderful early morning reads!
Now my mind is traveling to our shared history and pondering something you said.
Specifically the revelation that you almost drove yourself to the hospital while you were having a heart attack!
Dear Lord, cure me of my self-reliance.
I've taken it too far! I want to believe that people don't see my vulnerabilities. They do. Some ignore them, some take advantage of them, some acknowledge them and offer assistance, which I almost always refuse.
I am not the same person I was five or ten years ago. I cannot do all the things I did then. I should accept this and ask for help when needed.
Recently I had a minor surgery, which required me to be put under anesthesia, and I tried so hard to do it all on my own. Luckily, one friend said NO in no uncertain terms and picked me up from the hospital and took me home and checked in on me several times a day for the next few days. That was nice, and Paula, if you're reading this, thank you again for the 100th time.
My dear friend Lisa (taken at age 41 after a six year battle with breast cancer)told me that the life lesson which was hardest to learn was in asking for help and relying on others. But when you're battling for your life you have to let someone else handle the other stuff. She cautioned me to not wait to learn this lesson. I think it's beginning to sink in.
And it's sinking in over the most mundane of reasons! Because I am trying to move! I feel so silly that my life lesson in humility is learned due to a couch!
I have limited time to sort and box things, and there are boxes that haven't been opened from my move of five years ago! Actually, there are a couple of boxes that haven't been opened from my move to Chicago 10 years ago! I am downsizing from a 1 bedroom condo to a studio apartment, and so can't just move these boxes of god-knows-what again. I am overwhelmed with where to start, so I read Bec's blog entries and write in my own.
I'd like to give my furniture and assorted bric-a-brac away to family and friends, but most of them live in Iowa, so it's not as easy as saying come and take it. Moving is expensive, and my current building charges a move-out fee (every time you move anything OUT) so I can't advertise on lists and have people moving free things at differing times.
So, being self-reliant, I have requested quotes from moving and storage companies to see if they can move some things to a storage unit and others to the studio apartment. I hatch a Plan B which might or might not involve bribing some college students I know (and care about) who are strong, have limitless energies and can drive a moving van 100's of miles. I scheme a Plan C which invoves packing up the necessities and stealing away in the night...okay that one is really more like a daydream, I'd never do that.
I buy boxes and packing tape and lots of trash bags (downsizing is a perfect time to throw things out). I surround myself with a plan - today it is the bedroom including the closet. Tomorrow it is the living room and entertainment center.
Didn't I just ask to be cured of self reliance? Maybe god is telling me to get off my butt on this one and just do it. And save the asking for help for important things, like surgeries.
Now my mind is traveling to our shared history and pondering something you said.
Specifically the revelation that you almost drove yourself to the hospital while you were having a heart attack!
Dear Lord, cure me of my self-reliance.
I've taken it too far! I want to believe that people don't see my vulnerabilities. They do. Some ignore them, some take advantage of them, some acknowledge them and offer assistance, which I almost always refuse.
I am not the same person I was five or ten years ago. I cannot do all the things I did then. I should accept this and ask for help when needed.
Recently I had a minor surgery, which required me to be put under anesthesia, and I tried so hard to do it all on my own. Luckily, one friend said NO in no uncertain terms and picked me up from the hospital and took me home and checked in on me several times a day for the next few days. That was nice, and Paula, if you're reading this, thank you again for the 100th time.
My dear friend Lisa (taken at age 41 after a six year battle with breast cancer)told me that the life lesson which was hardest to learn was in asking for help and relying on others. But when you're battling for your life you have to let someone else handle the other stuff. She cautioned me to not wait to learn this lesson. I think it's beginning to sink in.
And it's sinking in over the most mundane of reasons! Because I am trying to move! I feel so silly that my life lesson in humility is learned due to a couch!
I have limited time to sort and box things, and there are boxes that haven't been opened from my move of five years ago! Actually, there are a couple of boxes that haven't been opened from my move to Chicago 10 years ago! I am downsizing from a 1 bedroom condo to a studio apartment, and so can't just move these boxes of god-knows-what again. I am overwhelmed with where to start, so I read Bec's blog entries and write in my own.
I'd like to give my furniture and assorted bric-a-brac away to family and friends, but most of them live in Iowa, so it's not as easy as saying come and take it. Moving is expensive, and my current building charges a move-out fee (every time you move anything OUT) so I can't advertise on lists and have people moving free things at differing times.
So, being self-reliant, I have requested quotes from moving and storage companies to see if they can move some things to a storage unit and others to the studio apartment. I hatch a Plan B which might or might not involve bribing some college students I know (and care about) who are strong, have limitless energies and can drive a moving van 100's of miles. I scheme a Plan C which invoves packing up the necessities and stealing away in the night...okay that one is really more like a daydream, I'd never do that.
I buy boxes and packing tape and lots of trash bags (downsizing is a perfect time to throw things out). I surround myself with a plan - today it is the bedroom including the closet. Tomorrow it is the living room and entertainment center.
Didn't I just ask to be cured of self reliance? Maybe god is telling me to get off my butt on this one and just do it. And save the asking for help for important things, like surgeries.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Hello, I am the "F" word...
Hi,
My name is Tammy and I am the "F" word. Not fuck. Fat.
I am fat; morbidly obese to be medically accurate. It doesn't matter that my blood pressure and triglycerides are well within medical limits, or that other than colds and age-related conditions (curse thee oh menopause), I tend to be pretty healthy...my weight overshadows (no pun intended) everything every one sees about me.
I'm hard to miss, even though I prefer not to be noticed. I am conservative in my dress, hairstyle and makeup. I say 'please, thank you and excuse me' like my mom taught me. I tend to have a pleasant disposition, greeting people with a cheery 'hello', not because I am the quintessential jolly fat girl, but because that's just manners. I try to stay out of people's way; I gather everything close to me in crowded elevators or buses. I walk as gracefully as possible and talk in a moderate voice. I don't want to take up anymore space than I phsycially need and I don't want to be a very visible target.
My weight could give me advantages - I could be a bully and intimidate others with my size. I could barge around and push others out of my way and take up even more space than I really need. I could talk loudly and fill up the air with a big voice to match my big body. I could demand to be seen and heard in proportion to all my fatness.
But that isn't me. My fat body isn't who I am. Granted, being overweight all my life has formed part of my personality. I think being made fun of as a child has made me a more empathetic person. Using my brain more than my body has sharpened my wit and my problem solving skills and honed my bullshit meter. Being bombarded by media messages that say I am not attractive, loveable or entitled to a sex life has made me wary of relationships that place a greater emphasis on the physical than the emotional.
I've evolved into the fat woman I am today from the chubby kid I was. I won't apologize for being fat. I don't make a new resolution every year to lose weight. I do make a concerted effort to eat healthier foods, to move more and to know my body and the signs that it isn't acting like itsfatself. I am not any of the stereotypes associated with a fat person. I am not lazy. My job is not physical, but it's work all the same. I am not poor. I am not rich, but I do okay. I do not sweat profusely unless doing strenuous exercise, which I tend to avoid. I do not smell, other than of a perfume I've worn for years. I am not stupid or ignorant or uneducated, even about the risks of being overweight and avoiding exercise. I do not eat the equivalent of a week's worth of food in one sitting. I do eat too many calories for the amount of energy I expend.
Being fat is not acceptable. Systematic discrimination of fat people is acceptable. We've all experienced it in some form or other. We've all heard about the trillion dollar diet industry and the outdated and inaccurate insurance/medical stats. We're all fairly confident that it's about money; fashion money, medical money, diet money, fast food money, chemically enhanced farm money and most recently environmentally friendly money. We're all outraged at the airlines for charging fat people more for flights, but clothing companies have charged us more for years. But, of course, everything is and always has been about money. Being fat was acceptable in different periods of history. Big, fat, roly-poly women and men were an outward sign of wealth. Wealth that allowed them to eat more richly prepared foods and hire or enslave others to do all their physical activities (other than the orgies, of course). Now research shows those on the lower end of the economic ladder are fatter, due to the limited food and activity choices. Thin is equated with wealth.
I don't expect people to feel sorry for me because of my weight. I think I have the right to expect that they will not berate me for my weight or make fun of me or judge me for my weight. But they will - my weight is what they see first. I am appalled at the people who feel free to offer me diet and exercise advice. Or to tell me that I am fat - as if I went to bed last night weighing 120 pounds and woke up this morning weighing twice as much. "What? I'm fat you say? Let me see for myself!" That just isn't good manners. But most damaging to us all are the women and men who complain of being fat to solicit compliments or reassurance that they aren't. Many who binge and starve and exercise to extreme or use drugs to build muscle, burn fat or suppress their appetites and may be more unhealthy than I am because of it. For them, they are their body. For me, my body, in all its unacceptable fatness, is what houses me.
My name is Tammy and I am the "F" word. Not fuck. Fat.
I am fat; morbidly obese to be medically accurate. It doesn't matter that my blood pressure and triglycerides are well within medical limits, or that other than colds and age-related conditions (curse thee oh menopause), I tend to be pretty healthy...my weight overshadows (no pun intended) everything every one sees about me.
I'm hard to miss, even though I prefer not to be noticed. I am conservative in my dress, hairstyle and makeup. I say 'please, thank you and excuse me' like my mom taught me. I tend to have a pleasant disposition, greeting people with a cheery 'hello', not because I am the quintessential jolly fat girl, but because that's just manners. I try to stay out of people's way; I gather everything close to me in crowded elevators or buses. I walk as gracefully as possible and talk in a moderate voice. I don't want to take up anymore space than I phsycially need and I don't want to be a very visible target.
My weight could give me advantages - I could be a bully and intimidate others with my size. I could barge around and push others out of my way and take up even more space than I really need. I could talk loudly and fill up the air with a big voice to match my big body. I could demand to be seen and heard in proportion to all my fatness.
But that isn't me. My fat body isn't who I am. Granted, being overweight all my life has formed part of my personality. I think being made fun of as a child has made me a more empathetic person. Using my brain more than my body has sharpened my wit and my problem solving skills and honed my bullshit meter. Being bombarded by media messages that say I am not attractive, loveable or entitled to a sex life has made me wary of relationships that place a greater emphasis on the physical than the emotional.
I've evolved into the fat woman I am today from the chubby kid I was. I won't apologize for being fat. I don't make a new resolution every year to lose weight. I do make a concerted effort to eat healthier foods, to move more and to know my body and the signs that it isn't acting like itsfatself. I am not any of the stereotypes associated with a fat person. I am not lazy. My job is not physical, but it's work all the same. I am not poor. I am not rich, but I do okay. I do not sweat profusely unless doing strenuous exercise, which I tend to avoid. I do not smell, other than of a perfume I've worn for years. I am not stupid or ignorant or uneducated, even about the risks of being overweight and avoiding exercise. I do not eat the equivalent of a week's worth of food in one sitting. I do eat too many calories for the amount of energy I expend.
Being fat is not acceptable. Systematic discrimination of fat people is acceptable. We've all experienced it in some form or other. We've all heard about the trillion dollar diet industry and the outdated and inaccurate insurance/medical stats. We're all fairly confident that it's about money; fashion money, medical money, diet money, fast food money, chemically enhanced farm money and most recently environmentally friendly money. We're all outraged at the airlines for charging fat people more for flights, but clothing companies have charged us more for years. But, of course, everything is and always has been about money. Being fat was acceptable in different periods of history. Big, fat, roly-poly women and men were an outward sign of wealth. Wealth that allowed them to eat more richly prepared foods and hire or enslave others to do all their physical activities (other than the orgies, of course). Now research shows those on the lower end of the economic ladder are fatter, due to the limited food and activity choices. Thin is equated with wealth.
I don't expect people to feel sorry for me because of my weight. I think I have the right to expect that they will not berate me for my weight or make fun of me or judge me for my weight. But they will - my weight is what they see first. I am appalled at the people who feel free to offer me diet and exercise advice. Or to tell me that I am fat - as if I went to bed last night weighing 120 pounds and woke up this morning weighing twice as much. "What? I'm fat you say? Let me see for myself!" That just isn't good manners. But most damaging to us all are the women and men who complain of being fat to solicit compliments or reassurance that they aren't. Many who binge and starve and exercise to extreme or use drugs to build muscle, burn fat or suppress their appetites and may be more unhealthy than I am because of it. For them, they are their body. For me, my body, in all its unacceptable fatness, is what houses me.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine, may I help you with your baggage?
Today has my mind traveling to love, of course.
I remember falling in love with and being in love with my ex. Now, I just love him. That seems like a contradiction, since we are divorced, but it's true. I love him in the sense that I wish good things for him; physical and mental health, to be happy, to have companionship, to be needed, wanted and loved and to be without need and want of basic things. For him to recognize and take pride in the good things he's accomplished and to forgive himself for the mistakes he's made. I hope our children don't drive him crazy with worry or pique his anger to the point of no return. I hope that he is proud of them and sees the good parts of himself in them. Does he sometimes make me angry and hurt me? Yes. Do I sometimes turn into a person I don't like in times of conflict with him? Yes. Am I a saint and all forgiving? No. But, I care for him in the way I care for myself, and that is what we should do.
I have spent a great deal of time trying to decipher love in the ten years since our separation and divorce - specifically love for an intimate partner. Especially since my ex told me that what I was looking for didn't exist, and I'm beginning to believe him. I think it's something I will never feel again. That statement isn't meant to elicit pity, I don't know if I'm capable of dealing with the good, the bad and the ugly emotions 'being in love' calls forth. I don't think I have the energy to be less self-centered and more couple-focused. In ten years I've become very accustomed to being alone and selfishly independent. I find I don't mind clothes on the floor if they are mine or eating out of can because I don't want to cook. I also have the 20+ years of loving my ex coloring all other relationships. I believe there are many things you can only do once and whether you get them right or wrong, you can't experience them ever again. Oh, you may love another, and love them just as much, but's it's not the same.
And too, I think you have to be young to bear the feelings without seeking medical attention - I remember the emotions as piercing. I was 18, but I knew I was falling in love because it hurt. My head ached just wondering what he was doing, who he was with, hoping he was thinking about me. All that thinking made me distracted. I was all jangly inside and couldn't sleep. There was physical pain too, something I imagine to be like withdrawal from a drug, craving to hear his voice and be in his presence. My chest felt full, I had heart palpitations. I've recognized these feelings in later relationships and hesitated, because although they are normal, the symptoms are remarkably like a psychological disorder I'd rather not endure.
Then there are the years I was 'in love.' I wanted to make things easier for him, I wanted to provide an oasis, a place where he could be himself and be proud of me, our home, the life we made together. I hoped I challenged him to be a better person. I believe I encouraged him to do and see things differently than either of us had experienced in the past. I placed an inordinate amount of importance on his reactions to everything I said or did. I made it all about him, and how I felt depended on how he felt, because I thought that is what you did when you were in love with someone. He didn't ask me to do any of these things, but later I resented him for accepting them anyway. I believed he had taken me (and all I'd given) for granted; that he didn't love me as much as I loved him because he didn't or couldn't express it in the same way I did. At the end of our relationship when I said "I'm not 'in love' with you anymore" what I really meant was "I am not getting what I never asked for." I haven't become any better at asking for what I need or want and I haven't met a man who could read my mind, so subsequent relationships have also failed.
I am a child of the sixties and seventies - love was the opium of the masses then. Public displays of affection were encouraged, men were supposed to get in touch with and express their feelings and women were emerging as people with their own rights. "Make Love, not War" wasn't referring to sex; love was a feeling you had for all of personkind and the world was going to be a better place for it. We are the generation that was going to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. The movies portrayed love as either all innocence or all angst. Love meant never having to say you're sorry. My parent's relationship, although enduring, wasn't very helpful to me in my own marriage. Once I called my mom to talk about a horrible fight my then husband and I had and she asked me "What did you do to cause it?" I never talked about marital conflicts again. As far as my family knew, we were perfectly happy, living the dream life, until we divorced.
I have tried to keep the lines of communication open with my children as it relates to love. We've had some frank conversations about how the divorce of their parents probably affects the way they think about relationships and love. I've tried to claim my share of blame and point out my mistakes in the marriage. My daughter, who is older, remembers the fights and the hurtful words flung about, and both my son and daughter remember the pervasive atmosphere of anger and uncertainty. I try not to be cynical and I tell them that this was their father's and my experience with love and marriage and it doesn't have to be theirs. We discuss how love is not sex and it's not just for the rich and beautiful, and it's not fleeting or disposable, and everything can't be solved in 30 minutes, as it's so often portrayed on tv and in music today.
I hope they understand that you can have conflict and still love someone, and that fighting couples don't always divorce. I hope they know that although it's cliche', they are the best part of our marriage. I wish for them to find true partners in love - people they can trust with the most vulnerable parts of themselves. I hope they can ask for what they need. I hope they know what they need. I want them to find loving partners who will build them up, encourage them to be better people and who will pick them up when they fall and never stop loving them even when they fail.
I hope they get it right the first time.
I remember falling in love with and being in love with my ex. Now, I just love him. That seems like a contradiction, since we are divorced, but it's true. I love him in the sense that I wish good things for him; physical and mental health, to be happy, to have companionship, to be needed, wanted and loved and to be without need and want of basic things. For him to recognize and take pride in the good things he's accomplished and to forgive himself for the mistakes he's made. I hope our children don't drive him crazy with worry or pique his anger to the point of no return. I hope that he is proud of them and sees the good parts of himself in them. Does he sometimes make me angry and hurt me? Yes. Do I sometimes turn into a person I don't like in times of conflict with him? Yes. Am I a saint and all forgiving? No. But, I care for him in the way I care for myself, and that is what we should do.
I have spent a great deal of time trying to decipher love in the ten years since our separation and divorce - specifically love for an intimate partner. Especially since my ex told me that what I was looking for didn't exist, and I'm beginning to believe him. I think it's something I will never feel again. That statement isn't meant to elicit pity, I don't know if I'm capable of dealing with the good, the bad and the ugly emotions 'being in love' calls forth. I don't think I have the energy to be less self-centered and more couple-focused. In ten years I've become very accustomed to being alone and selfishly independent. I find I don't mind clothes on the floor if they are mine or eating out of can because I don't want to cook. I also have the 20+ years of loving my ex coloring all other relationships. I believe there are many things you can only do once and whether you get them right or wrong, you can't experience them ever again. Oh, you may love another, and love them just as much, but's it's not the same.
And too, I think you have to be young to bear the feelings without seeking medical attention - I remember the emotions as piercing. I was 18, but I knew I was falling in love because it hurt. My head ached just wondering what he was doing, who he was with, hoping he was thinking about me. All that thinking made me distracted. I was all jangly inside and couldn't sleep. There was physical pain too, something I imagine to be like withdrawal from a drug, craving to hear his voice and be in his presence. My chest felt full, I had heart palpitations. I've recognized these feelings in later relationships and hesitated, because although they are normal, the symptoms are remarkably like a psychological disorder I'd rather not endure.
Then there are the years I was 'in love.' I wanted to make things easier for him, I wanted to provide an oasis, a place where he could be himself and be proud of me, our home, the life we made together. I hoped I challenged him to be a better person. I believe I encouraged him to do and see things differently than either of us had experienced in the past. I placed an inordinate amount of importance on his reactions to everything I said or did. I made it all about him, and how I felt depended on how he felt, because I thought that is what you did when you were in love with someone. He didn't ask me to do any of these things, but later I resented him for accepting them anyway. I believed he had taken me (and all I'd given) for granted; that he didn't love me as much as I loved him because he didn't or couldn't express it in the same way I did. At the end of our relationship when I said "I'm not 'in love' with you anymore" what I really meant was "I am not getting what I never asked for." I haven't become any better at asking for what I need or want and I haven't met a man who could read my mind, so subsequent relationships have also failed.
I am a child of the sixties and seventies - love was the opium of the masses then. Public displays of affection were encouraged, men were supposed to get in touch with and express their feelings and women were emerging as people with their own rights. "Make Love, not War" wasn't referring to sex; love was a feeling you had for all of personkind and the world was going to be a better place for it. We are the generation that was going to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. The movies portrayed love as either all innocence or all angst. Love meant never having to say you're sorry. My parent's relationship, although enduring, wasn't very helpful to me in my own marriage. Once I called my mom to talk about a horrible fight my then husband and I had and she asked me "What did you do to cause it?" I never talked about marital conflicts again. As far as my family knew, we were perfectly happy, living the dream life, until we divorced.
I have tried to keep the lines of communication open with my children as it relates to love. We've had some frank conversations about how the divorce of their parents probably affects the way they think about relationships and love. I've tried to claim my share of blame and point out my mistakes in the marriage. My daughter, who is older, remembers the fights and the hurtful words flung about, and both my son and daughter remember the pervasive atmosphere of anger and uncertainty. I try not to be cynical and I tell them that this was their father's and my experience with love and marriage and it doesn't have to be theirs. We discuss how love is not sex and it's not just for the rich and beautiful, and it's not fleeting or disposable, and everything can't be solved in 30 minutes, as it's so often portrayed on tv and in music today.
I hope they understand that you can have conflict and still love someone, and that fighting couples don't always divorce. I hope they know that although it's cliche', they are the best part of our marriage. I wish for them to find true partners in love - people they can trust with the most vulnerable parts of themselves. I hope they can ask for what they need. I hope they know what they need. I want them to find loving partners who will build them up, encourage them to be better people and who will pick them up when they fall and never stop loving them even when they fail.
I hope they get it right the first time.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Stop calling it multitasking....
What really counts as multitasking? Wikipedia lists three types of multitasking; Computer, Media and Human. It says Human multitasking is the ability of a person to perform more than one task at the same time. It also defines task as a part of a set of actions that accomplish a job, problem or assignment. Note: it doesn't say that the performance of more than one task at the same time actually results in accomplishing a job, problem or assignment.
I'd venture that we most often claim to be multitasking when we're really doing something we have to (job, problem or assignment) and something we want to (media). Like writing a report for work while listening to our iPod or watching tv.
When you are sitting on the bus answering e-mails on your blackberry are you multitasking? You're not driving, and let's assume sitting doesn't count as a task. If you are driving any vehicle and answering e-mail on the blackberry, stop it. You're endangering others' lives, and probably misspelling words.
Can we really call it multitasking if even one of the actions we are doing doesn't assist us in accomplishing a job, problem or assignment?
From pen and paper to blogging. It was harder than I thought it would be. Maybe because I was also watching tv and playing Facebook games.
Yes, I was multitimewasting.
I'd venture that we most often claim to be multitasking when we're really doing something we have to (job, problem or assignment) and something we want to (media). Like writing a report for work while listening to our iPod or watching tv.
When you are sitting on the bus answering e-mails on your blackberry are you multitasking? You're not driving, and let's assume sitting doesn't count as a task. If you are driving any vehicle and answering e-mail on the blackberry, stop it. You're endangering others' lives, and probably misspelling words.
Can we really call it multitasking if even one of the actions we are doing doesn't assist us in accomplishing a job, problem or assignment?
From pen and paper to blogging. It was harder than I thought it would be. Maybe because I was also watching tv and playing Facebook games.
Yes, I was multitimewasting.
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