So, to recap:
September/October 1997
-broke ass college girl, who hasn't even been in college long enough know how broke she is, learns she is pregnant
-broke-ass college, single girl at 18 is a mess in her head and puking in the worst spots every day because there is never a bathroom around or close by: over a grate in the back of a janitorial room, projectile in the bathroom downstairs; AND she gets lectured for taking food out of the cafeteria; sick for 6 months
January 1998
-broke-ass pregnant, college girl gets apartment (*a lucky fool to have been given money by her mother)
-broke-ass pregnant, single, college girl at 18 whose significant other was attached by a thread
March 1998
-broke-ass pregnant, college girl who was able to obtain some broken form of peace by his arriving on her doorstep 8 months into her pregnancy
April 1998 -- November 1998
-broke-ass pregnant girl at 18, crazy and angry, confused and naive, desperate and unknowledgeable, poor with no good-paying job, head too full to think of options has baby girl
-BASM trying to figure out her place with said significant other; baby grows
-BASM doesn't get out. Much. Somewhat lonely and isolated; baby takes her first steps
November 1998 -- February 1999
-BASM and significant other fight. A LOT. BASM and S.O. break up; he doesn't leave; she finds a friend to go with for the annual Valentine's dance; she starts to realize things
March 1999
-Finally, S.O. moves out.
-BASM starts to equal girl; young mother
-young mother starts to date really tall, charismatic Canadian boy but falls apart at being BASM again, with S.O. having left and no follow-up support; baby has first birthday
May 1999
-young mother sends mixed signals to Canadian boy; Can Boy graduates from university, doctors suspect testicular cancer
June/Summer 1999
-CanBoy leaves for surgery, goes home; young mother tries to find a second job; goes back home for brother's graduation; no relationship developed with CB--just connection; Young Mother returns to College Town
-CB tries to stay in touch; young mother doesn't know what to do; head is such a mess
-CB makes it through surgery, doesn't tell anyone he's leaving for College Town, surprises young mother at home; YM overjoyed at his arrival, worries subside; couple learns that removed tumor was malignant
-things take off quickly for CB and YM; resume togetherness; try dating; YM proposes to CB; CB accepts
July 1999
-YM discovers an inch of water all over her basement apartment on lunch break; stacks are ruined, papers destroyed, clothing soaked; gobsmacked; YM and baby move in with CB and his roommates to get away; roommates not particularly happy
August 1999
-YM's brother announces his shotgun wedding the Friday before the Monday he is going to have it; YM and CB decide to surprise brother by overnighting it back to YM's hometown; leave flooded apartment and CB's house after CB's nightshift; head out
-8-hour trip is too long; YM falls asleep at the wheel, sends GeoTracker rolling multiple times; all three passengers survive; YM's head is bashed like crazy, CB's back muscles torn, eyes bloodshot, baby is ejected from vehicle with miraculous mere damage--two scratches--one on jaw and one on collar bone.
------
-baby, YM, and CB all rushed to hospital; EMT on highway just moments behind witnessed accident, called into dispatch; baby and CB released within 2 hours; YM in ICU with concussion for three days; brother's wedding postponed to next day
-chaos erupts as YM's mother rushes in on last minute flight; parents amidst divorce argue, wedding commences on postponed day, tensions rise, custody arrangements over younger brother take precedence; CB is verbally accosted by YM's family members; YM's younger brother goes missing, father ends up in jail that night for "hiding" younger brother with biker friends; older-middle brother ships out for basic; YM's head trauma overwhelms the situation, parents and extended family cause CB to book hotel room away from mess
-YM's grandfather gives her and CB old car to get back to College Town with much reservation; car breaks down halfway to College Town; CB's friends drive from College Town to pick CB, YM, and baby; all move in together
-YM, already late for the school year, avoids going back to class; head is in immeasurable pain, total recall impossible; resumes classes; can't find lecture halls and doesn't remember bassoon fingerings; landlord of flooded apartment demands rent; CB's student visa expires
-Wedding plans non-existent; Young Mother haggles with landlord, gets out of apartment, gets back into classes, fog slowly lifts, new roommates help out immensely; YM gets night sitter for night job; some normalcy begins to form, but routine starts to wear; CB decides to take Master's classes to extend student visa
October 1999
-CB and YM talk, understand unlikelihood of summer wedding occurring; talk over weekend, agree to go with JP wedding; CB books judge Monday, couple tells friends Tuesday, Wednesday; Thursday get out of school to get hitched, baby stays at sitter
-Third year in, YM contemplates quitting school; has very little time with new hubby and baby, behind in general credits, not enough hours in a day to do school/work/mother/wife; CB's Master's classes are too expensive and too draining to continue; CB drops classes
December 1999
-YM does exit interviews, drops classes; new family visit's mom in Nevada, where mom now lives, for Christmas; go to Disneyland; get ready for the big Y2K; CB and YM talk about moving to family to Canada; YM is pregnant
January 2000
-New Family makes motions to leave States; CB goes north to look for job, secure place for family; YM stays behind to pack
-phone is disconnected early, CB can't get a hold of YM to relay bad news: cancer was back; YM learns news upon his arrival to move them up; YM packed very little, scramble to get vehicles filled; roommate lends truck space and drives with caravan to Canadian border; all tears
-CB begins outpatient treatments, outpatient chemotherapy; loses hair; family living with father of CB
-YM not legal to work; helps out with house cleaning; life is scary and stressful living in new country with new inlaws
-YM doesn't think of exploring new surroundings, stays home while hubby leaves for daily treatments; hubby endures hours-long sessions, YM have little quality time together
Spring 2000
-doctors give hubby clean bill of health, mass in lung becomes calcified node; hubby tries to find teaching job; settles for prep cook by day and bouncer by night
-hubby goes back to work right away; hubby's dad lends young family second house to live in; pregnancy progresses
-couple experiences some freedom, but money is tight
July 2000
-teaching job hunting pays off, hubby gets interview; northern Canada; gets junior high band teaching job; family gets ready to move
August 2000
-baby girl arrives; final packing completed; move 8 hours north with 2-week-old baby
-move into two-bedroom apartment; school starts; adjust to life with salary; hubby continues medical check-ups
October 2000
-world comes crashing down, doctors inform hubby of second relapse; must leave everything to follow him into hospital
-hubby moves into hospital, family moves in with friends; roller coaster begins
-
22 May 2009
20 May 2009
But you know what? It's okay. It really is.
Not to the point that what whoever it was in whatever realm did what he/she/it/they did.
But to the point that it's done. Over with. And that that person can move along, move forward, and take the lesson part of it to heart, evolve the spirit, resolve to avoid doing it again, and feel better knowing (remembering) that a future point in time is the fading of the mistake. You don't have to have people like you, it's okay. Or if it wasn't that, it doesn't have to be everlasting regret/pain/sorrow. Just... learn. Learn the lesson. Figure out what it is. Find what it is. Be sad as you need to, but don't dwell. If it's anger that ails you, face what is making you angry. Make resolve with it. Make resolve by admitting what needs to be admitted to yourself or others, by learning how to see what makes you feel unsettled, by looking at the resources around you to help see yourself in a removed light, by experiencing the terrifying turn-around that comes with trying to change and the successful peace that comes after the cycle is completed. Understand that all things growing require some kind of painful metamorphosis--life was designed that way--but find rest and peace that all these things were meant for you to have. All these things were meant for you to find, for you to learn, for you to embrace, for you to grow. Find comfort in the end result. Keep hope as a candle flame to whatever darkness is hurting/plaguing you and remember that it is only God above that gives these things to you, for it is He Who created the mustard seed, which is tiny and deceivingly insignificant, but whose seed bears and produces the most enormous tree. Even the seed of a soul-less tree must break in the ground to grow. How much more must we, humans, intricate, beautiful and complex, break the same way in order to grow?
May peace be with you.
Not to the point that what whoever it was in whatever realm did what he/she/it/they did.
But to the point that it's done. Over with. And that that person can move along, move forward, and take the lesson part of it to heart, evolve the spirit, resolve to avoid doing it again, and feel better knowing (remembering) that a future point in time is the fading of the mistake. You don't have to have people like you, it's okay. Or if it wasn't that, it doesn't have to be everlasting regret/pain/sorrow. Just... learn. Learn the lesson. Figure out what it is. Find what it is. Be sad as you need to, but don't dwell. If it's anger that ails you, face what is making you angry. Make resolve with it. Make resolve by admitting what needs to be admitted to yourself or others, by learning how to see what makes you feel unsettled, by looking at the resources around you to help see yourself in a removed light, by experiencing the terrifying turn-around that comes with trying to change and the successful peace that comes after the cycle is completed. Understand that all things growing require some kind of painful metamorphosis--life was designed that way--but find rest and peace that all these things were meant for you to have. All these things were meant for you to find, for you to learn, for you to embrace, for you to grow. Find comfort in the end result. Keep hope as a candle flame to whatever darkness is hurting/plaguing you and remember that it is only God above that gives these things to you, for it is He Who created the mustard seed, which is tiny and deceivingly insignificant, but whose seed bears and produces the most enormous tree. Even the seed of a soul-less tree must break in the ground to grow. How much more must we, humans, intricate, beautiful and complex, break the same way in order to grow?
May peace be with you.
18 May 2009
Creepers and peepers and people who like to meddle
You know. I'm really disappointed. I really, really am. You know? You know who you are. Whoever it was who had the time, SPENT the time... trying to... what? Get something? Get somewhere? Do something? By doing... what, exactly? I mean, really. Thank God I can laugh about it now, but really--who are you? WHO? Who would go and waste the time and money on a stamp, spend the energy to concertedly mail a legal-sized envelope without a return address? What kind of person does that? Don't you realize that you won't get credit for looking good when you don't sign your name? I don't get it. It's just so... I don't know the word for it. What an ignobly ballsy thing to do.
Someone somewhere in some... (*hand circle-wave motion)... far off land (within this community, I much assume) found it their calling to print an entry I had written some months ago and mail it to my bosses. Oh yeah. It was mailed in a big brown envelope with no return address and marked "CONFIDENTIAL" on it. The entry, for the record, was one that recounted *shall we say* a 'story' of waitressing and my own monstrous lacking to process more understanding for people's bitchiness. Since realizing I was somewhat of a control freak (*see previous entry,) a MEGA amount of moments and accounts in and of my life have fallen into place and made SO much sense as to why I get SO worked up about things I cannot do anything about. Basically, I realized why I chose to get so impassioned about things (see: 'temperamentally intense-due-to-control issues') that I have absolutely zero control over. I.e. people's thoughts, responses, feelings, reactions, etc.
Anyway, the entry was a little raw, but nothing extreme and with absolutely zero reference to specific names, places, locations, people. Yet, I was approached and asked about it because it showed up in their mail; and the only kind of person to have sent it would have been someone who
a) knew the website (knew how to find it or SUPER coincidentally came across it)
b) knew who I was--enough to know to associate me with my place of work
c) knew where I worked
d) had purpose in sending it or d2) was petty/malicious
It really doesn't matter. Essentially, I've learned 2 very important lessons in all of this, following the lesson in being a control freak. (Probably more, but in the interest of time, I'll keep it down to two.)
1) There is no reason on earth to get that worked up about anything in the service industry. Really. People can be retarded, true, but who of us is exempt from being retarded? And there is certainly nothing that warrants the kind of ventage that was that entry. True. Especially in regards to the very public forum in which it was written and the potential for damage that it was and that it got dragged into my workplace. (Which, is, to whoever you are, SUPER uncool.) So, basic note to self: don't put such extreme anger into an entry, even when trying to be funny.
2) That people are still going to f*** people over even if they've never been mean to them a day in their lives. I try real hard to get along with everyone and NOT because I care if people like me--it is because I enjoy the challenge of getting a smile out of even the most difficult customer. (And why is that?? Because I believe that every single person is a human waiting to be loved and I thrive on the energy that comes from their smiles.) Sure I've spouted my hasty, heated words and I am FAR from perfect (and my mission to make people smile has its limits), but I generally go out of my way (until severely provoked otherwise) to make someone feel good about themselves. But people still aren't going to care.
In the end, it's just the basic principles on the playground being violated and luckily, I don't have time for it, nor do my bosses. I hope that whoever it was that read that blog and printed it out at least has read my other blogs and taken the time to enjoy them because anything less just means their mission was in vain.
Someone somewhere in some... (*hand circle-wave motion)... far off land (within this community, I much assume) found it their calling to print an entry I had written some months ago and mail it to my bosses. Oh yeah. It was mailed in a big brown envelope with no return address and marked "CONFIDENTIAL" on it. The entry, for the record, was one that recounted *shall we say* a 'story' of waitressing and my own monstrous lacking to process more understanding for people's bitchiness. Since realizing I was somewhat of a control freak (*see previous entry,) a MEGA amount of moments and accounts in and of my life have fallen into place and made SO much sense as to why I get SO worked up about things I cannot do anything about. Basically, I realized why I chose to get so impassioned about things (see: 'temperamentally intense-due-to-control issues') that I have absolutely zero control over. I.e. people's thoughts, responses, feelings, reactions, etc.
Anyway, the entry was a little raw, but nothing extreme and with absolutely zero reference to specific names, places, locations, people. Yet, I was approached and asked about it because it showed up in their mail; and the only kind of person to have sent it would have been someone who
a) knew the website (knew how to find it or SUPER coincidentally came across it)
b) knew who I was--enough to know to associate me with my place of work
c) knew where I worked
d) had purpose in sending it or d2) was petty/malicious
It really doesn't matter. Essentially, I've learned 2 very important lessons in all of this, following the lesson in being a control freak. (Probably more, but in the interest of time, I'll keep it down to two.)
1) There is no reason on earth to get that worked up about anything in the service industry. Really. People can be retarded, true, but who of us is exempt from being retarded? And there is certainly nothing that warrants the kind of ventage that was that entry. True. Especially in regards to the very public forum in which it was written and the potential for damage that it was and that it got dragged into my workplace. (Which, is, to whoever you are, SUPER uncool.) So, basic note to self: don't put such extreme anger into an entry, even when trying to be funny.
2) That people are still going to f*** people over even if they've never been mean to them a day in their lives. I try real hard to get along with everyone and NOT because I care if people like me--it is because I enjoy the challenge of getting a smile out of even the most difficult customer. (And why is that?? Because I believe that every single person is a human waiting to be loved and I thrive on the energy that comes from their smiles.) Sure I've spouted my hasty, heated words and I am FAR from perfect (and my mission to make people smile has its limits), but I generally go out of my way (until severely provoked otherwise) to make someone feel good about themselves. But people still aren't going to care.
In the end, it's just the basic principles on the playground being violated and luckily, I don't have time for it, nor do my bosses. I hope that whoever it was that read that blog and printed it out at least has read my other blogs and taken the time to enjoy them because anything less just means their mission was in vain.
07 May 2009
A serious thought, an epiphanic entry
So. That's what it is. That's what it's been this whole time. I mean, this WHOLE freaking TIME! Amazing. Ten years, eleven years (who the hell knows for sure) of WASTING energy, time. Tears. Words. Apologies. As somber as it is, it is also gleefully uplifting. You know. A relief. TEN years (or more, maybe) of looping and spinning and grasping at internal battles for nothing! Well, okay not nothing. But something, which has finally, ultimately, and lastly added up to so many years of spinning my wheels, hashing out, and rehashing approximately three-trillion degrees and forms of acceptance for about as many conflicts, situations, and the like, for which I would ultimately try to control the outcome: a realization. Something has finally clicked and made me understand just about every single aspect of my crazy, fading-psychobitch ways: control.
Aye yay yay. What the hell am I talking about, the proverbial 'you' asks.
'Tis the muted enlightening of a soul who has just realized how she has tried to control outcomes and output of the situations and people around her for SOOOO many years by the way I have delivered my own dialogue, assumed a savior-ette, super-hero type role, and all--and I mean ALL!!!--the brain-crap that can be associated with all of the hair-brained, vendetta-type, "passionate" responses I've ever, EVER had and made. I've just done that for soooo long and in so many ways that it just became the norm of relating to people and, more importantly, dealing with situations, dealing with life.
I mean, everyone wants and needs some control in their life, but sheesh! I never realized the magnitude with which I do this. It really is so sad. Thanks be to GOD it can be overcome, such is the blessing, just not without some reflective regret. What brought this new idea about was the impending change to come with Kyle not getting the high school band job (who woulda thunk--it all seems a little too reality-novel for me, but...)...but all in how I dealt with the news, how I reacted, how I wanted to act, and the miserable unfolding of what was, essentially, the fact (and realization) that I could not control this and no amount of avenging was going to change the outcome, nor would it leave anything but severely damaging consequences behind in some proposed aftermath.
It wasn't just entirely all there, though. The realization, that is. I had some time in between the news of Kyle's employment situation and the unfolding of conversations in a day (yesterday) to stew like a mad cow over the entire blow of it all. Which I did. I let the anger boil in me like a hot blister in my chest and rise into my throat yesterday morning, with a surging I knew would only be quelled by giving the wrong-doers a piece of my mind. My temples throbbed, I felt almost sick with the feeling that was rising in my chest and I've never experienced that kind of exhaustive emotion since the time I was a child and was throwing a wild fit in the hallway (for being sent to bed early since muttering some nasty thing under my breath at my mother.) I've never been so mad. In all my life. I knew I had to write them (the administrators) a letter and that I needed to compose it like I would send it. I had to be confident that what I wrote could be something I would send and I needed to believe I was somehow, in some way or another, going to send it.
So then I focused all my energy in trying to find the words I couldn't spit out and tell them just everything I wanted to say and everything I wanted them to hear. After taking a mere hour to accomplish just that (and believe me, that's a pretty good deal!), I let Kyle read it, who was home for lunch by then. Expecting a response and knowing he knew I demanded one, we ended up launching into an entire noon-hour debate about the way I deal with things, the operative word being successfully launched into the air being "control."
Being that he had adapted to my ways for so long, either by being brow-beaten or by physical ailments of the past, there was a serious lack of boundaries set on his part and a serious lack of respecting ones on my part. But there was also a serious amount of bravery on Kyle's part to use such a word with me, in full context, full light of the day, in a discussion that had been launched originally with respect to his job; and a serious amount of relief in seeing my reception of the word. He explained right out what I had been failing to hear for SOOO many years about why to let things go, why to understand that inevitable situations are beyond our control, and that not being able to control them does not equal failure (I realized this in not-so-many words.)
This being such a heavy realization at such a bright hour shook my foundation a bit. It seems easy to say or think, but to know it is completely another thing. I never wanted to be like that. And with Kyle's tender touch, he pointed out in a way that made new sense all of the ways that my life and our life together had spiraled so amazingly out of control in the beginning. From one thing to another--living with R, searching for money (and having none!), dating Kyle while R was still in the house, R moving out, apartment flooding, the accident, moving in with other people, moving to another country, in with the inlaws, Kyle getting sick, moving again, and more--all overlapping in traumatic series of cowpies that transpired (plus mothering two little ones) within a year's time and then, in turn, morphed into our lives on this side of the border (getting the job here, moving again, Kyle getting sick again, having two young babies, the aunt, the cancer, the joints, the whole peril of the looming unknown, job upheaval, marriage upheaval...)
However, this being a particularly astonishing thing all on its own--the entire realization of my control (or attempts to control)--it wouldn't be the last time I'd hear about it. After lunch, I had coffee with K who had observed the same things Kyle did about my behavior in my attempts to militantly assume justice in cases where someone had been done wrong; and her observation touched something raw.
But then, if that wasn't enough, I had a bit of time to think about it and hopefully clear my head before work, but during my shift, my boss called me into talk about some aspects of my job and noted some of the way I deal with customers and more or less suggested I not take it so personal. I realized (although not too suddenly) that most of the time (in regards to customers, particularly rude ones) that I can brush it off, but sometimes there is a switch in me where that puff of indignation rises and I do, indeed.... *sigh... take it personally. On a side note, I guess I do this because I know that I would never go into a restaurant--or anywhere, for that matter--and treat an employee poorly; and so it makes me mad, BUT... the anger that builds up so intensely is due to this... A-HA!... lack of superpower to change that person's mind or behavior.
And so...
I can see how it ALL just finally works together to explain why I was the way I was for so long. Perhaps the need to control something in what used to be my insane life seeded its way down. Perhaps there is heritage influence or familial pressure (as in, of old) that had its own life blood in my decisions to let every person in the world know exactly how I feel. Maybe a ton of things. But I can look back on every single time in my life that contained some form of contention, ill-formed resolution (or trying to force resolution), or any kind of temperamental flare-up and realize that it is a one-size-fits-all kind of thing. It is a piece of knowledge that I can look back with and match the puzzle pieces to. Every single instance of those situations where I got mad or felt out of control is like a part of the puzzle that each match up with this one piece of knowledge and it works like an application. I've only had twenty-four hours to start a new life with one of accepting what I cannot control, but I can tell you that I'm already relieved. Beyond measure.
(Epilogue: The letter was deleted.)
Aye yay yay. What the hell am I talking about, the proverbial 'you' asks.
'Tis the muted enlightening of a soul who has just realized how she has tried to control outcomes and output of the situations and people around her for SOOOO many years by the way I have delivered my own dialogue, assumed a savior-ette, super-hero type role, and all--and I mean ALL!!!--the brain-crap that can be associated with all of the hair-brained, vendetta-type, "passionate" responses I've ever, EVER had and made. I've just done that for soooo long and in so many ways that it just became the norm of relating to people and, more importantly, dealing with situations, dealing with life.
I mean, everyone wants and needs some control in their life, but sheesh! I never realized the magnitude with which I do this. It really is so sad. Thanks be to GOD it can be overcome, such is the blessing, just not without some reflective regret. What brought this new idea about was the impending change to come with Kyle not getting the high school band job (who woulda thunk--it all seems a little too reality-novel for me, but...)...but all in how I dealt with the news, how I reacted, how I wanted to act, and the miserable unfolding of what was, essentially, the fact (and realization) that I could not control this and no amount of avenging was going to change the outcome, nor would it leave anything but severely damaging consequences behind in some proposed aftermath.
It wasn't just entirely all there, though. The realization, that is. I had some time in between the news of Kyle's employment situation and the unfolding of conversations in a day (yesterday) to stew like a mad cow over the entire blow of it all. Which I did. I let the anger boil in me like a hot blister in my chest and rise into my throat yesterday morning, with a surging I knew would only be quelled by giving the wrong-doers a piece of my mind. My temples throbbed, I felt almost sick with the feeling that was rising in my chest and I've never experienced that kind of exhaustive emotion since the time I was a child and was throwing a wild fit in the hallway (for being sent to bed early since muttering some nasty thing under my breath at my mother.) I've never been so mad. In all my life. I knew I had to write them (the administrators) a letter and that I needed to compose it like I would send it. I had to be confident that what I wrote could be something I would send and I needed to believe I was somehow, in some way or another, going to send it.
So then I focused all my energy in trying to find the words I couldn't spit out and tell them just everything I wanted to say and everything I wanted them to hear. After taking a mere hour to accomplish just that (and believe me, that's a pretty good deal!), I let Kyle read it, who was home for lunch by then. Expecting a response and knowing he knew I demanded one, we ended up launching into an entire noon-hour debate about the way I deal with things, the operative word being successfully launched into the air being "control."
Being that he had adapted to my ways for so long, either by being brow-beaten or by physical ailments of the past, there was a serious lack of boundaries set on his part and a serious lack of respecting ones on my part. But there was also a serious amount of bravery on Kyle's part to use such a word with me, in full context, full light of the day, in a discussion that had been launched originally with respect to his job; and a serious amount of relief in seeing my reception of the word. He explained right out what I had been failing to hear for SOOO many years about why to let things go, why to understand that inevitable situations are beyond our control, and that not being able to control them does not equal failure (I realized this in not-so-many words.)
This being such a heavy realization at such a bright hour shook my foundation a bit. It seems easy to say or think, but to know it is completely another thing. I never wanted to be like that. And with Kyle's tender touch, he pointed out in a way that made new sense all of the ways that my life and our life together had spiraled so amazingly out of control in the beginning. From one thing to another--living with R, searching for money (and having none!), dating Kyle while R was still in the house, R moving out, apartment flooding, the accident, moving in with other people, moving to another country, in with the inlaws, Kyle getting sick, moving again, and more--all overlapping in traumatic series of cowpies that transpired (plus mothering two little ones) within a year's time and then, in turn, morphed into our lives on this side of the border (getting the job here, moving again, Kyle getting sick again, having two young babies, the aunt, the cancer, the joints, the whole peril of the looming unknown, job upheaval, marriage upheaval...)
However, this being a particularly astonishing thing all on its own--the entire realization of my control (or attempts to control)--it wouldn't be the last time I'd hear about it. After lunch, I had coffee with K who had observed the same things Kyle did about my behavior in my attempts to militantly assume justice in cases where someone had been done wrong; and her observation touched something raw.
But then, if that wasn't enough, I had a bit of time to think about it and hopefully clear my head before work, but during my shift, my boss called me into talk about some aspects of my job and noted some of the way I deal with customers and more or less suggested I not take it so personal. I realized (although not too suddenly) that most of the time (in regards to customers, particularly rude ones) that I can brush it off, but sometimes there is a switch in me where that puff of indignation rises and I do, indeed.... *sigh... take it personally. On a side note, I guess I do this because I know that I would never go into a restaurant--or anywhere, for that matter--and treat an employee poorly; and so it makes me mad, BUT... the anger that builds up so intensely is due to this... A-HA!... lack of superpower to change that person's mind or behavior.
And so...
I can see how it ALL just finally works together to explain why I was the way I was for so long. Perhaps the need to control something in what used to be my insane life seeded its way down. Perhaps there is heritage influence or familial pressure (as in, of old) that had its own life blood in my decisions to let every person in the world know exactly how I feel. Maybe a ton of things. But I can look back on every single time in my life that contained some form of contention, ill-formed resolution (or trying to force resolution), or any kind of temperamental flare-up and realize that it is a one-size-fits-all kind of thing. It is a piece of knowledge that I can look back with and match the puzzle pieces to. Every single instance of those situations where I got mad or felt out of control is like a part of the puzzle that each match up with this one piece of knowledge and it works like an application. I've only had twenty-four hours to start a new life with one of accepting what I cannot control, but I can tell you that I'm already relieved. Beyond measure.
(Epilogue: The letter was deleted.)
16 April 2009
I love band!
I am much too tired to get into the analytical side of this, but tonight, after the Air Command Band concert, Kyle re-informed me that there was a reception for the musicians and some of the city employees at one of the local hotels. I would have been excited to know we were invited except this week's already been a clusterphuck of time managing, with rehearsals for the musical, various activities for the girls, various appointment cancellations, a vet appointment, an imminent birthday party looming around tomorrow's corner, two more shifts of work, packing and supper at a friends house on Saturday to compound leaving the house on Sunday and the overall mess that is my brain this week; and I really didn't think I was going to be able to stomach yet another handful of stupid people.
Let me side track for a moment and explain how much I love band concerts. I love symphonic concerts, orchestras, instrument ensembles of all kinds and of all forms, but I am especially fond of bands ensembles formed with traditional wind instruments plus or minus a rhythm section. I love how any piece of music can carry me away, going back to the simple days where I would just romanticize my life away and mull over the delightful way the music answered my pains, my joys. I love how there is always something in each genre, label, kind, brand, timbre of music that moves me like nothing else can. Clap, snap, dance, wiggle, gyrate, wave my hands, sing on the outside, but feel like there is planetary motion on the inside. I crave that band sound. I really feel like it's just something so integral to me that no one will understand, but I imagine there are others with the same feelings, that pertains to the sounds that only wind instruments can make. I love the mariachi trumpet feel, the light flutey parts, the rhythm trombones and tenor saxes, the character of the double reeds, the unmistakeable strains of guitar, drum beats, rhythms, and even like tonight, the added character of vocals. Truly I am a band geek.
That being said, I've established myself as a musician in this town albeit minorly, playing keyboards on (going on) four community productions, a host of accompaniment gigs and church services around town. I don't presume to have a title, because I don't. I wouldn't want one. I don't have to be known as any one thing. Because I am surely not an elitist. And it's not like I'm so good that I could afford to be anyway.
But...
...as sure as the day you were born (side tangent back on track), I went up to the keyboardist tonight at the reception and introduce myself (because I'm friendly and outgoing like that, fun and funky, fearless, down-to-earth, whatever,) and make a point of relating to her when she donned the snobbiest face I have seen on another musician in a long time. Maybe I have been too far removed both in time and in distance to remember what it was like to rub elbows with elitist musicians (and believe me, I knew a few in college!) and therefore put my dumbass cart before my retarded, socially awkward horse, but being that I was dressed up head-to-toe in great clothes, hair coiffed, ready with a smile and drink in hand, I was poised to approach this woman, only to be utterly and grieviously snubbed, bitterly put back into place by her blank stare, expectant eyes, and far less than subtle "yes, we'll talk later" (after I shut up) bite.
I was dumbfound. Astonished. Yes, astonished--truly (!) astonished--that this woman had the nerve to be so cold after I'd taken time out of MY schedule (yes, mine, the schedule of a lowly small town mom-ish thing living in the real world) to grace her with MY conversation. I was absolutely gobsmacked that such snobbery of that caliber would ever find itself in Flin Flon, Manitoba, that another woman could be so immature and yet seem so convoluted in her resolve so as to actually form words that were soaked in condescending vinegar. I just have nothing else to say after that. Except...
...wow.
Let me side track for a moment and explain how much I love band concerts. I love symphonic concerts, orchestras, instrument ensembles of all kinds and of all forms, but I am especially fond of bands ensembles formed with traditional wind instruments plus or minus a rhythm section. I love how any piece of music can carry me away, going back to the simple days where I would just romanticize my life away and mull over the delightful way the music answered my pains, my joys. I love how there is always something in each genre, label, kind, brand, timbre of music that moves me like nothing else can. Clap, snap, dance, wiggle, gyrate, wave my hands, sing on the outside, but feel like there is planetary motion on the inside. I crave that band sound. I really feel like it's just something so integral to me that no one will understand, but I imagine there are others with the same feelings, that pertains to the sounds that only wind instruments can make. I love the mariachi trumpet feel, the light flutey parts, the rhythm trombones and tenor saxes, the character of the double reeds, the unmistakeable strains of guitar, drum beats, rhythms, and even like tonight, the added character of vocals. Truly I am a band geek.
That being said, I've established myself as a musician in this town albeit minorly, playing keyboards on (going on) four community productions, a host of accompaniment gigs and church services around town. I don't presume to have a title, because I don't. I wouldn't want one. I don't have to be known as any one thing. Because I am surely not an elitist. And it's not like I'm so good that I could afford to be anyway.
But...
...as sure as the day you were born (side tangent back on track), I went up to the keyboardist tonight at the reception and introduce myself (because I'm friendly and outgoing like that, fun and funky, fearless, down-to-earth, whatever,) and make a point of relating to her when she donned the snobbiest face I have seen on another musician in a long time. Maybe I have been too far removed both in time and in distance to remember what it was like to rub elbows with elitist musicians (and believe me, I knew a few in college!) and therefore put my dumbass cart before my retarded, socially awkward horse, but being that I was dressed up head-to-toe in great clothes, hair coiffed, ready with a smile and drink in hand, I was poised to approach this woman, only to be utterly and grieviously snubbed, bitterly put back into place by her blank stare, expectant eyes, and far less than subtle "yes, we'll talk later" (after I shut up) bite.
I was dumbfound. Astonished. Yes, astonished--truly (!) astonished--that this woman had the nerve to be so cold after I'd taken time out of MY schedule (yes, mine, the schedule of a lowly small town mom-ish thing living in the real world) to grace her with MY conversation. I was absolutely gobsmacked that such snobbery of that caliber would ever find itself in Flin Flon, Manitoba, that another woman could be so immature and yet seem so convoluted in her resolve so as to actually form words that were soaked in condescending vinegar. I just have nothing else to say after that. Except...
...wow.
09 April 2009
Mother hen to nest, calling all mama birds
I don't really have much to say. Rephrase: I'm not inspired about any one thing in particular tonight. I've noticed Facebook has failed to notify me that it would be sucking tonight, or last night, or for pretty much the last three nights in a row and I am rather disgruntled about it.
I had a girl talk with my littlest one tonight. She's feeling repressed and stomped on by her older sister and that kind of situation does NOT bode well with a little Leo. Not to use astrological comparisons or assign her to any kind of walled-in definition, there is definitely a roaring leader in her and a certain indignation about her when the antics of her very bold, opinionated, highly organized (both in schedule and in thought), and eclectic older sister inflict a very potential damage. (It would stand to reason that a Gemini could bear a child with contrasting traits, methinks. Hmmm...)
I mean, there is the sibling rivalry, in light and in seriousness, to consider. In this light, what is going on could be reduced to a mere, "oh, those kids" while laughing because it seems so trivial in comparison to our lives that involve bills, deadlines, schedules, entire weeks of rigid plans; and... because we can remember those childhood pains and wave our hands at those with a dismissive guffaw when matching those pains to the pains of adulthood.
But really, what makes them so different?
Without coddling my children, I can see how real this pain is. I remember being told things like "well, it'll get better" or "just wait until you're older" or any other such equivalent comment that essentially dismissed what I was feeling. At the very least, it made me feel like I was being silly for having kid feelings.
However, I've realized that I still have feelings in the same way I had feelings as a kid and it's because I've had to rearrange them a million times that I know what my girls are feeling is very real. Most importantly, those feelings don't go away without real validation and I don't ever want to be the reason my girls feel invalidated.
So, we talked. And even thought I knew pretty much what she was going to say, I listened anyway. Asked her questions that would walk her through her feelings and then rubbed her back until she fell asleep. I actually played Mama rather than The Problem Sorter/Solver Extraordinaire, which is what I usually do. I don't know why. I guess it's just one way of being dismissive, regardless of the intention being to help my girls avoid feeling hurt. In that way, it makes me no better than the ones who missed that mark with me (and there we could go off on another, completely different side track about sensitivity on both sides of the opinion.)
In either case, why are kids so mysterious to figure out? It wasn't that long ago that we were kids, that I was a kid. I think I'm less worried about "figuring them out" (as I do know my own children) than I am deeply contemplative of what's going on in their little, very real, very active minds. Because I am so analytical and introspective, I want to know the thoughts making rounds in their minds. I don't want to pass on my over-analytical-ness, either. I want them to be able to think critically, to have the ability to analyze a situation, but I don't want them to be me. I want them to be better than me, than what I have lived, of course. The wish of every parent.
I just see how fast they've grown and realize that they are half grown already! It'll only be another eight to ten years before they go off into the real world. Maybe I should look at it as 'before they JOIN us in the real world'---then I can look at it in the way that all the things I can share with them as adults that I couldn't before, but egads! We'll cross that bridge when we get there! Which, at this rate, will be when I blink my eyes...
The point is, I got to be a mom so early and I'm really thankful to the powers that be that someone saw me fit enough to handle these blessed, beautiful humans; I just hope that I didn't figure myself out too late, that trying to get a grip on my own trials hasn't wreaked havoc on the way they see life, and that they see life with the purity, passion, and vigor that I am wanting them to see, but most off all that they walk into a crazy, hell-in-handbasket world knowing who they are and not to compromise their morals for anything.
Over and out.
I had a girl talk with my littlest one tonight. She's feeling repressed and stomped on by her older sister and that kind of situation does NOT bode well with a little Leo. Not to use astrological comparisons or assign her to any kind of walled-in definition, there is definitely a roaring leader in her and a certain indignation about her when the antics of her very bold, opinionated, highly organized (both in schedule and in thought), and eclectic older sister inflict a very potential damage. (It would stand to reason that a Gemini could bear a child with contrasting traits, methinks. Hmmm...)
I mean, there is the sibling rivalry, in light and in seriousness, to consider. In this light, what is going on could be reduced to a mere, "oh, those kids" while laughing because it seems so trivial in comparison to our lives that involve bills, deadlines, schedules, entire weeks of rigid plans; and... because we can remember those childhood pains and wave our hands at those with a dismissive guffaw when matching those pains to the pains of adulthood.
But really, what makes them so different?
Without coddling my children, I can see how real this pain is. I remember being told things like "well, it'll get better" or "just wait until you're older" or any other such equivalent comment that essentially dismissed what I was feeling. At the very least, it made me feel like I was being silly for having kid feelings.
However, I've realized that I still have feelings in the same way I had feelings as a kid and it's because I've had to rearrange them a million times that I know what my girls are feeling is very real. Most importantly, those feelings don't go away without real validation and I don't ever want to be the reason my girls feel invalidated.
So, we talked. And even thought I knew pretty much what she was going to say, I listened anyway. Asked her questions that would walk her through her feelings and then rubbed her back until she fell asleep. I actually played Mama rather than The Problem Sorter/Solver Extraordinaire, which is what I usually do. I don't know why. I guess it's just one way of being dismissive, regardless of the intention being to help my girls avoid feeling hurt. In that way, it makes me no better than the ones who missed that mark with me (and there we could go off on another, completely different side track about sensitivity on both sides of the opinion.)
In either case, why are kids so mysterious to figure out? It wasn't that long ago that we were kids, that I was a kid. I think I'm less worried about "figuring them out" (as I do know my own children) than I am deeply contemplative of what's going on in their little, very real, very active minds. Because I am so analytical and introspective, I want to know the thoughts making rounds in their minds. I don't want to pass on my over-analytical-ness, either. I want them to be able to think critically, to have the ability to analyze a situation, but I don't want them to be me. I want them to be better than me, than what I have lived, of course. The wish of every parent.
I just see how fast they've grown and realize that they are half grown already! It'll only be another eight to ten years before they go off into the real world. Maybe I should look at it as 'before they JOIN us in the real world'---then I can look at it in the way that all the things I can share with them as adults that I couldn't before, but egads! We'll cross that bridge when we get there! Which, at this rate, will be when I blink my eyes...
The point is, I got to be a mom so early and I'm really thankful to the powers that be that someone saw me fit enough to handle these blessed, beautiful humans; I just hope that I didn't figure myself out too late, that trying to get a grip on my own trials hasn't wreaked havoc on the way they see life, and that they see life with the purity, passion, and vigor that I am wanting them to see, but most off all that they walk into a crazy, hell-in-handbasket world knowing who they are and not to compromise their morals for anything.
Over and out.
02 April 2009
Dos and Don'ts
First of all, I like my job.
Second, I came home tonight after a crappy night at the job to an immaculate, sparkling, clean-smelling, freshly polished, completely detailed, tidied, organized, pristinely arranged, and overall LOVELY house. It was like Mrs. Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, and Mr. Clean all came to my house and professionally detailed every nook and cranny. It was amazing. I was absolutely astonished and in love and.. a little bit turned on. I don't think our house has been that clean, that fresh, that polished in, well... I don't want to say...
I mean, it's not as though we don't clean our house. Eww. Gross. It's that the different areas are rarely, if ever, completed simultaneously. One week it's the floors, another week might be dusting, another something else, hell usually laundry, constantly a cycle to tackle the most pressing duty at the time; and then when company comes, we usually do a pressure-cooker jam of cleaning. But we haven't done them all at once probably since before I had my rock-crushing job. Oh God no. Do you think we have time for that?
Anyway, since everyone is away (and I mean everyone,) since no one likes us, since everyone else is in places like Florida (no word of a lie--THREE seperate families we know are there now) and Jamaica (yeah, mon) for Spring Break and our girls are livin' it up on their own down south with the grands, Kyle and I have been living like empty nested retirees with nothing better to do than, well... the things we are doing. (*Hee hee hee.) One of them being plans to clean whilst the girls were away just because we could without them getting underfoot, interupting, making it worse, or complaining.
But I, being the true procrastinator that I am, have been putting it off, but Kyle was the super good guy and did it all. ALL. Man I love that man. I just don't know how to thank him. Well, I can think of a few ways, but those are really not for this forum methinks. I don't know why he did it, I won't question it (even though I do--every woman needs a man like him and not many will get one,) but I am still astonished by the job and amazed by that man. Baby, if you're reading this, you know, after we're done, um, you know, well, I love you.
That being said and having given credit to the man I love being the awesomest husband on earth, I am jumping tracks. I now give you...
The Do's and Don'ts of Eating Out:
The harrowing tales of waitressing
DO NOT...
Flag your waitress down disrespectfully
Act as if your waitress is only waiting on you
Touch your waitress
Bark at your waitress
Roll your eyes at your waitress
Let your kids play with everything in sight (KEEP CONTROL OF YOUR KIDS)
Let your kids scream at the waitress
Let your kids roll their eyes at the waitress
Pretend that you're at home and that Rover will eat what you drop on the floor
Let your kids run loose. AT ALL.
Paint pictures with ketchup, jelly, syrup, or any OTHER kind of substance on your table.
Open your creamers only a little. Tell me, have YOU ever had a cream pop open on you? In your pocket? Down your pants?
Be a slob
MORE DO NOTS...
DO NOT
Treat your waitress as though she is beneathe you.
Treat your waitress as though her only job in life is to serve you
Forget that your waitress is human
DO...
Remember that you are going out to eat, that it is a treat, that eating out means not cooking, and that you are doing this so that someone else can clean up the mess.
Familiarize yourself with restaurant policy by asking questions politely. Especially if you
frequent one or more eateries.
Remember that you are a guest there, not a king/queen
Ask questions about your bill if you need to
Tip your waitress. Don't be a cheapskate. If you can't afford an appropriate tip, then don't go out.
Joke with your waitress
Smile
Remember that a little respect goes a long way and even though you will be tipping her for her service, that does not give you the right to treat her like a dog for your two dollars. If you remember that a little respect goes a long way, you are more likely to get a more pleasant reaction and far better service in the long run. Especially if you are a repeat patron.
---------------------
I wanted to make this funny, but I just couldn't. Nothing sets me on fire faster than degradation. I won't have it and no one--no one--deserves to be treated that way, I don't care what angle, creed, culture, or mood you come from. Not that anyone who reads this would ever treat their waitress poorly (and thusly, the ones who NEED to read these rules will probably never see them), but I really had to get this off my chest.
Second, I came home tonight after a crappy night at the job to an immaculate, sparkling, clean-smelling, freshly polished, completely detailed, tidied, organized, pristinely arranged, and overall LOVELY house. It was like Mrs. Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, and Mr. Clean all came to my house and professionally detailed every nook and cranny. It was amazing. I was absolutely astonished and in love and.. a little bit turned on. I don't think our house has been that clean, that fresh, that polished in, well... I don't want to say...
I mean, it's not as though we don't clean our house. Eww. Gross. It's that the different areas are rarely, if ever, completed simultaneously. One week it's the floors, another week might be dusting, another something else, hell usually laundry, constantly a cycle to tackle the most pressing duty at the time; and then when company comes, we usually do a pressure-cooker jam of cleaning. But we haven't done them all at once probably since before I had my rock-crushing job. Oh God no. Do you think we have time for that?
Anyway, since everyone is away (and I mean everyone,) since no one likes us, since everyone else is in places like Florida (no word of a lie--THREE seperate families we know are there now) and Jamaica (yeah, mon) for Spring Break and our girls are livin' it up on their own down south with the grands, Kyle and I have been living like empty nested retirees with nothing better to do than, well... the things we are doing. (*Hee hee hee.) One of them being plans to clean whilst the girls were away just because we could without them getting underfoot, interupting, making it worse, or complaining.
But I, being the true procrastinator that I am, have been putting it off, but Kyle was the super good guy and did it all. ALL. Man I love that man. I just don't know how to thank him. Well, I can think of a few ways, but those are really not for this forum methinks. I don't know why he did it, I won't question it (even though I do--every woman needs a man like him and not many will get one,) but I am still astonished by the job and amazed by that man. Baby, if you're reading this, you know, after we're done, um, you know, well, I love you.
That being said and having given credit to the man I love being the awesomest husband on earth, I am jumping tracks. I now give you...
The Do's and Don'ts of Eating Out:
The harrowing tales of waitressing
DO NOT...
Flag your waitress down disrespectfully
Act as if your waitress is only waiting on you
Touch your waitress
Bark at your waitress
Roll your eyes at your waitress
Let your kids play with everything in sight (KEEP CONTROL OF YOUR KIDS)
Let your kids scream at the waitress
Let your kids roll their eyes at the waitress
Pretend that you're at home and that Rover will eat what you drop on the floor
Let your kids run loose. AT ALL.
Paint pictures with ketchup, jelly, syrup, or any OTHER kind of substance on your table.
Open your creamers only a little. Tell me, have YOU ever had a cream pop open on you? In your pocket? Down your pants?
Be a slob
MORE DO NOTS...
DO NOT
Treat your waitress as though she is beneathe you.
Treat your waitress as though her only job in life is to serve you
Forget that your waitress is human
DO...
Remember that you are going out to eat, that it is a treat, that eating out means not cooking, and that you are doing this so that someone else can clean up the mess.
Familiarize yourself with restaurant policy by asking questions politely. Especially if you
frequent one or more eateries.
Remember that you are a guest there, not a king/queen
Ask questions about your bill if you need to
Tip your waitress. Don't be a cheapskate. If you can't afford an appropriate tip, then don't go out.
Joke with your waitress
Smile
Remember that a little respect goes a long way and even though you will be tipping her for her service, that does not give you the right to treat her like a dog for your two dollars. If you remember that a little respect goes a long way, you are more likely to get a more pleasant reaction and far better service in the long run. Especially if you are a repeat patron.
---------------------
I wanted to make this funny, but I just couldn't. Nothing sets me on fire faster than degradation. I won't have it and no one--no one--deserves to be treated that way, I don't care what angle, creed, culture, or mood you come from. Not that anyone who reads this would ever treat their waitress poorly (and thusly, the ones who NEED to read these rules will probably never see them), but I really had to get this off my chest.
28 March 2009
Fail.
Woke up late, ran late, hair and make-up were awesome, still not to work in time to be there for ten-to. Punch in, run up, watch and float, think slow, cover tables, forget people, walk around, try to recover from molassis-ish-ness, no go. People pick, girls make cracks, I forget to laugh, I try to pick up speed, find the flip side, slow day, keep going, root beer slow, dishes pile, tables dirty, round and round. Eat breakfast on break, lose steam, wait for lunch, get bobbi pins, pull hair back, feel lighter, feel better!, get going, energy up, too little too late: half hour left of shift is all.
Sleepy at home.
Sleepy at home.
25 March 2009
Befriend your banker today
So things are drastically looking up. Half of my brooding broodability lately has been due to the inconsiderable, deficient amount of sunlight around here. Half of everyone's brooding has been due to the lack of sunlight, sunshine, rays of anything remotely even resembling spring around here. I mean, even the dog is cranky. The snow is ridiculous. Redamneddiculous. I can't explain it. It's not like anything I've ever seen (other than other snow) in terms of how it comes and goes, melts and freezes, comes and goes, and just freezes up into hell, up into these half-melted ruts of frozen... well... crap. (There, I guess I've explained.) My car might as well be a wooden-wheeled conestoga on its way down the Oregon Trail in the mid-1800's, for all that it matters. The bumping, the jarring, wheels threatening to fall of their axes, the passenger heads bobbing side-to-side in erratic unison as we ford and forge along the untamed wasteland of the wild streets of Small Town, Canada. Here it is, near March's end and there's not been even one glimpse of spring. Not one. (Well maybe a little. What with the sporadic fits of melting and all.)
But there it was today. As bright and as gold as butter itself. Sunshine. And lots of it. Not just a peep through the cloud as though to say like an evil wizard appearing with gold and disappearing a mean "ha-HA" in your face or like an oasis mirage that cruelly expires within proximity, but as in ALL day. Bright, hopeful, uplifting, insightful. Promising. Even if only to be broken later by the return of sunset. That is MY kind of day. I wish spring would !@#$-ing get here already! but hey, I don't make the rules and I'll take what I can get.
Angle #2: My dress came in today. Can you believe it?? It came. My $25-dollar, custom-made, non-wedding wedding gown, probably made at the hands of children, and sent to me from China at a hundred dollars' shipping (no word of a lie) arrived bright and early this morning after I returned from the gym. Barring the possibility that it was really produced by child labor (Oh, God, it plagues my soul without question), it was a pleasant surprise for two reasons. 1) I had almost given up on it, irrefutably convinced that I had been jipped on Ebay. 2) I have a dress! A do-over, make-over, certifiable, undeniable, white wedding dress! In my home. As though I were really getting married! A finely-crafted, quality-made, beautiful, simple gown that I can wear on the day of our tenth anniversary renewal of vows. Of course, this all goes out the window if I find out that the jab a few friends have made at me about my inexpensive find and child labor is more than just a jab and my deeply-rooted concerns become more founded.
Update: I have found nothing to suggest my worry is legitimate.
Angle #3: We had our meeting with our banker this afternoon and found out what our options were to refinance/consolidate our debts. All options were viable possibilities, completely within our range (both in concept and capability), and made for good news all around. She is an awesome person to have on our side. It was meeting her and being able to talk about money last year, learn about it, and not feel like a complete failure that taught me how to deal with money at all. (If you have any questions, just come to me, my little people, for I can tell you what you want to know. I am an expert now.) ((Psh.)) Then you consider last year, where the culmination of all our poor decisions wreaked havoc on our financial state, and figure that we've recovered pretty well because we were able to step up to the plate and start doing all the things we weren't doing before to help ourselves. Our banker really gave us that confidence and clearly did not pass judgment. She just smiled her cute, freckled smile with her bright blue eyes and told us we "did really well." Yay! All of our frustrations in the days of yesteryear have not gone by in vain; and the instruction I give my own girls bangs around in my head, "as long as you learn from your mistakes..."
Befriend your banker today.
But there it was today. As bright and as gold as butter itself. Sunshine. And lots of it. Not just a peep through the cloud as though to say like an evil wizard appearing with gold and disappearing a mean "ha-HA" in your face or like an oasis mirage that cruelly expires within proximity, but as in ALL day. Bright, hopeful, uplifting, insightful. Promising. Even if only to be broken later by the return of sunset. That is MY kind of day. I wish spring would !@#$-ing get here already! but hey, I don't make the rules and I'll take what I can get.
Angle #2: My dress came in today. Can you believe it?? It came. My $25-dollar, custom-made, non-wedding wedding gown, probably made at the hands of children, and sent to me from China at a hundred dollars' shipping (no word of a lie) arrived bright and early this morning after I returned from the gym. Barring the possibility that it was really produced by child labor (Oh, God, it plagues my soul without question), it was a pleasant surprise for two reasons. 1) I had almost given up on it, irrefutably convinced that I had been jipped on Ebay. 2) I have a dress! A do-over, make-over, certifiable, undeniable, white wedding dress! In my home. As though I were really getting married! A finely-crafted, quality-made, beautiful, simple gown that I can wear on the day of our tenth anniversary renewal of vows. Of course, this all goes out the window if I find out that the jab a few friends have made at me about my inexpensive find and child labor is more than just a jab and my deeply-rooted concerns become more founded.
Update: I have found nothing to suggest my worry is legitimate.
Angle #3: We had our meeting with our banker this afternoon and found out what our options were to refinance/consolidate our debts. All options were viable possibilities, completely within our range (both in concept and capability), and made for good news all around. She is an awesome person to have on our side. It was meeting her and being able to talk about money last year, learn about it, and not feel like a complete failure that taught me how to deal with money at all. (If you have any questions, just come to me, my little people, for I can tell you what you want to know. I am an expert now.) ((Psh.)) Then you consider last year, where the culmination of all our poor decisions wreaked havoc on our financial state, and figure that we've recovered pretty well because we were able to step up to the plate and start doing all the things we weren't doing before to help ourselves. Our banker really gave us that confidence and clearly did not pass judgment. She just smiled her cute, freckled smile with her bright blue eyes and told us we "did really well." Yay! All of our frustrations in the days of yesteryear have not gone by in vain; and the instruction I give my own girls bangs around in my head, "as long as you learn from your mistakes..."
Befriend your banker today.
17 March 2009
Spring things
Nothing like a quick, short trip away to snap whiny whines RIGHT into perspective. That's obviously what I needed because now I barely remember what I was whining about. Ermm, bitching about, I mean.
My oldest girl did awesome in her dictation competition. She was one of a mere 5 other girls to be competing, and at least two of them speak French at home. Even without considering that much, it was awesome to see that she was, indeed, participating among peers in French! She did great and even though she didn't place and the judges said the scores were close, she walked away with poise, grace, confidence and most of all the support and love of her parents and the experience of it all. Then we let her pick out any place she wanted to go. Dairy Queen for Blizzards.
This was not to forget my little one, who came with me to the mall to go shopping for a first communion dress. It's not all white, in the tradition of communion dresses, but it's cute and she was totally smitten with it, which is all the world when shopping with this cutesty-angsty, super-picky, expensive-taste little 8-year old. This paired with a shrug-type little white cardigan from The Gap make it a clean, crisp, super-tailored look just right for spring, and in my opinion, perfect for first communion, if for no other reason because she is comfortable in it. These shoes, for the little one and this dress for the older one, too, both from Children's Place. My oldest picked these out to go with her dress. I got this and this for me. Vocal arrangement, of course, because I read the composer notes and was very excited about the idea of NOT having the melody predominantly throughout the piano part, so that I can eventually accompany myself singing, and so Kat and I can sing "What Is This Feeling?" Yay!! And synth, of course, so I can finally have my own portable keyboard instrument for ensembles, quick work, and hopefully soon... gigs.
All in all, a good trip.
My oldest girl did awesome in her dictation competition. She was one of a mere 5 other girls to be competing, and at least two of them speak French at home. Even without considering that much, it was awesome to see that she was, indeed, participating among peers in French! She did great and even though she didn't place and the judges said the scores were close, she walked away with poise, grace, confidence and most of all the support and love of her parents and the experience of it all. Then we let her pick out any place she wanted to go. Dairy Queen for Blizzards.
This was not to forget my little one, who came with me to the mall to go shopping for a first communion dress. It's not all white, in the tradition of communion dresses, but it's cute and she was totally smitten with it, which is all the world when shopping with this cutesty-angsty, super-picky, expensive-taste little 8-year old. This paired with a shrug-type little white cardigan from The Gap make it a clean, crisp, super-tailored look just right for spring, and in my opinion, perfect for first communion, if for no other reason because she is comfortable in it. These shoes, for the little one and this dress for the older one, too, both from Children's Place. My oldest picked these out to go with her dress. I got this and this for me. Vocal arrangement, of course, because I read the composer notes and was very excited about the idea of NOT having the melody predominantly throughout the piano part, so that I can eventually accompany myself singing, and so Kat and I can sing "What Is This Feeling?" Yay!! And synth, of course, so I can finally have my own portable keyboard instrument for ensembles, quick work, and hopefully soon... gigs.
All in all, a good trip.
11 March 2009
ye olde dukes of hazarde
I have really great friends. I mean, really, really great and kind people around me and sometimes even watching out for me, even when I've gone out and lost my dawg gone mind.
You know who you are--CS, JR, EK, KW (meow), ME, just to name a few--all of whom have been in my life at various points along the way, who share the same heartaches, but who listen to ME pour my ever-lovin' whine into their ears with LOVE as opposed to "oh well"-ness.
This is to you. This goes out to you. The people who are what my "strong" is--the unwitting team of human beings that unknowingly work together to make me feel a little less at odds with myself, a little more human, a little more... sane.
Thank you.
A measly, pathetic term, truly, to describe the absolute, sheer, amazing, unending gratitude I feel for the times they've helped me feel even a shred less of the insane person I SWEAR I am. Not only am I in my own head a little too much, but I'm not exactly surrounded by what you would call like minds or those who understand (save for two, whose initials are both KW); and so it goes to you, it goes without saying, it goes with saying words that are inadequate, my friends, who I love and who listen and who I hope feel listened to, too, across the miles, in a wide span of the map--I thank you.
You know who you are--CS, JR, EK, KW (meow), ME, just to name a few--all of whom have been in my life at various points along the way, who share the same heartaches, but who listen to ME pour my ever-lovin' whine into their ears with LOVE as opposed to "oh well"-ness.
This is to you. This goes out to you. The people who are what my "strong" is--the unwitting team of human beings that unknowingly work together to make me feel a little less at odds with myself, a little more human, a little more... sane.
Thank you.
A measly, pathetic term, truly, to describe the absolute, sheer, amazing, unending gratitude I feel for the times they've helped me feel even a shred less of the insane person I SWEAR I am. Not only am I in my own head a little too much, but I'm not exactly surrounded by what you would call like minds or those who understand (save for two, whose initials are both KW); and so it goes to you, it goes without saying, it goes with saying words that are inadequate, my friends, who I love and who listen and who I hope feel listened to, too, across the miles, in a wide span of the map--I thank you.
08 March 2009
Reasons
I saw the light today. It started with a Ty and ended with a -lenol AND came with a realization that I have been, indeed, coming down with an ever-loving cold.
I slept so well last night that I woke up two hours before I was supposed to be at work this morning feeling well-rested, even after having taken a nap yesterday afternoon. Taking naps, even when desperately tired, is usually stupid. They wreak havoc on a good night's sleep. But it wasn't even a question yesterday. Given yesterday's mood.
When I woke up, though, the light shone softly through the window, the mattress felt soft and cozy, the covers tucked in around my chin, and the scratchy, pre-sore throat all worked together to explain why I've been SUCH a bitch the last two weeks.
Okay. Okay! I know. I know! It doesn't excuse the actions. But it DOES explain the feelings. The overall, extended period of run down irritation with everything. I was actually relieved to wake up with a sore throat. It offered SOME suggestion of why I just kept hitting a wall week on week, long after PMS had its fun run, constantly unable to rework life's accostic ways in my mind with some sense of peaceable perspective.
But here it was. In no uncertain terms. I was run down. And drugs are great. The headache building up at work was met head-on with some extra strength acetaminophen in the analgesics/first-aid cabinet at work; and the relief with which I was able to carry out the rest of my day brought about another realization (or more of a consideration) that any discomfort or pain drastically discolors my dramatic view of the world.
Eeeek.
I slept so well last night that I woke up two hours before I was supposed to be at work this morning feeling well-rested, even after having taken a nap yesterday afternoon. Taking naps, even when desperately tired, is usually stupid. They wreak havoc on a good night's sleep. But it wasn't even a question yesterday. Given yesterday's mood.
When I woke up, though, the light shone softly through the window, the mattress felt soft and cozy, the covers tucked in around my chin, and the scratchy, pre-sore throat all worked together to explain why I've been SUCH a bitch the last two weeks.
Okay. Okay! I know. I know! It doesn't excuse the actions. But it DOES explain the feelings. The overall, extended period of run down irritation with everything. I was actually relieved to wake up with a sore throat. It offered SOME suggestion of why I just kept hitting a wall week on week, long after PMS had its fun run, constantly unable to rework life's accostic ways in my mind with some sense of peaceable perspective.
But here it was. In no uncertain terms. I was run down. And drugs are great. The headache building up at work was met head-on with some extra strength acetaminophen in the analgesics/first-aid cabinet at work; and the relief with which I was able to carry out the rest of my day brought about another realization (or more of a consideration) that any discomfort or pain drastically discolors my dramatic view of the world.
Eeeek.
07 March 2009
Clinical insanity
Before I gather my family and spend what remaining evening there is with them, I share this rant. Long day, many people, rudeness by one man sets off the whole day, same ol', same ol', more people, more ignorant/substandard consideration, turn-over through the roof, people sitting before tables are cleared, run-run-run, late breaks, late clock-out, run-run-run, stop.
Head full, feet throbbing, chest burning with undigested frustration (how can people treat people like that? how can people LET people get away with that?? not just work, life and friends, too, but now I am only thinking of work), home. Nap, pay bills, anger wells at shortage of cash, trying to calm, wanting to chew a bit, let it go, get perspective, overall day building up, and just desperately wanting to let it go, to not to care, to link to, to think SO MUCH about it. About stupid, rude people, about bills, about close friends and family, about kids telling kids stupid things and getting OH-WELL-ED TO DEATH.
Then other things. I'm TRYING to understand HOW to let it go, HOW to be a better person, HOW to put my life in a true, how-God-sees-it perspective but get lambasted, shot down, oh-well-ed, and sarcasm-drenched jabbed to DEATH by the people closest to me. And why do I let them?? Hell if I know. I am wrong, I am dis-illusioned, I am crazy, I am woman, I am American, I am... a MILLION things that are NOTHING. Nothing, incorrect, false LABELS that show me that no one--NO one--knows who I am. No one gets it. No one gives a shit enough to try. Because, well, I ADMIT (grrrr), it takes a freaking payload to do that.
And how could they. How could anyone. Possibly. Fathom. The entire depth with which I experience things, life. You'd have to be.... crazy.... to understand because it is a level deeper than "invested." I am invested.... in everything. Every life, every action, every reaction, every emotion (of others MORE than myself), every motion, perception, notion, or idea wells in me with a deep, deep, integral consideration. I have had to LEARN... had to teach myself, condition and otherwise monitor such intensity because people-----and it doesn't matter WHO they are, who I have ever known, ever lived with, ever befriended, ever disliked, ever associated with-----just cannot, do not know how to deal with this. They can't deal with it because they cannot fathom this. They cannot fathom this and why? Because they are self-absorbed even when they are being generous and in the meantime, I've cheapened myself into thinking and by thinking that me always going against what I want is somehow giving up a piece of myself for the overall peace. Regardless of the stupidity of such train of thought, how do I explain the depth, core-soaked level with which I feel and why would I even bother to explain ANYWAY?
I don't think for one moment this makes me better, either. It doesn't make a person better. It makes me a stupid person. It makes me SUCK. It makes me sick. I am just sick. SICK. and tired of doling out, extending the same compassion, understanding, perception-seeing, multi-side view-ability, self-denying bullshit when no one will do the same. I KNOW that the "self-denying" part of it is all choice, that I don't have to, that how much I do or don't do is up to me and that choosing to and complaining about it may, perhaps, assign me with a MARTYRDOM complex; but I CHOSE to do those things out of MY idea of living a life of Christ, what I really, truly, thought and worked hard to be what Jesus would want.
I'm sure Jesus himself didn't deny himself with the mentality I have. In fact, salvation would be screwed if that were the case. I have no more of an idea of all the things about Jesus' life and everything he did that wasn't mentioned in the Bible than anyone before me; so to know, albeitly very limited, how exactly He thought is next to impossible.
There is, at least, SOME idea (based on Bible accounts and historical contexts) and I know it is irrelevant and inapplicable when trying to micro-analyze either my life and is borderline blasphemous to think I have any comparison to His life. I just THOUGHT this way, the way I have chosen, might be one right way. You know? Not THE way, not anyone's way. Just one way. And a way that doesn't mean bleaching or bleeding my beliefs onto another person. Obviously, it's not working. People with less belief in Jesus than me are leading far less cranky lives.
I just don't get it and I am sick being disheartened by the human race. Not that I am above it. Not for a minute. I suck just the same and am at a current unrest at the constant shift in the undercurrent of things I'm still learning how to digest.
Head full, feet throbbing, chest burning with undigested frustration (how can people treat people like that? how can people LET people get away with that?? not just work, life and friends, too, but now I am only thinking of work), home. Nap, pay bills, anger wells at shortage of cash, trying to calm, wanting to chew a bit, let it go, get perspective, overall day building up, and just desperately wanting to let it go, to not to care, to link to, to think SO MUCH about it. About stupid, rude people, about bills, about close friends and family, about kids telling kids stupid things and getting OH-WELL-ED TO DEATH.
Then other things. I'm TRYING to understand HOW to let it go, HOW to be a better person, HOW to put my life in a true, how-God-sees-it perspective but get lambasted, shot down, oh-well-ed, and sarcasm-drenched jabbed to DEATH by the people closest to me. And why do I let them?? Hell if I know. I am wrong, I am dis-illusioned, I am crazy, I am woman, I am American, I am... a MILLION things that are NOTHING. Nothing, incorrect, false LABELS that show me that no one--NO one--knows who I am. No one gets it. No one gives a shit enough to try. Because, well, I ADMIT (grrrr), it takes a freaking payload to do that.
And how could they. How could anyone. Possibly. Fathom. The entire depth with which I experience things, life. You'd have to be.... crazy.... to understand because it is a level deeper than "invested." I am invested.... in everything. Every life, every action, every reaction, every emotion (of others MORE than myself), every motion, perception, notion, or idea wells in me with a deep, deep, integral consideration. I have had to LEARN... had to teach myself, condition and otherwise monitor such intensity because people-----and it doesn't matter WHO they are, who I have ever known, ever lived with, ever befriended, ever disliked, ever associated with-----just cannot, do not know how to deal with this. They can't deal with it because they cannot fathom this. They cannot fathom this and why? Because they are self-absorbed even when they are being generous and in the meantime, I've cheapened myself into thinking and by thinking that me always going against what I want is somehow giving up a piece of myself for the overall peace. Regardless of the stupidity of such train of thought, how do I explain the depth, core-soaked level with which I feel and why would I even bother to explain ANYWAY?
I don't think for one moment this makes me better, either. It doesn't make a person better. It makes me a stupid person. It makes me SUCK. It makes me sick. I am just sick. SICK. and tired of doling out, extending the same compassion, understanding, perception-seeing, multi-side view-ability, self-denying bullshit when no one will do the same. I KNOW that the "self-denying" part of it is all choice, that I don't have to, that how much I do or don't do is up to me and that choosing to and complaining about it may, perhaps, assign me with a MARTYRDOM complex; but I CHOSE to do those things out of MY idea of living a life of Christ, what I really, truly, thought and worked hard to be what Jesus would want.
I'm sure Jesus himself didn't deny himself with the mentality I have. In fact, salvation would be screwed if that were the case. I have no more of an idea of all the things about Jesus' life and everything he did that wasn't mentioned in the Bible than anyone before me; so to know, albeitly very limited, how exactly He thought is next to impossible.
There is, at least, SOME idea (based on Bible accounts and historical contexts) and I know it is irrelevant and inapplicable when trying to micro-analyze either my life and is borderline blasphemous to think I have any comparison to His life. I just THOUGHT this way, the way I have chosen, might be one right way. You know? Not THE way, not anyone's way. Just one way. And a way that doesn't mean bleaching or bleeding my beliefs onto another person. Obviously, it's not working. People with less belief in Jesus than me are leading far less cranky lives.
I just don't get it and I am sick being disheartened by the human race. Not that I am above it. Not for a minute. I suck just the same and am at a current unrest at the constant shift in the undercurrent of things I'm still learning how to digest.
04 March 2009
Brain damage
I just wish I would have had the presence of mind to deal with it better. To make decisions that came from having a sense of knowing who I was, what I wanted for my family, to be right or to be wrong, but to act with surity.
But I didn't. I guess I learned from that, and that's the point, but it doesn't change the point of reflection. I'm not really sure that any level of higher maturity would have changed the way things happened, but it would have at least made me feel less out of control about my own life scripted in Kyle's sickness.
The head trauma, dare I nudge that word again, may have had a role in the whole thing of it, looking back. It's true I'll never know, but it begs a curious question because I never, ever remember being that scatterbrained, that 'all over', that OUT of ideas in how to handle something before the accident. It's true when I had been pregnant and trying to carve something out of nothing, I had no life experience from which to draw and felt very much the same way; but in the end, I was able to find a job that paid the bills a little better (at least FULL rent and some groceries), make choices with a sense of creativity and with a sense of wanting something better for my baby and me.
The thing is, I'm starting to realize is that before and after the accident I made all these choices out of emotion. When I banged my head up so bad, the only place I knew how to process from and was most comfortable with was emotion. How I got some of it right dealing primarily out of emoting, I'll never know, and it's still in progress, but I'm grateful to the higher powers that be that I did, that I can see these beautiful children of mine process things with logic, creativity, and emotion. Logic escaped me, but I didn't see it that in that way or how the process of coping was gradually skewed by the emotional rail of thought or course of action.
Anyway, I've learned that the frontal lobe controls much of what or how we process thoughts and emotions and I wouldn't doubt it if the extreme bashing my head took bruised that lobe and therefore inhibited any ability to figure it out at all, never mind that soon after an accident (just over a year between the accident and Kyle's third diagnosis and treatment in-hospital.) Then, instead of exercising the brain, performing memory exercises, mental therapy (like physical therapy for the brain?) and working on gaining back that normal mentality, I just started a pattern of thinking from emotion (it didn't hurt like logic and reasoning did) and got into this habit of self-conditioned emotion-response, perpetuated by the stress of the circumstances and events around us.
I really see that it could be this way. I mean, I'm no expert and I have an appointment to talk with someone more qualified, but doesn't this make sense? The point worth pondering is the hypothesis suggested in brain damage: If I bash my brain inside my skull via rollover, then I will have problems processing thought and making intelligent and/or coherent decisions.
But I didn't. I guess I learned from that, and that's the point, but it doesn't change the point of reflection. I'm not really sure that any level of higher maturity would have changed the way things happened, but it would have at least made me feel less out of control about my own life scripted in Kyle's sickness.
The head trauma, dare I nudge that word again, may have had a role in the whole thing of it, looking back. It's true I'll never know, but it begs a curious question because I never, ever remember being that scatterbrained, that 'all over', that OUT of ideas in how to handle something before the accident. It's true when I had been pregnant and trying to carve something out of nothing, I had no life experience from which to draw and felt very much the same way; but in the end, I was able to find a job that paid the bills a little better (at least FULL rent and some groceries), make choices with a sense of creativity and with a sense of wanting something better for my baby and me.
The thing is, I'm starting to realize is that before and after the accident I made all these choices out of emotion. When I banged my head up so bad, the only place I knew how to process from and was most comfortable with was emotion. How I got some of it right dealing primarily out of emoting, I'll never know, and it's still in progress, but I'm grateful to the higher powers that be that I did, that I can see these beautiful children of mine process things with logic, creativity, and emotion. Logic escaped me, but I didn't see it that in that way or how the process of coping was gradually skewed by the emotional rail of thought or course of action.
Anyway, I've learned that the frontal lobe controls much of what or how we process thoughts and emotions and I wouldn't doubt it if the extreme bashing my head took bruised that lobe and therefore inhibited any ability to figure it out at all, never mind that soon after an accident (just over a year between the accident and Kyle's third diagnosis and treatment in-hospital.) Then, instead of exercising the brain, performing memory exercises, mental therapy (like physical therapy for the brain?) and working on gaining back that normal mentality, I just started a pattern of thinking from emotion (it didn't hurt like logic and reasoning did) and got into this habit of self-conditioned emotion-response, perpetuated by the stress of the circumstances and events around us.
I really see that it could be this way. I mean, I'm no expert and I have an appointment to talk with someone more qualified, but doesn't this make sense? The point worth pondering is the hypothesis suggested in brain damage: If I bash my brain inside my skull via rollover, then I will have problems processing thought and making intelligent and/or coherent decisions.
03 March 2009
Fat
When I was growing up, I heard all kinds of comments about women come from the men who were married to them, or at least attached in some formless, ambiguous way.
A lot of times, these men didn't know I was around the corner writing on inventory cards or looking through Chilton manuals, but some of them did and some of them made these comments directly to me with half amused expressions. As though I could understood this male peer kind of comedy.
As though they could control some slender, pre-real-life teen thing from turning into the old ball-and-chain blimp wife that "starts expanding at the alter" by making these sly, clever little digs to a naive sixteeen-year old.
These ranging biker varieties were hardly qualified to give advice of the marital kind to the young, impressionable daughter of a Harley repair shop owner; but there we were: them giving me the advice and me unknowingly committing it to memory as I shirked their comments off with a smile in the middle of an oil-reeked garage.
My dad added to it occasionally by inserting his own thoughts, opinions, and ideas of the unrealistic kind. "You know, women should be more like..." were the common preface. He gave me lots of good ideas! Don't nag, don't let one's self go, be graceful, try to see where he's coming from, things that maybe his biker and miner comrades shared a common plane of thought, but things that quickly translated into: how to be the perfect woman for any guy. No wonder my mother seemed so unhappy.
How it turned from the point of my dad's well-meant-though-ill-informed intention (especially because of or completely in spite of his customers and friends) to me processing my father's words as a manual to my life, I'll never know, but I do know that for what I DO know now, I didn't know anything back then; and perhaps, just maybe, the responsibility to shut the hell up about things he did not understand or accept (the female pscyhe, for one) fell on his shoulders.
But it happened. I recalled these dislikes of men, vowed silently to never gain weight (though exactly how, with zero athleticism, I thought I'd pull that off I'll never know), never left the house without makeup, dressed modestly, put what the guy would think or want on the forefront of my mind without any regard for my own feelings, development of my own thoughts, or embracement of my own female self. Ooops.
What started out as perhaps helpful suggestions based on the frustrations these men and my dad were having with their wives (or even if they were just real life comedic releases!), became notes of extreme value tucked away in my cerebellum, never to be released again until a time much later revealed how damaging these thoughts had been to my own personal development as a woman.
I am over feeling embarrassed about this lament. I'm already over it. I just don't care. I've thought about this enough times to write a book and shirked it off just as many times as I shirked off the comments of my dad's customer friends. The fact of the matter is that having such an insight to a guy's mind, and it was a mission for my dad, was to understand how they think.
And it's been helpful. I can understand how men think. I can understand them really damned good. I understand them so damned well that I can't even see what my feelings are/were/could be. To the point of reasoning away my own womanly complaint and forgetting what I could have possibly been upset/perturbed/wistful/museful about. I can understand them even better than myself (though this is changing, progressively resorting to embracing the fact that I am, indeed, a bonefied, certified, hard-wired from birth, real live woman) because I was made to understand them before I even understood what it truly meant to be a woman.
This infinite, valuable insight has been immeasurable. I've been able to modify who I am, how I react, things that come naturally to me as a woman so that I can be a man's woman and understand how, where, and why they think from where they do. But it unwittingly made me a very angry woman.
How could I ever be okay with venting, being frustrated, or anything/something I viewed as lesser value? That is to say, how could I ever possibly know that it was OK to feel the things I felt as a woman, when the man-brain in me kept reasoning it all away? I never recognized that I was letting little things built up over time to one big mess, I just thought I was being petty over one thing; and trying to find that one thing making me so angry was next to impossible. Just ask my poor husband, who saw it through a few versions. In reality, I was just not accepting that this boiling point had been brought on by a series of undigested moments.
I'm just saying...
It didn't matter that it totally screwed with me as a young woman, fiercely fighting off my femininity (rather than for my independence), to be this perfect type of woman (which does not exist and hello! why couldn't anyone have stopped me to tell me that?); I was still able to identify with the male side of any argument faster than any woman's and was excruciatingly embarrassed whenever I didn't and got caught. Even more was all the ways it affected my parenting, my whole thoughts, and the process of completely denying myself like some saint when Kyle was sick and then when he came home.
It just made things a little more difficult to process while life was slapping us in the face or while recouping the losses suffered in the consequences of our decisions; and the relief comes in knowing this now and being a better person for it. A gal able to look back at her 'silly ol' self' and reflect with wider-opened eyes.
A lot of times, these men didn't know I was around the corner writing on inventory cards or looking through Chilton manuals, but some of them did and some of them made these comments directly to me with half amused expressions. As though I could understood this male peer kind of comedy.
As though they could control some slender, pre-real-life teen thing from turning into the old ball-and-chain blimp wife that "starts expanding at the alter" by making these sly, clever little digs to a naive sixteeen-year old.
These ranging biker varieties were hardly qualified to give advice of the marital kind to the young, impressionable daughter of a Harley repair shop owner; but there we were: them giving me the advice and me unknowingly committing it to memory as I shirked their comments off with a smile in the middle of an oil-reeked garage.
My dad added to it occasionally by inserting his own thoughts, opinions, and ideas of the unrealistic kind. "You know, women should be more like..." were the common preface. He gave me lots of good ideas! Don't nag, don't let one's self go, be graceful, try to see where he's coming from, things that maybe his biker and miner comrades shared a common plane of thought, but things that quickly translated into: how to be the perfect woman for any guy. No wonder my mother seemed so unhappy.
How it turned from the point of my dad's well-meant-though-ill-informed intention (especially because of or completely in spite of his customers and friends) to me processing my father's words as a manual to my life, I'll never know, but I do know that for what I DO know now, I didn't know anything back then; and perhaps, just maybe, the responsibility to shut the hell up about things he did not understand or accept (the female pscyhe, for one) fell on his shoulders.
But it happened. I recalled these dislikes of men, vowed silently to never gain weight (though exactly how, with zero athleticism, I thought I'd pull that off I'll never know), never left the house without makeup, dressed modestly, put what the guy would think or want on the forefront of my mind without any regard for my own feelings, development of my own thoughts, or embracement of my own female self. Ooops.
What started out as perhaps helpful suggestions based on the frustrations these men and my dad were having with their wives (or even if they were just real life comedic releases!), became notes of extreme value tucked away in my cerebellum, never to be released again until a time much later revealed how damaging these thoughts had been to my own personal development as a woman.
I am over feeling embarrassed about this lament. I'm already over it. I just don't care. I've thought about this enough times to write a book and shirked it off just as many times as I shirked off the comments of my dad's customer friends. The fact of the matter is that having such an insight to a guy's mind, and it was a mission for my dad, was to understand how they think.
And it's been helpful. I can understand how men think. I can understand them really damned good. I understand them so damned well that I can't even see what my feelings are/were/could be. To the point of reasoning away my own womanly complaint and forgetting what I could have possibly been upset/perturbed/wistful/museful about. I can understand them even better than myself (though this is changing, progressively resorting to embracing the fact that I am, indeed, a bonefied, certified, hard-wired from birth, real live woman) because I was made to understand them before I even understood what it truly meant to be a woman.
This infinite, valuable insight has been immeasurable. I've been able to modify who I am, how I react, things that come naturally to me as a woman so that I can be a man's woman and understand how, where, and why they think from where they do. But it unwittingly made me a very angry woman.
How could I ever be okay with venting, being frustrated, or anything/something I viewed as lesser value? That is to say, how could I ever possibly know that it was OK to feel the things I felt as a woman, when the man-brain in me kept reasoning it all away? I never recognized that I was letting little things built up over time to one big mess, I just thought I was being petty over one thing; and trying to find that one thing making me so angry was next to impossible. Just ask my poor husband, who saw it through a few versions. In reality, I was just not accepting that this boiling point had been brought on by a series of undigested moments.
I'm just saying...
It didn't matter that it totally screwed with me as a young woman, fiercely fighting off my femininity (rather than for my independence), to be this perfect type of woman (which does not exist and hello! why couldn't anyone have stopped me to tell me that?); I was still able to identify with the male side of any argument faster than any woman's and was excruciatingly embarrassed whenever I didn't and got caught. Even more was all the ways it affected my parenting, my whole thoughts, and the process of completely denying myself like some saint when Kyle was sick and then when he came home.
It just made things a little more difficult to process while life was slapping us in the face or while recouping the losses suffered in the consequences of our decisions; and the relief comes in knowing this now and being a better person for it. A gal able to look back at her 'silly ol' self' and reflect with wider-opened eyes.
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