Every once in a while, something happens that... affirms my belief that my life is more positive and more enriched without organized religion in it.
I think I always loved Easter more than Christmas, when I was a kid. There was always a pretty dress and a hat, an age appropriate gift (a locket or my first lipstick) and, of course, a bright pink basket just bursting with Cadbury creme eggs, jelly beans, chocolate bunnies, all nestled on a crinkled, shiny, happy-colored nest. Before church, Mom would make a lavish breakfast of braided sweet bread and maybe an egg casserole. We would fancy up in our new finery and go to church, where there would be more treats, beautiful songs about victory and heaven, happy people in colorful ties and floral dresses. Then? Home to ravage the ham dinner Mom would spoil us with. There would be candy to eat for weeks, and maybe an easter egg hunt, and always perfect weather.
Perfect. It was always the perfect day. For us, at least. I loved it. The last few years have seen patchier Easters, but the memory of those early years is a bright one.
This year, though? I guess with age comes awareness, and with awareness come... disillusionment? I didn't think much going into it. I figured I would go to my church job, head to someone's house for dinner, and then wrap up the day with some Reese's eggs.
But Facebook reared its ugly head. As always.
The day before Easter Sunday, I was reading some posts by various people I used to attend my conservative Christian college with. They were reminiscing about the service the night before, where they stood as a congregation and shouted "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" They were sobered by the reminder of their own cupability in the nightmarish death of Jesus, and appreciated the chance to replay the moment when they, we, everybody betrayed and murdered their Savior. Good Friday. The day that will live in infamy.
I... I felt a little ill. I feel a little ill. I started crying and it took me a while to figure out why.
GUILT.
Guilt is the ugliest word in the English language. Guilt is the most powerful motivator and the most devastating weapon. And (at the risk of offending many, many people... which is nothing new for me) is the way religion has held people in thrall for many, many years.
Contrarily enough, I think that seperating myself from the... virulence of many of the ideals of religion and those who practice it virulently has helped me appreciate Jesus' message of unconditional love even more. It upsets me that this message is referenced, when convenient, but never seems to be the primary goal of widespread Christianity. It's always shuffled under evangelism, or atonement (don't tell me that's an "Old Testament" ideal and that you live under a "New Covenant" and then spend Good Friday screaming "Crucify Him". I have quite simply lost the ability to believe you.) or guilt, or apocalyptic dread. Even when it's practiced in theory it's not always practiced in actuality.
I can see more clearly now than ever before that Jesus treated everyone with kindness and respect, that he wanted everyone to be able to see people the way he did, at their most sublime... that he wanted everyone to be treated with respect and valued the way he valued them. I think that the last supper was never meant to be an elaborate ceremony with chanted words and white linens and people getting huffy about whether or not there was alcohol involved. I honestly think he was just saying that he wanted them to remember him, lovingly, and the way he was when they were together, friends, that one last night at the passover party in the upper room.
So understand my dawning horror as I realize that our agressive need for ceremony and culpability has warped this loving man's ultimate gift into an elaborate pageant in which we, sinners that we are, relive our ugliest moment and nail him to the cross again. And again. And again. 3 nails+1 time a year= 4 ever struggling with guilt (to paraphrase a sign I saw on Facebook.)
Why? WHY? Tell me why, please. (My therapist said I have anger issues. I told her that I spent 20 years being given the mixed message that Jesus loved and redeemed me but that every little misstep made me an ugly human stain.) Why must the message be cheapened? Was the beating he took not enough? Because if there are people flogging themselves on "Good Friday", it must not have been sufficient. Do we love him the way we should? No, but don't blame that on our being "fallen", blame that on the fact that any gratitude we might show him will be tainted with our self-imposed guilt and remorse. Do we celebrate Easter, or do we put on an epic pageant of emotional whiplash? "Indeed, He is risen" hasn't been news in about 2000 years. What would be "news" would be "Indeed, He is risen and instead of feeling guilty about it, I simply said, "Thanks.'"
I know that people are good people, and I know that they're worshipping in the way that seems best to them. And that their self-flagellation is not meant as ingratitude for the gift they've been given. And perhaps they find peace through guilt and remorse, and transcendence through atonement. But it hurts me to watch, and it hurts me to see people struggle through the psychological and spiritual burnout that comes from being inside the wrong church for too long. And I'm tired of being tired. And burned out. From being in the wrong church for too long.
My therapist has diagnosed me with crippling anger issues. 20+ years of church has taken its toll emotionally, psychologically, even physically- once a week, on Sunday mornings, when I'm sitting in the pew at my church job, I break out in hives and get a severe headache. Either I'm allergic to the flowers in the narthex, or I'm reacting HARD to the almost corporeal anxiety I feel every time I even think about religion. I'll be thirty in a few months, and my hope is that there will be peace in my heart and my mind and I can put the anxiety, guilt and anger behind me.
This Easter was not a jolly one, and I haven't felt happy since Good Friday. I've shut down my Facebook account (because I feel anxious about what people will say, I answer in anger, and then I feel anxious about how people will reply. I want to contribute, and I think every perspective deserves to be heard. I do. But for now, I'm closing my ears.) Someday, when I can make it through a holiday without crying from disillusionment, when I can log on to Facebook without feeling dread in the pit of my stomach, when I can look at people who reflect the values I can't respect and still love them unconditionally, when I can think about church without having a physical reaction... then maybe I'll be strong enough to face this crapsack world with grace and patience and freedom.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Whoops...
Weight- 162 (... read on.)
Food mistakes make this week- 1 (but a reeeeally big one.)
Dress sizes dropped- almost one full one (that's what I'm talking about!)
Days until I can stop counting down- 99 (gracious)
Nights when I should have worked out but didn't- 1 (I think that's totally reasonable)
Days since last update- 12 (I SUCK at this game.)
Times I regretted not measuring myself when this started- oh, thousands...
Inches are worth more than pounds. Inches are worth more than pounds. INCHES are worth MORE than POUNDS. I have to keep telling myself that.
I think the reason why I've let this poor blog nap for the last 12 DAYS is that I was unhappy with the total lack of scale movement. After the initial 4 pound loss success at the beginning, the scale has not changed in weeks. I was sad to see it. Like, really sad. In past dietary exploits, this always happens, and I often use it as an excuse to give up.
However, it's a bit different this time. Instead of relying on the scale, I've been looking in the mirror and... wow. It's really happening. My body is starting to reshape itself. My arms are wobbling less. My stomach is flatter. My back doesn't fold over itself (as much). My thighs are... still gross, but my calves, though larger than I'd like, are super shapely, and my boobs are definitely perkier. I couldn't find my measuring tape when I started this (that was such a mistake) but judging from the way my clothes are fitting, I am down almost a full dress size. And THAT, comrades, smells like victory. I honestly don't think that my pound loss goal is practical, given the amount of fat that I'm replacing with lean muscle and given the time left (99 days, yikes!) However, I'm getting leaner. LEANER. It's the most beautiful word in the world.
I'm starting back up with Chalean Extreme this week. For the remainder of the 90 days, I'm going to be focusing on muscle training AND cardio. And narrowing my calories down more. I'm eat hundreds less per day than I was before, but I can do better. All it takes is a little more dedication.
I'll probably see the scale go up in the next few weeks (building more muscle) BUT I'll also be spending more time in front of the mirror, trying on the medium/size ten clothes that are now starting to fit me. And I'll be reminding myself... inches matter more than pounds.
ARGH. I just want some pizza.
Food mistakes make this week- 1 (but a reeeeally big one.)
Dress sizes dropped- almost one full one (that's what I'm talking about!)
Days until I can stop counting down- 99 (gracious)
Nights when I should have worked out but didn't- 1 (I think that's totally reasonable)
Days since last update- 12 (I SUCK at this game.)
Times I regretted not measuring myself when this started- oh, thousands...
Inches are worth more than pounds. Inches are worth more than pounds. INCHES are worth MORE than POUNDS. I have to keep telling myself that.
I think the reason why I've let this poor blog nap for the last 12 DAYS is that I was unhappy with the total lack of scale movement. After the initial 4 pound loss success at the beginning, the scale has not changed in weeks. I was sad to see it. Like, really sad. In past dietary exploits, this always happens, and I often use it as an excuse to give up.
However, it's a bit different this time. Instead of relying on the scale, I've been looking in the mirror and... wow. It's really happening. My body is starting to reshape itself. My arms are wobbling less. My stomach is flatter. My back doesn't fold over itself (as much). My thighs are... still gross, but my calves, though larger than I'd like, are super shapely, and my boobs are definitely perkier. I couldn't find my measuring tape when I started this (that was such a mistake) but judging from the way my clothes are fitting, I am down almost a full dress size. And THAT, comrades, smells like victory. I honestly don't think that my pound loss goal is practical, given the amount of fat that I'm replacing with lean muscle and given the time left (99 days, yikes!) However, I'm getting leaner. LEANER. It's the most beautiful word in the world.
I'm starting back up with Chalean Extreme this week. For the remainder of the 90 days, I'm going to be focusing on muscle training AND cardio. And narrowing my calories down more. I'm eat hundreds less per day than I was before, but I can do better. All it takes is a little more dedication.
I'll probably see the scale go up in the next few weeks (building more muscle) BUT I'll also be spending more time in front of the mirror, trying on the medium/size ten clothes that are now starting to fit me. And I'll be reminding myself... inches matter more than pounds.
ARGH. I just want some pizza.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Blahg update...
I'm typing this on a unfamiliar keybord nd far too lazy t fix te mistakes, so learn to live with it or find another Fattie McBlogerton to follow!!!
Weight: 163 (muscle weight? Whateer)
ime Spent Exercising today: 90 minutes (excellent)
Food mistakes made today: 1 (bt it was peanut btter and chocolte, so...)
Days until the food guilt goes away: 114
So, I went for a really long jog through some glorious wether today... the sun beamed on my head, the birds were singing, and no one shouted harassing things out their windows at stoplights.
I did notice that the men I was running by stopped and stared at me as I blithely frolicked past. Like, hard stare. Hrd, awkwrd, serial killer stared. It was only an hour or so lter that I realized that my shirt had... evacuated waaaay down and I was bouncing like a Baywatch girl on my run. Youre welcome, men of Red Bank.
Discovered a fun trick.. made sme pasta tonight and instead of making a cream sauce, I made some frozen creamed spinach and dumped in some parmesan cheese. Instead of a thick cream sauce, it was a very light cream sauce with a big ol heap of vegetables. Yum. Couple with the chicken sauteed in wine, lemn juice ad artichokes and you have yoursef a favorful, light meal.
I;m like suer SUPR tired of trying to tye on this kyboard, so I'm going to let this post go for now. Go eat something that wont make you fat!
Monday, March 5, 2012
Absence makes the hips grow wider...
Weight- 162ish
Time spent exercising today- 60 minutes (excellent)
Things I ate that I shouldn't have: 1 (but it had peanut butter in it. That's good, right?)
Pairs of pants that will be too big soon: 2 (that's good and bad... I'm kinda broke)
Dinners that need to be ready soon because I'm starving: 1
Dinners that will be ready soon: 0 (fail)
It's been 6ish days since my last post. To be fair:
A. I had a stomach bug.
B. We had severe weather on Wednesday and Friday
C. I hate severe weather
D. I couldn't work out that much because of A, B and C
The good news? I've been pretty faithful to my calorie count (not perfectly. No no. But somewhat? Ish?) and I'm definitely starting to see the results. It wasn't that long ago that I had so much fat around my midsection that any movement resulted in aftershock ripples of fatty grossness. Today, I was jogging along and the only bounce I felt was in my heels and my ponytail... not my belly. That can never be a bad thing. Also, if I turn sideways and pinch my arm fat back, my arms look really tiny. ... That doesn't quite count as a victory, if you're going to be technical about it, but if you're going to be technical about it, you can shove off and read someone else's blog and leave me to my smug ramblings.
My clothes are starting to fit more loosely, which is kind of awesome. And pretty soon, I'll be light enough on my feet that I can purse-snatch from old ladies to pay for new clothes. My head is light and giddy with the sweet, sweet pure oxygen of forthcoming triumph! And from trying to do pushups right after running. That was a mistake.
I need to do more with my arms. I wish they would unflab themselves. Loser arms.
I'm currently cooking my big meal of the week (which I'll be eating for the next few days) which is teriyaki chicken, sauteed cabbage and carrots, and fried rice. It smells like hot asian magic in my kitchen right now...
I've been bad with the desserts. Tacky, slutty desserts. I'm like a sailor newly into port... all those bundt cakes need to do is bat their whorish eyes at me and I swarm them like a hive of rabid hyenas. Was there a mixed simile there? I'm trying to avoid the temptation, but it doesn't help when they put displays of chocolately promise in between the vegetable aisles at Bi-Lo.
I had some tornado freak-outs this last week (embarassing ones, at that) but my thought is that I burned double calories from shaking so hard, AND I didn't eat anything for most of Friday. Terror-induced fasting is still low in calories! Don't let's repeat the performance, though.
Off to stretch my weary sinews and tuck into some masterfully marinated poultry flesh. It smells divine... and the chickens deserve to know that they selflessly gave their ta-ta's to a worthy and grateful cause.
Time spent exercising today- 60 minutes (excellent)
Things I ate that I shouldn't have: 1 (but it had peanut butter in it. That's good, right?)
Pairs of pants that will be too big soon: 2 (that's good and bad... I'm kinda broke)
Dinners that need to be ready soon because I'm starving: 1
Dinners that will be ready soon: 0 (fail)
It's been 6ish days since my last post. To be fair:
A. I had a stomach bug.
B. We had severe weather on Wednesday and Friday
C. I hate severe weather
D. I couldn't work out that much because of A, B and C
The good news? I've been pretty faithful to my calorie count (not perfectly. No no. But somewhat? Ish?) and I'm definitely starting to see the results. It wasn't that long ago that I had so much fat around my midsection that any movement resulted in aftershock ripples of fatty grossness. Today, I was jogging along and the only bounce I felt was in my heels and my ponytail... not my belly. That can never be a bad thing. Also, if I turn sideways and pinch my arm fat back, my arms look really tiny. ... That doesn't quite count as a victory, if you're going to be technical about it, but if you're going to be technical about it, you can shove off and read someone else's blog and leave me to my smug ramblings.
My clothes are starting to fit more loosely, which is kind of awesome. And pretty soon, I'll be light enough on my feet that I can purse-snatch from old ladies to pay for new clothes. My head is light and giddy with the sweet, sweet pure oxygen of forthcoming triumph! And from trying to do pushups right after running. That was a mistake.
I need to do more with my arms. I wish they would unflab themselves. Loser arms.
I'm currently cooking my big meal of the week (which I'll be eating for the next few days) which is teriyaki chicken, sauteed cabbage and carrots, and fried rice. It smells like hot asian magic in my kitchen right now...
I've been bad with the desserts. Tacky, slutty desserts. I'm like a sailor newly into port... all those bundt cakes need to do is bat their whorish eyes at me and I swarm them like a hive of rabid hyenas. Was there a mixed simile there? I'm trying to avoid the temptation, but it doesn't help when they put displays of chocolately promise in between the vegetable aisles at Bi-Lo.
I had some tornado freak-outs this last week (embarassing ones, at that) but my thought is that I burned double calories from shaking so hard, AND I didn't eat anything for most of Friday. Terror-induced fasting is still low in calories! Don't let's repeat the performance, though.
Off to stretch my weary sinews and tuck into some masterfully marinated poultry flesh. It smells divine... and the chickens deserve to know that they selflessly gave their ta-ta's to a worthy and grateful cause.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Blurgh
Weight: on the south side of 165 (hopefully not due to stomach virus)
Times exercised this week: 0
Times got off the couch yesterday: 2
People apathetic about dieting: 1 (me)
Argh. I hate being sick. I have no energy to work out, and being ill compels me to eat irresponsible things like ice cream and bread. Tomorrow is another day, right?
Times exercised this week: 0
Times got off the couch yesterday: 2
People apathetic about dieting: 1 (me)
Argh. I hate being sick. I have no energy to work out, and being ill compels me to eat irresponsible things like ice cream and bread. Tomorrow is another day, right?
Sunday, February 26, 2012
If food is a crutch, then call me Tiny Tim...
Weight: 165 (But I can see a difference, so...)
Weight loss in first week: 1.4ish. Right on track!
Calories so far today: 843
Girl Scout cookies bought: 0
Girls Scouts I've wanted to shake in my head: 3
Pants I wear regularly that are starting to get saggy: 2 (victory!)
Food mistakes committed today: 0 (so far)
Packs of peanut butter M&Ms I could have bought but didn't: 1 (a new personal best for me!)
Days until I look at least 30% more like Charlize Theron: 124.
Oh my gosh, I had no idea it was Girl Scout cookie time. Once upon a time, I was the kid in the sash hocking delicious, nutritionally derelict cookie abominations to friends, family, neighbors, and unsuspecting strangers.
Now, I am the stranger who tries not to make eye contact with the whippersnappers and attempts to sneak in while they're trying to entice others to the dark side. It helps that I never keep cash on me, and I would love to help them win merit badges and camping trips and whatever else they work towards, but I'm working towards a merit badge in not looking like a manatee, so... not today, little Suzie. Not today.
It's kinda sad that all I think about is food. Since starting this new project, I think less about brownies and more about chicken soup.... so that's good. And I think that, ultimately, I'll save quite a bit of money from this venture, as I now avoid places where I know I'll find something divine that I'll want to stuff my face with. Walmart, your days of luring me with low, low prices are numbered!
Am cooking soup- it's currently just water, garlic and chicken, but it already smells mouthwatering. I've been so hungry lately, though, that even my crappy cooking tastes like a tower of ganache-dipped cream puffs. Desperation can be a powerful tool (just go to any bar on ladies' night and you'll see.)
I didn't exercise today (and probably won't later... I'm tired and headachy and for heaven's sake, it's Sunday and who does anything but nap on Sunday?), and I kinda hate myself for it. I should be happy that even after dinner, my calorie count will be way under my goal for the day. Howevers, I now see every day that I don't go go the extra mile to burn more as a day that won't end in a pound loss, and therefore failure. I'm too hard on myself! I think it'll be easier to be less hard on myself when my jean size is in the single digits, though.
I'm so boring today. No more words.
Weight loss in first week: 1.4ish. Right on track!
Calories so far today: 843
Girl Scout cookies bought: 0
Girls Scouts I've wanted to shake in my head: 3
Pants I wear regularly that are starting to get saggy: 2 (victory!)
Food mistakes committed today: 0 (so far)
Packs of peanut butter M&Ms I could have bought but didn't: 1 (a new personal best for me!)
Days until I look at least 30% more like Charlize Theron: 124.
Oh my gosh, I had no idea it was Girl Scout cookie time. Once upon a time, I was the kid in the sash hocking delicious, nutritionally derelict cookie abominations to friends, family, neighbors, and unsuspecting strangers.
Now, I am the stranger who tries not to make eye contact with the whippersnappers and attempts to sneak in while they're trying to entice others to the dark side. It helps that I never keep cash on me, and I would love to help them win merit badges and camping trips and whatever else they work towards, but I'm working towards a merit badge in not looking like a manatee, so... not today, little Suzie. Not today.
It's kinda sad that all I think about is food. Since starting this new project, I think less about brownies and more about chicken soup.... so that's good. And I think that, ultimately, I'll save quite a bit of money from this venture, as I now avoid places where I know I'll find something divine that I'll want to stuff my face with. Walmart, your days of luring me with low, low prices are numbered!
Am cooking soup- it's currently just water, garlic and chicken, but it already smells mouthwatering. I've been so hungry lately, though, that even my crappy cooking tastes like a tower of ganache-dipped cream puffs. Desperation can be a powerful tool (just go to any bar on ladies' night and you'll see.)
I didn't exercise today (and probably won't later... I'm tired and headachy and for heaven's sake, it's Sunday and who does anything but nap on Sunday?), and I kinda hate myself for it. I should be happy that even after dinner, my calorie count will be way under my goal for the day. Howevers, I now see every day that I don't go go the extra mile to burn more as a day that won't end in a pound loss, and therefore failure. I'm too hard on myself! I think it'll be easier to be less hard on myself when my jean size is in the single digits, though.
I'm so boring today. No more words.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Rethinking the Treat System...
Weight- 165 (holla) (not strictly true. Weight was taken before glurging on nachos with friends last night. I think I laughed off the extra calories, though)
Calories consumed today- who knows... 900ish?
Minutes spent despairing over money spent on groceries- 42
Things that I bought at the grocery store that I will eventually regret- 0 (That's what I'm talking about!)
Naps taken instead of jogs- 1 (um, deserved)
Days until B-Day- 125
Day 3:
Fun times with old college buddies last night. I served myself a carefully portioned plate of chips, meat, beans, etc. And then another one. And another one. I'm such a food whore. We got into an intense discussion regarding crock pots and chicken verde soup. I finally realized how ancient I was getting when a joyful reunion with friends turned into a discourse about black beans and the nutritional benefits of flax.
I feel, as always, resentful about the money I have to spend on necessary items... gas, groceries. I suppose if I stopped eating and walked everywhere, I'd lose the weight a hella lot faster. I would also probably be a little bit dead or a lotta bit post-Auschwitz.
I am proud to say that I managed to make it through my weekly grocery store assault with minimum casualties. What made it into my cart? Broccoli, black beans, salsa, gross protein crap. What made it into my cart only to be put back? The most delicious looking berry cobbler thing. I know I looked like a bipolar squirrel, hoarding for the winter and then suffering from buyer's remorse.... I would pick up the delectable-looking dessert, fondle it a bit, then put it back into the freezer. Later, passing the aisle, I would ninja back to the freezer case, take it back out, and put it in my cart, then meander away, whistling a merry tune and trying not to look guilty. But I felt guilty. So very guilty. So back to the frozen foods went I, and the berrylicious tart of sin would get shoved back into ice cold purgatory. Not possessing infinite self-control resources, and after a last desperate cycle of longing, retrieving and retracting, I left the store before the yum overrode the common sense.
Here's my issue... I'm like a golden retriever: I will be more than happy to retrieve any stick, perform any trick or accomplish any mundane task as long as there's a treat waiting for me on the other side. Where I get into trouble? Every day features tasks I find myself wanting to bribe my lazier side into accomplishing- laundry, dishes, aerobics, getting up in the morning, putting my shoes in the closet, filling my tank with gasoline, moving... and my treats generally involve food (especially cupcakes. Oh, YUM). One fairly common offender is the cheeseburger... there's nothing more glorious than surviving another week and then celebrating by sinking my teeth into a warm, rare, juicy cheeseburger topped with cheese and bacon, with a sizzling basket of freshly-cooked fries and some Red Robin campfire sauce to dip the whole obscene occasion in (I know that was grammatically inaccurate, but "into which to dip the whole obscene occasion" seemed cumbersome. Also, it always takes me 4+ tries to spell "occasion" correctly). 1600 calories later, I've treated myself into a half a pound of body fat. Mother Nature is an ice cold bitch, people, and I hope that wherever she is, she has morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, and decaying teeth. And menstrual cramps... but that's not this story.
My new concept is to renovate my treat system for... future rather than immediate satisfaction. That cupcake is oh so very, very, very good, and sinking my teeth into the rich sweet frosting into the flavorful cake below (hopefully with a crunch of nuts or a burst of fruit or a decadent drizzle of chocolate ganache) is a sensation which transcends all human glory and...
NO! REWRITE! Ahem (needed a moment) the cupcake is good, but enough of them and I'm going to look like 50 pounds of christmas ham shoved into a 25 pound sack of lard. So, instead of tasty treats, I'm going to make looking hot in a pair of size 8 skinny jeans my new treat. (Isn't it sad that my thinness goal would be someone else's idea of morbid obesity? In print, size 8 doesn't look that fantastic. Oi.) From now on, I'm going to visualize being able to wear a short skirt without my thighs rubbing grotesquely together instead of nachos smothered in queso sauce. I'm going to picture a swimsuit season free of embarrassment, hip fat overhang and necessary cover-ups instead of stuffed crust pizza smothered in cheese and sausage.
And I'm pretty sure every time I institute this treat system, I'm going to be AS ANGRY AS I AM RIGHT NOW. A. that food is tasty, B. that eating it makes me feel like an orca, and C. that naturally skinny people seem to eat enough for four grown men and a buffalo and never gain so much as a bloated toe.
UGH. Well, off to eat some broccoli. And fantasize about finding whomever it was who discovered fat and beating them to death with a carrot stick.
Calories consumed today- who knows... 900ish?
Minutes spent despairing over money spent on groceries- 42
Things that I bought at the grocery store that I will eventually regret- 0 (That's what I'm talking about!)
Naps taken instead of jogs- 1 (um, deserved)
Days until B-Day- 125
Day 3:
Fun times with old college buddies last night. I served myself a carefully portioned plate of chips, meat, beans, etc. And then another one. And another one. I'm such a food whore. We got into an intense discussion regarding crock pots and chicken verde soup. I finally realized how ancient I was getting when a joyful reunion with friends turned into a discourse about black beans and the nutritional benefits of flax.
I feel, as always, resentful about the money I have to spend on necessary items... gas, groceries. I suppose if I stopped eating and walked everywhere, I'd lose the weight a hella lot faster. I would also probably be a little bit dead or a lotta bit post-Auschwitz.
I am proud to say that I managed to make it through my weekly grocery store assault with minimum casualties. What made it into my cart? Broccoli, black beans, salsa, gross protein crap. What made it into my cart only to be put back? The most delicious looking berry cobbler thing. I know I looked like a bipolar squirrel, hoarding for the winter and then suffering from buyer's remorse.... I would pick up the delectable-looking dessert, fondle it a bit, then put it back into the freezer. Later, passing the aisle, I would ninja back to the freezer case, take it back out, and put it in my cart, then meander away, whistling a merry tune and trying not to look guilty. But I felt guilty. So very guilty. So back to the frozen foods went I, and the berrylicious tart of sin would get shoved back into ice cold purgatory. Not possessing infinite self-control resources, and after a last desperate cycle of longing, retrieving and retracting, I left the store before the yum overrode the common sense.
Here's my issue... I'm like a golden retriever: I will be more than happy to retrieve any stick, perform any trick or accomplish any mundane task as long as there's a treat waiting for me on the other side. Where I get into trouble? Every day features tasks I find myself wanting to bribe my lazier side into accomplishing- laundry, dishes, aerobics, getting up in the morning, putting my shoes in the closet, filling my tank with gasoline, moving... and my treats generally involve food (especially cupcakes. Oh, YUM). One fairly common offender is the cheeseburger... there's nothing more glorious than surviving another week and then celebrating by sinking my teeth into a warm, rare, juicy cheeseburger topped with cheese and bacon, with a sizzling basket of freshly-cooked fries and some Red Robin campfire sauce to dip the whole obscene occasion in (I know that was grammatically inaccurate, but "into which to dip the whole obscene occasion" seemed cumbersome. Also, it always takes me 4+ tries to spell "occasion" correctly). 1600 calories later, I've treated myself into a half a pound of body fat. Mother Nature is an ice cold bitch, people, and I hope that wherever she is, she has morbid obesity, type 2 diabetes, and decaying teeth. And menstrual cramps... but that's not this story.
My new concept is to renovate my treat system for... future rather than immediate satisfaction. That cupcake is oh so very, very, very good, and sinking my teeth into the rich sweet frosting into the flavorful cake below (hopefully with a crunch of nuts or a burst of fruit or a decadent drizzle of chocolate ganache) is a sensation which transcends all human glory and...
NO! REWRITE! Ahem (needed a moment) the cupcake is good, but enough of them and I'm going to look like 50 pounds of christmas ham shoved into a 25 pound sack of lard. So, instead of tasty treats, I'm going to make looking hot in a pair of size 8 skinny jeans my new treat. (Isn't it sad that my thinness goal would be someone else's idea of morbid obesity? In print, size 8 doesn't look that fantastic. Oi.) From now on, I'm going to visualize being able to wear a short skirt without my thighs rubbing grotesquely together instead of nachos smothered in queso sauce. I'm going to picture a swimsuit season free of embarrassment, hip fat overhang and necessary cover-ups instead of stuffed crust pizza smothered in cheese and sausage.
And I'm pretty sure every time I institute this treat system, I'm going to be AS ANGRY AS I AM RIGHT NOW. A. that food is tasty, B. that eating it makes me feel like an orca, and C. that naturally skinny people seem to eat enough for four grown men and a buffalo and never gain so much as a bloated toe.
UGH. Well, off to eat some broccoli. And fantasize about finding whomever it was who discovered fat and beating them to death with a carrot stick.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
20x30, Day 1
Now that we've waded through the impossibly long introduction, let's just jump right into day 1:
Days until the end of this goat rodeo of fat burnage- 127
Weight- 165
Calories- 1625
Minutes spent exercising- 65
Muscles that may never function normally again- anything south of the knees
Chances I'll wear heels tomorrow- <10%
Alcoholic beverages- 0 (but the night is young)
I'm tired of typing, so I'll make this quick. Stayed the course mostlyish today, but it's just day 1. I would have put my measurements and body fat %, but I can't find my frickin tape measure, and searching for it would involve moving my poor, sore calves.
So, more tomorrow. Happy day one!
20x30, ridiculously long and overstated intro...
I have a confession: I don’t like the way I look.
In a few short months, I will bid my twenties a… fond?
farewell, squeeze my eyes shut, and swan dive into the yawning abyss of my
third full decade on this soggy blue capsule that we call our home planet. My
life thus far has had its blessings, and its curses. There have been scary
times, and moments of joy. There have been nights of crippling loneliness, and
afternoons of rib-bruising snickers with loved ones. There have been moments
when I’ve contemplating harvesting my internal organs for money, and weeks
spent in luxurious splendor in some exotic, unpronounceable location. There’s
been humiliation, exhilaration, exasperation, perspiration, mitigation,
capitulation, and… well, utter confusion. There are times when I’ve looked
forward to the next moment, and moments when I’ve wanted to take a long drive
off a very short bridge. One thing always remained the same, however, whether
the ships had come in or had gone belly up and floundered like my dead goldfish
as it swirled down the toilet to an inauspicious burial at sea….
People, there was always a whole lot of food.
My parents always made sure we had plenty of nutritious food
to eat. One time, at a restaurant, when a young mother handed me a baby bottle
and asked me to put more coke in it (when I got back from getting her kid more
ranch for the chicken tenders and fries, thanks), I was suddenly filled with
warm, fuzzy gratitude to my parents for always making sure we had enough to
eat, and ensuring that what we were eating was nutritious. In fact, the times
we protested the food (because what 8 year old enjoys eating broccoli
casserole?) and refused to eat it… well, that’s when Mom got the steel in her
chin and the glinty hellcat look in her eye, and no matter how long the hunger
strike lasted, she never backed down. And we sat there at the table, until we
finally broke out of boredom or shame, and we ate our vegetables, and we went
on with our evening. And MAN, do I appreciate that now. I also appreciate that when
my parents pulled us out of public school, we were, from that moment forward,
compelled to make our own lunches. It wasn’t laziness on my parents’ part, oh
no… it was home economics class, and no one who has ever tasted anything my
brother has baked, sautéed or deconstructed could ever second guess that
decision.
As I got older, we travelled more and more, and our tastes
broadened. I was taught to appreciate steak, and pasta, and Cornish game hens,
and to at least try the foods I wouldn’t have ordered, given the choice
(although I never even tried with the haggis, I won’t lie to you). I was taught
to experiment, and to take risks, and to never order chicken nuggets when there
was something new to try. And, I was training horses at the time, so I could eat
every exciting bite and not reeeeally worry about the ramifications.
And then, there was college, and the dream was over.
Suddenly, there was no sleep, and there was MacDonalds, and
every morning meant a new opportunity to stuff myself with biscuits and gravy.
First there was one, then two, then three, and there was sweet tea at every
meal, and there was no time for exercise. Freshman 15? PLEASE. Try the freshman
45. And it didn’t end there.
By the time I was 24, I looked like the Stay Puft
Marshmallow Man, and eventually, I had enough and lost 60ish pounds. And then I
gained some of it back. Then I lost some… and gained it back. In the game of
fat, I was a loser and a winner.
And then, suddenly, I was 29. I was living a cycle of
glutiny and famine, of praise for inches lost and shame over back bulge. And
one day, it hit me...
I don’t like the way I look.
Why do I live with it? Why do I allow myself to fail,
knowing that I’ll subject myself to the same snide, self-degrading comments I
always snark when I feel fat? Why do I look at every window I pass, hoping I’ll
see a pudgy profile so I can make a horrible face, which I will also see? Why
do I ask loved ones if I look fat, hoping they’ll say yes so I can punish
myself even more?
Welp, the cycle ends here. I have 19 weeks until I turn 30,
and I want to make every last minute count, which is why today? I kick off
20x30… in which I attempt in my last, grasping moments of twentydom to shed 20
pounds of fat ass and stride triumphantly (and with thighs that don’t rub
together) into the next era of my life.
My rules for engagement:
1. No crash diets.
2. No substance assistance (pills, etc)
3. Exercise daily. BUT NO GYMS! (Sore subject.)
4. No pizza or cupcakes. Fight the true enemy.
5. No buying of clothes until the weight is lost.
6. Daily weigh-ins and blog updates.
7. Lose the traditional evening cocktail.
8. No whining about being hungry,
9. AND NO GIVING UP!
I’m sticking with the simplest diet on earth. One pound of
fat= 3600 calories. To lose one pound of fat, you have to burn 3,600 calories
that you don’t put back in. Easy, right? I’ll have to expend about 570ish extra
calories a day.
I believe in a woman’s right to choose… not to look like
Flossie the Heifer. And this is where you come in- because the only thing more
miserable than being on a diet is having to read about someone else’s
experiences while on one! Thanks for sharing this journey with me. I only hope
that one day, you can look at me and say, “Wow, Liz… you look like you lost a
toddler.” The journey is long… and I’m dragging you along with me. Because that
burns extra calories too.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Pandora's Box
Funny thing- I've been thinking a lot about Pandora's Box. It's lovely in a savage way... an innocent girl, curious as a kitten, is told to never, under any circumstances, open a box (actually, it would have been more of a storage jar, called a pithos. Kind of like an amphora, or a grecian urn. What's a grecian urn, you may ask? Well, it depends on if we're speaking union or non-union. But I digress.)
Anyway, this poor girl is told to never open the box but, like those of us who were told to never peek under the Christmas tree or turn on Cartoon Network late at night... she did. Of course she did. How couldn't she?
What follows is a scene of horror and devastation not just to poor Pandora, but to everyone (and don't the ancients luuuurve to blame the problems of humanity on a woman? Eve ate the fruit, therefore she is responsible for all of the sorrow that follows. Pandora peeked into the box and is, therefore, to blame for the nightmares that come flying out of it. Pandora, like Eve, was made for the gods as companionship and possessed only the skills and traits bestowed on her by them. However, when those women acted upon emotions granted to them by the gods- curiosity, desire- the woman is blamed for the destruction to come. Always the woman at the center of the ancient blame game.) What comes flying out is straight out of a nightmare- hate, anger, sickness, despair, poverty, war... this one woman's "foolish" curiosity has gotten the better of her and now there will be hell to pay.
But this legend has a twist, a seemingly tragic one. Underneath all that evil, there shimmered hope, there, at the bottom, waiting for the evil to fly away but LO! Pandora, realizing her error, slams the lid shut and traps that last thing inside. She, foolish girl, had released evil, but trapped hope. Silly woman. Silly, sad, culpable woman.
I wonder, though. Picking through the variations and translations and speculations, I do wonder. The gods had made that... well, we'll call it a box because I'm too tired for complicated words in italics just now... they had formed that box to hold all the evil that was to be kept from humanity. War, death, sickness... it would have been helpful indeed to keep that mess locked away forever. But it makes me wonder- what was hope doing with such a motley crew of evil tidings? Was it that they designed it to be the one foil to the destruction within? Or did the gods realize that hope can sometimes be the cruelest thing of all and strive to keep it locked away, as a safeguard against its box-mate, despair?
I wonder about this. Maybe it wasn't the solution. Perhaps it was simply another problem. Perhaps man would be better served without hope to skew their perspective and raise them to impossible and unsustainable heights. Perhaps trapping hope doomed a race now swarmed by misfortune, but... maybe they were spared from worse by the absence of an emotion that can alternately raise you up and then let you fall again, just as unexpectedly.
So, Pandora, foolish, foolish plaything of the gods, did you fail mankind by trapping hope, or did you attempt to save us from a worse despair?
Anyway, this poor girl is told to never open the box but, like those of us who were told to never peek under the Christmas tree or turn on Cartoon Network late at night... she did. Of course she did. How couldn't she?
What follows is a scene of horror and devastation not just to poor Pandora, but to everyone (and don't the ancients luuuurve to blame the problems of humanity on a woman? Eve ate the fruit, therefore she is responsible for all of the sorrow that follows. Pandora peeked into the box and is, therefore, to blame for the nightmares that come flying out of it. Pandora, like Eve, was made for the gods as companionship and possessed only the skills and traits bestowed on her by them. However, when those women acted upon emotions granted to them by the gods- curiosity, desire- the woman is blamed for the destruction to come. Always the woman at the center of the ancient blame game.) What comes flying out is straight out of a nightmare- hate, anger, sickness, despair, poverty, war... this one woman's "foolish" curiosity has gotten the better of her and now there will be hell to pay.
But this legend has a twist, a seemingly tragic one. Underneath all that evil, there shimmered hope, there, at the bottom, waiting for the evil to fly away but LO! Pandora, realizing her error, slams the lid shut and traps that last thing inside. She, foolish girl, had released evil, but trapped hope. Silly woman. Silly, sad, culpable woman.
I wonder, though. Picking through the variations and translations and speculations, I do wonder. The gods had made that... well, we'll call it a box because I'm too tired for complicated words in italics just now... they had formed that box to hold all the evil that was to be kept from humanity. War, death, sickness... it would have been helpful indeed to keep that mess locked away forever. But it makes me wonder- what was hope doing with such a motley crew of evil tidings? Was it that they designed it to be the one foil to the destruction within? Or did the gods realize that hope can sometimes be the cruelest thing of all and strive to keep it locked away, as a safeguard against its box-mate, despair?
I wonder about this. Maybe it wasn't the solution. Perhaps it was simply another problem. Perhaps man would be better served without hope to skew their perspective and raise them to impossible and unsustainable heights. Perhaps trapping hope doomed a race now swarmed by misfortune, but... maybe they were spared from worse by the absence of an emotion that can alternately raise you up and then let you fall again, just as unexpectedly.
So, Pandora, foolish, foolish plaything of the gods, did you fail mankind by trapping hope, or did you attempt to save us from a worse despair?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Split ends and wobbly bits
So, the summer is over (thank the gods) and honoring the great and terrible cycle of life, I'm back on my parents' couch with my laptop melting the tops of my thighs and endless episodes of Dr. Who on the television. I suppose it's a bit strange for me to have walked so far and still ended up exactly where I started.
This summer was one of great personal awareness and awakening. I daily rode on a rollercoaster that slammed me from the heights of self-worth and pride then plummeted me to the familiar, comfortable dips of self-loathing and regret. I think, if anything, it made me hope the ride would come to a complete stop so I could walk calmly to the nearest exit and find a ride that would leave me a little less queasy.
So, how do you wrap an iconic 10 weeks into a tidy little blog package? I have no idea. But I've left this poor page idle for so long and I have so many things in my head right now. Let's make a list. I love lists:
1. Everyone deserves to be loved. There are so many kinds of love and no two people need the same thing.
2. At the crossroads of life, some people go left, and some people go right, and some people curl up against the large oak and wait for someone who will make the decision for them to come along.
3. I should shower before going out for German food with my parents, but I don't wanna.
4. I have wobbly thighs. So freakin' what? I'm so tired of telling myself that I'm ugly.
5. Epiphanies are rather unsettling. And now, I'm seeing the world through newer, clearer eyes, and I'm both enchanted with and struck by the tragedy of everything I see. How melodramatic.
6. It's funny how I've sung so many songs in my life but never bothered to listen to the words or understand the meaning before. But I think I kinda get it now.
7. I'm dying for the next part of my life to begin. Hickory feels like a concentration camp. It's time to grow up and I'm so content with that but I mostly just want to crawl into a pumpkin and die for a while.
8. Time moves more slowly at home. MUCH more slowly. Like, cryogenically frozen slowly. I know time is just a wibbley, wobbley, timey-wimey ball, but still... I've been napping for a very long time.
9. Friends help you move, but real friends help you move the bodies... no, but seriously, I have some of the most amazing friends ever, and they truly showed their glorious true colors this week. Thanks, guys.
10. It is a truth universally acknowledged that any single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.
This summer was one of great personal awareness and awakening. I daily rode on a rollercoaster that slammed me from the heights of self-worth and pride then plummeted me to the familiar, comfortable dips of self-loathing and regret. I think, if anything, it made me hope the ride would come to a complete stop so I could walk calmly to the nearest exit and find a ride that would leave me a little less queasy.
So, how do you wrap an iconic 10 weeks into a tidy little blog package? I have no idea. But I've left this poor page idle for so long and I have so many things in my head right now. Let's make a list. I love lists:
1. Everyone deserves to be loved. There are so many kinds of love and no two people need the same thing.
2. At the crossroads of life, some people go left, and some people go right, and some people curl up against the large oak and wait for someone who will make the decision for them to come along.
3. I should shower before going out for German food with my parents, but I don't wanna.
4. I have wobbly thighs. So freakin' what? I'm so tired of telling myself that I'm ugly.
5. Epiphanies are rather unsettling. And now, I'm seeing the world through newer, clearer eyes, and I'm both enchanted with and struck by the tragedy of everything I see. How melodramatic.
6. It's funny how I've sung so many songs in my life but never bothered to listen to the words or understand the meaning before. But I think I kinda get it now.
7. I'm dying for the next part of my life to begin. Hickory feels like a concentration camp. It's time to grow up and I'm so content with that but I mostly just want to crawl into a pumpkin and die for a while.
8. Time moves more slowly at home. MUCH more slowly. Like, cryogenically frozen slowly. I know time is just a wibbley, wobbley, timey-wimey ball, but still... I've been napping for a very long time.
9. Friends help you move, but real friends help you move the bodies... no, but seriously, I have some of the most amazing friends ever, and they truly showed their glorious true colors this week. Thanks, guys.
10. It is a truth universally acknowledged that any single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.
11. Without the bad times, the good times would have no meaning and no value. That doesn't, however, mean that being an adult doesn't utterly suck sometimes.
12. After all the hemming and hawing and rules and semantics and power struggles and other ridiculous blather has quieted, the only thing that matters is to believe. Everything else, the unimportant crap, will eventually take care of itself.
13. After Pandora opened the box and all the ugliness released itself upon the world, the only thing she found in the box was hope, shivering in a corner, waiting to be discovered. I kind of think it's been like that with me... so much chaos in my brain, and the one thing I needed the most was waiting, patiently, until the rest cleared out and I could let it glow uninhibited.
Yikes. Not my most brilliant post. There's just too much going on to try to make sense of any of it. More to come later.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Opinions
It doesn't matter who expresses them... opinions are like porn to me.
Sometimes it's cheap, low-budget porn- the kind you download for free and erase almost immediately afterward coz it makes you feel a little sick inside.
Sometimes it's high quality porn, with lavish costumes and and an actual script (well, as much of a script as you can hope for) and stars that don't look like they'll never see thirty again (or aren't old enough to legally smoke)...
Either way, I live for opinions. Giving them, receiving them... even if they piss me off I'm always glad I know more than I did before.
So, it annoys me that people get so irked at me for simply expressing a damn opinion!!! Why do we have to live with secrecy and disingenuity? Why are we so much more concerned with not offending people and therefore live in terror of speaking the truth and having it spoken to us? Why is conflict so much shinier and more attractive then lies?
I am mad as HELL, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.
I have decided to enter a kinder, gentler era of just not speaking my mind AT ALL. I'm tired of the criticism, I'm tired of the resentment, I'm tired of feeling like I am offending people when I'm just being true to my nature.
So, from now on, I'm blogging. I'm putting my opinions here. If you give a frick what I have to say and promise not to give me unneccesary attitude for simply letting a little of the chaos out of my head, then welcome! And don't ever hesitate to leave your opinions, too...
I'm so close to putting this era of shallowness behind me... thank God.
First opinion- so, I'm currently glurging on literature involving eugenics, and I'm mad as hell.
Preface- I tutor once a week at a community college, in the Basic Skills department in which my mom serves. So, we're there on Friday, and a lad with obvious (but clearly not prohibitive) developmental disabilities approaches us and tells us excitedly that the "cheerleaders" are performing in the gym at 1. Mom tells him we'll be there like shareware, and he bounds off excitedly to invite another member of the staff.
My mom goes on to explain that the CompEd class had mastered a cheerleading routine and was taking it to some competitions, and that she wanted to go to their performance and cheer them on. Of course I agreed, and at 1, they performed a highly entertaining cheer and dance to an enthusiastic crowd. Did it matter to the cheering fans that these kids were developmentally disabled? Hells, no. They were enthusiastic, and they were having fun so infectiously that we all laughed along with them. Afterwards, they hugged all of the spectators and a girl excitedly told us that they were going to the beach! For two days! And there was a pool! At the hotel!
It would have melted a heart of ice. One like mine, actually. They held my icy, dead heart like a shiny, rustly pompom in the palms of their hands.
So, I went to collect my belongings to leave, and as I held my tome on the history of eugenics, I was suddenly hit with kind of a rush of emotions. I was nauseous, I was angry, and I just wanted to shield every last one of those kids from anyone who would be heartless and evil enough to ever trouble them.
A brief explanation- eugenics was a medical and philosophical study in the late 1800's-early 1900's. Eugenicists posited that detrimental traits- such as learning disabilities, handicaps, homosexuality, alcoholism, feeblemindedness, inferior racial status, etc- were hereditary deformities and could be, quite simply, bred out of civilization given aggressive tactics. Eugenicists in the United States forcibly sterilized about 60,000 people legally (supported by legislation in 30 different states) in the heyday of eugenics. Then, the Nazis took the movement as their baby and wiped out the handicapped communities of occupied Europe, Wiped them out. Euthanized them, if you will... these "undesirables" in no way furthered a superior Aryan race and therefore were exterminated, like so many ants or mice or cockroaches. No matter that each one of these people had a story, and special gifts, and a heart, and a right to live given by their simply being on this earth... no, they were inferior, and had to go.
Turns out, euthanasia was pondered by American eugenicists as a "humane" method of eliminating these non-flowering branches from the healthy, stately tree of American life. Thankfully, the full extent of Nazi atrocities at last came to light, and eugenics advocates in America quickly hush-hushed any damning evidence that America lit the match that made the Holocaust burn so brightly in Europe.
It makes me a little sick, honestly, that these sweet, kindhearted innocents, enthusiastically swinging their pompoms and jiving along with Metro Station, would have been crammed into buses and gassed, or submitted to anaestheticless vasectomies, or been cut open awake and laid there in pain while their tubes were tied because they were simply not good enough to be allowed to procreate. Why is that? Why is a girl with her hearing more deserving to be a mother than a deaf girl? Why is someone with Huntington's chorea forced to be the last to bear their family's name, because of a condition they're born with?
It seems like the distant past, but we're entering an age where genetic engineering is the Newgenics. Why are we suddenly given the superiority to determine what will make a child more appealing to the race? It makes me crazy. And angry.
As I was sitting there, waiting for the cheerleaders to shake shake, shake shake a-shake it, a woman who was on crutches struggled by me. A young man with Down's Syndrome got to his feet and, in a friendly and non-intrusive way, helped her to a bleacher, plopped down beside her and chatted with her animatedly until the show started. It occurred to me that there I was- blond-haired... blue-eyed... built like a German hausfrau... in good condition and rather sharp of intellect... I wouldn't be the eugenecists' ideal but I would certainly be encouraged by them to breed, breed, breed. But for all my genetic cleanliness, did it ever occur to me to hop up and help that girl to her seat, let alone have a cozy chat with her? No. But a "disabled" kid served with distinction where I would never have the courage.
And we, the genetically pure, want to breed that out.
Anyway, I could say more but I'm so angry... I just need to wind down and stop thinking for one night. That's my opinion! What's yours?
Sometimes it's cheap, low-budget porn- the kind you download for free and erase almost immediately afterward coz it makes you feel a little sick inside.
Sometimes it's high quality porn, with lavish costumes and and an actual script (well, as much of a script as you can hope for) and stars that don't look like they'll never see thirty again (or aren't old enough to legally smoke)...
Either way, I live for opinions. Giving them, receiving them... even if they piss me off I'm always glad I know more than I did before.
So, it annoys me that people get so irked at me for simply expressing a damn opinion!!! Why do we have to live with secrecy and disingenuity? Why are we so much more concerned with not offending people and therefore live in terror of speaking the truth and having it spoken to us? Why is conflict so much shinier and more attractive then lies?
I am mad as HELL, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.
I have decided to enter a kinder, gentler era of just not speaking my mind AT ALL. I'm tired of the criticism, I'm tired of the resentment, I'm tired of feeling like I am offending people when I'm just being true to my nature.
So, from now on, I'm blogging. I'm putting my opinions here. If you give a frick what I have to say and promise not to give me unneccesary attitude for simply letting a little of the chaos out of my head, then welcome! And don't ever hesitate to leave your opinions, too...
I'm so close to putting this era of shallowness behind me... thank God.
First opinion- so, I'm currently glurging on literature involving eugenics, and I'm mad as hell.
Preface- I tutor once a week at a community college, in the Basic Skills department in which my mom serves. So, we're there on Friday, and a lad with obvious (but clearly not prohibitive) developmental disabilities approaches us and tells us excitedly that the "cheerleaders" are performing in the gym at 1. Mom tells him we'll be there like shareware, and he bounds off excitedly to invite another member of the staff.
My mom goes on to explain that the CompEd class had mastered a cheerleading routine and was taking it to some competitions, and that she wanted to go to their performance and cheer them on. Of course I agreed, and at 1, they performed a highly entertaining cheer and dance to an enthusiastic crowd. Did it matter to the cheering fans that these kids were developmentally disabled? Hells, no. They were enthusiastic, and they were having fun so infectiously that we all laughed along with them. Afterwards, they hugged all of the spectators and a girl excitedly told us that they were going to the beach! For two days! And there was a pool! At the hotel!
It would have melted a heart of ice. One like mine, actually. They held my icy, dead heart like a shiny, rustly pompom in the palms of their hands.
So, I went to collect my belongings to leave, and as I held my tome on the history of eugenics, I was suddenly hit with kind of a rush of emotions. I was nauseous, I was angry, and I just wanted to shield every last one of those kids from anyone who would be heartless and evil enough to ever trouble them.
A brief explanation- eugenics was a medical and philosophical study in the late 1800's-early 1900's. Eugenicists posited that detrimental traits- such as learning disabilities, handicaps, homosexuality, alcoholism, feeblemindedness, inferior racial status, etc- were hereditary deformities and could be, quite simply, bred out of civilization given aggressive tactics. Eugenicists in the United States forcibly sterilized about 60,000 people legally (supported by legislation in 30 different states) in the heyday of eugenics. Then, the Nazis took the movement as their baby and wiped out the handicapped communities of occupied Europe, Wiped them out. Euthanized them, if you will... these "undesirables" in no way furthered a superior Aryan race and therefore were exterminated, like so many ants or mice or cockroaches. No matter that each one of these people had a story, and special gifts, and a heart, and a right to live given by their simply being on this earth... no, they were inferior, and had to go.
Turns out, euthanasia was pondered by American eugenicists as a "humane" method of eliminating these non-flowering branches from the healthy, stately tree of American life. Thankfully, the full extent of Nazi atrocities at last came to light, and eugenics advocates in America quickly hush-hushed any damning evidence that America lit the match that made the Holocaust burn so brightly in Europe.
It makes me a little sick, honestly, that these sweet, kindhearted innocents, enthusiastically swinging their pompoms and jiving along with Metro Station, would have been crammed into buses and gassed, or submitted to anaestheticless vasectomies, or been cut open awake and laid there in pain while their tubes were tied because they were simply not good enough to be allowed to procreate. Why is that? Why is a girl with her hearing more deserving to be a mother than a deaf girl? Why is someone with Huntington's chorea forced to be the last to bear their family's name, because of a condition they're born with?
It seems like the distant past, but we're entering an age where genetic engineering is the Newgenics. Why are we suddenly given the superiority to determine what will make a child more appealing to the race? It makes me crazy. And angry.
As I was sitting there, waiting for the cheerleaders to shake shake, shake shake a-shake it, a woman who was on crutches struggled by me. A young man with Down's Syndrome got to his feet and, in a friendly and non-intrusive way, helped her to a bleacher, plopped down beside her and chatted with her animatedly until the show started. It occurred to me that there I was- blond-haired... blue-eyed... built like a German hausfrau... in good condition and rather sharp of intellect... I wouldn't be the eugenecists' ideal but I would certainly be encouraged by them to breed, breed, breed. But for all my genetic cleanliness, did it ever occur to me to hop up and help that girl to her seat, let alone have a cozy chat with her? No. But a "disabled" kid served with distinction where I would never have the courage.
And we, the genetically pure, want to breed that out.
Anyway, I could say more but I'm so angry... I just need to wind down and stop thinking for one night. That's my opinion! What's yours?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Like a poor lonely child...
Oh dear. My poor blog has been all alone for MONTHS. The months I happened to be jobless and wretchedly depressed... but I make this promise to you, dear blog, those days are nigh upon over (the blogless days, not the jobless. Obviously, I have no idea when I'll get a job). I shall post again soon. Hurrah!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Oh no! I have a blog!
Not that I don't love my blog, mind you... but it's clearly not writing itself and it's time to get busy again! Between work, singing sentimental platitudes about the Oklahoma territory, trips to the City of Sin with my family and lusting outrageously after Dr. Cox for several hours a night, I've been far too busy to blog my ever so important thoughts and feelings. However, an erstwhile and pitiful plea from a good friend with lunch hours to kill brings me back to my cranial lovechild. Here we go.
I don't really have a theme this time. Who cares?
Rachel Ray: The PREreincarnation of Jerry Lewis? 
Believe me or don't, people... all I'm saying is that you need to do is watch one of Rachel Ray's shows and finish all her sentences with, "Nice LAAAAA-dy!"
If I were a not-yet-dead Jerry Lewis, I would have picked a worthier vessel than an irritating pixie who makes up banal cooking expressions (like "EVOO" and "Yummo!"), makes completely average looking food and speaks to the television audience as if they had only just weaned off of Baby Einstein and were looking to grow to the next level of one-syllable words and easy two syllable words like "Sammy". I can't even think about her anymore.
Then again, there are those who, disbelieving of such a radical and, I daresay, foolish hypothesis as prereincarnation, could argue that Jerry Lewis is a cyborg or a mandroid or similar or... even worse... an Illuminatus!!! You know, those fun-loving lizard people who take on the visage of humans and, from famous and influential positions, bring about DESTRUCTION and CHAOS? Totally, man. Maybe Rachel was carefully crafted from an ailing LewisBeast or LewisBot's organic matter to carry on his EVIL after his time in this frail earthly form was through... maybe we'll never know... or maybe they're biding their time.
I end with this: Jerry Lewis' EarthMother's name was Rachel "Rae" Levitch. Is there such a thing as coincidence?
I hope I've at least given you something to ponder. I take a great risk here, speaking the truth... if they come for me, WHEN they come for me, don't let my death be in vain. Spread the truth... expose the lies, expose the EVOO for what it is: the Harbinger of Doom. And a delicious dipping sauce for crusty artisan bread... with a little balsamic vinegar? Makes me hungry just thinking about it. YumMO!
Oh no. Oh NO! Nice... laaaaady....
Not that I don't love my blog, mind you... but it's clearly not writing itself and it's time to get busy again! Between work, singing sentimental platitudes about the Oklahoma territory, trips to the City of Sin with my family and lusting outrageously after Dr. Cox for several hours a night, I've been far too busy to blog my ever so important thoughts and feelings. However, an erstwhile and pitiful plea from a good friend with lunch hours to kill brings me back to my cranial lovechild. Here we go.
I don't really have a theme this time. Who cares?
Da plane, boss! Look at da plane!: I learned an interesting fact this week. I hear presidential candidates, politicians and celebrities carp, carp, carp about the oil situation and the gas prices and save the Earth and blah dee blah dee blah. It amuses me that these same celebrated figures of our Great Nation travel not on the bus, or cramped in a seat in coach with their knees knocking against their tray table (the tray table that holds the drink and snack they had to PAY for because by the way? Beverage/food service is no longer complimentary on domestic flights) and with a chatty Floridian granny on their left, a sweaty fat man by the window and a shrieking child beast with an array of musical toys just behind, or in a small but comfortable, gas-conservative car like us mere mortals down below. Oh no. They fly in private jets. They ride in limos and own SUVs. They cajole us with attractive promises of lower gas prices (although god forbid we drill... we must protect the environment at all costs! Although, I'll let them tell that to the people who can't afford to drive to work/school with current gas prices) and serve only to suck down more precious natural resources themselves. I am SO TIRED of them.
Anyway, that was a side road I will probably take later and much more violently. Back to being amused. SO, a little bit of trivia: Which politician began the tradition of flying from city to city during a campaign, and thus being able to reach a broader audience in a shorter period of time?
The answer? Adolf Hitler! That's right... In 1932, when Hitler ran against Hindenburg for the presidency, he traveled through much of his campaign in an airplane, which enabled him to speak in more than one city in a day. His campaign slogan was "Hitler uber Deutschland" or, Hitler over Germany. It was a clever play on words, you see? That guy. It's refreshing to see our good politicians following dear old Adolf's ways. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll bring back the Wehrmacht! Won't that be swell?
And speaking of Hitler, I am reminded of the next person who wrung a reluctant snicker and a reluctant, coup-d'etat posthumous mental high-five from me this week-
Martin "Zyklon B" Luther: Now, some of you might know him as both the paterfamilias and sergeant-at-arms of the early Protestant church; the challenger of the papacy; the upholder of the infallibility of the Bible and the concept that salvation is through Christ and unmediated by Mother Church; the lone voice that encouraged the ignorant peasants of the Dark Ages to partake of something healthier than a Diet of Worms (hyuk hyuk hyuk).
And me? I tend to think of him as the Great GrandPappy of the Final Solution to the Jewish Problem in Europe.
Oh, yes. Martin Luther was a raging anti-Semite. In fact, his work, "On the Jews and Their Lies" was reprinted five times within the three remaining years of his lifetime. Poor Mr. L had little luck converting Jews to Christianity. When they chose to resolutely stick to their beliefs and not stray from them for the radical teachings of one man, that one man snapped and bitterly railed against them. He wrote that they were a "base, whoring people", that "we are not at fault in slaying them." and encouraged his followers to burn Jewish synagogues, destroy their prayerbooks and seize their money. Whoa there, big fella. Strong words... but you have to respect the moxie of a man who is so sure that he's right that he advocates the slaughter of those who don't flee belief systems that predate his and flock to his side...
Anyway, many historians agree that ML's caustic and relatively successful campaign against the Jews (in addition to stirring up hatred amongst his flock- you know, Christianity... the "Love thy neighbor as thyself" religion- his works would compel riots that led to the expulsion of the Jews from many places in Germany) was a heavily contributing factor in the spawning of anti-Semitism in Germany. And what did anti-Semitism lead to in Germany? Only the annhilation of 6,000,000 European Jews. Many of the Nazis' anti-Jewish books and speeches alluded to Luther's writings; Himmler was said to be a big fan and Luther's text was declared by the Nazis (admiringly, of course) to be the most radically anti-Semitic tract ever published (and it had some competition, too, such as "The Jewish Plague" and "The Toadstool", a charming children's book.) Well played, Martin. They don't want to be Christians? Whatever. Let's genocide them up, then... shall we?
Moving on- Our next contestant is someone who accomplished something I never thought possible: they are in actuality the reincarnation of someone who isn't even dead yet! This is REALLY spooky:
Rachel Ray: The PREreincarnation of Jerry Lewis? 
Believe me or don't, people... all I'm saying is that you need to do is watch one of Rachel Ray's shows and finish all her sentences with, "Nice LAAAAA-dy!"
If I were a not-yet-dead Jerry Lewis, I would have picked a worthier vessel than an irritating pixie who makes up banal cooking expressions (like "EVOO" and "Yummo!"), makes completely average looking food and speaks to the television audience as if they had only just weaned off of Baby Einstein and were looking to grow to the next level of one-syllable words and easy two syllable words like "Sammy". I can't even think about her anymore.
Then again, there are those who, disbelieving of such a radical and, I daresay, foolish hypothesis as prereincarnation, could argue that Jerry Lewis is a cyborg or a mandroid or similar or... even worse... an Illuminatus!!! You know, those fun-loving lizard people who take on the visage of humans and, from famous and influential positions, bring about DESTRUCTION and CHAOS? Totally, man. Maybe Rachel was carefully crafted from an ailing LewisBeast or LewisBot's organic matter to carry on his EVIL after his time in this frail earthly form was through... maybe we'll never know... or maybe they're biding their time.
I end with this: Jerry Lewis' EarthMother's name was Rachel "Rae" Levitch. Is there such a thing as coincidence?
I hope I've at least given you something to ponder. I take a great risk here, speaking the truth... if they come for me, WHEN they come for me, don't let my death be in vain. Spread the truth... expose the lies, expose the EVOO for what it is: the Harbinger of Doom. And a delicious dipping sauce for crusty artisan bread... with a little balsamic vinegar? Makes me hungry just thinking about it. YumMO!
Oh no. Oh NO! Nice... laaaaady....
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Ho hummage.
I don't have much to say tonight (I'm kind of grumpy) but this clock still has to tick 8 minutes of my life away before I can wash out this itchy dye. I'm a bit afraid to see the end product... I have a sneaking suspicion that my head is going to be a flaming mass of pink appropriate only in Japanese anime. But we'll see.
Days later: the hair turned out a crazy shade of comic book red. Am I keeping it? Hells, yeah. It is, to quote one of the many people in the world I'm sick to death of, time for a change.
I really need to do something with my time... I've been getting soooo terribly twitchy lately. I *thankfully* have an unholy trinity of busy weekends ahead of me, but that's only a tiny bandaid on the gaping abdominal fleshwound that is my present existence. And my present existence is rather disappointing to me... My ambitions for life changed as I grew older and my perspective changed. When I was a child, I dreamed that I would meet the man of my dreams on either my 16th birthday or my 18th (cause that's how Disney taught me to dream. Raise your hand if you DON'T want me to go into that again. I had to stop typing because my hands were waving wildly of their own volition and I couldn't type... must be a sign. Moving on...) and get married and raise babies and not like that's a bad thing, mind you... the world must be peopled.
However, that was not my Route 66, and now the looming conflict is... I'm t-minus 5 days from my late twenties and I have not much to show for it. A 8-5 job answering phones... bizarrely colored X-Men hair... raging commitmentphobia... severe mistrust of everyone around me but a few of those genetically linked to me and one or two close friends... a sickening feeling of impending doom... some curious mental powers passed on through the women of my family... a capacity for observation that misses little but is rather unwelcome to most people I know... strong morals I was raised with and the lingering stain of JudeoChristian purple KoolAid on my teeth but an ever stronger desire to launch myself into the careless, hedonistic, thoroughly enjoyable party that branches off the straight and narrow into Woman of 2008land... itchy feet and a wandering soul... a feeling that I should be doing something somewhere but with no helpful roadsigns... an insatiable craving for nummy snacks and hard liquor... loneliness so ingrained and corporeal you could cut it with a knife and not even biopsy a fraction of it... a long string of unsuccessful eating disorders... schemes I won't allow myself to carry through for fear of failure... a craving for success but little to no ambition... depression as a full time vocation since the 4th grade... a shiny new car but nowhere in particular to drive it to... a creeping suspicion that I'm starting not to care about anyone or anything (because it's better to have stayed aloof and not lost than to love and be hurt again)... a personality that changes with every person I meet... limitless potential, bottled like warm champagne at a party where no one remembered to bring a corkscrew...
If there's anything missing from my life, it's dreams. Careers... travels... homes... loves... friends... I gave up on anticipation a long time ago. I'm kind of a pessimist; I prefer to anticipate disappointment. That way, if something goes wrong, I'm already mentally prepared, and if something goes well, I'm pleasantly surprised. I anticipate failure and then resent that it follows me wherever I go.
But where's the solution? I can't seem to settle on a future. I won't turn to optimism. I won't look forward to an unforseeable future. And I'm always too tired to really think about it.
This is angsty and depressing (but then again, so am I! Charming. Hee.) I'm going to go watch Scrubs and hope the Ambition Fairy visits me tonight and leaves me something under my pillow.
Days later: the hair turned out a crazy shade of comic book red. Am I keeping it? Hells, yeah. It is, to quote one of the many people in the world I'm sick to death of, time for a change.
I really need to do something with my time... I've been getting soooo terribly twitchy lately. I *thankfully* have an unholy trinity of busy weekends ahead of me, but that's only a tiny bandaid on the gaping abdominal fleshwound that is my present existence. And my present existence is rather disappointing to me... My ambitions for life changed as I grew older and my perspective changed. When I was a child, I dreamed that I would meet the man of my dreams on either my 16th birthday or my 18th (cause that's how Disney taught me to dream. Raise your hand if you DON'T want me to go into that again. I had to stop typing because my hands were waving wildly of their own volition and I couldn't type... must be a sign. Moving on...) and get married and raise babies and not like that's a bad thing, mind you... the world must be peopled.
However, that was not my Route 66, and now the looming conflict is... I'm t-minus 5 days from my late twenties and I have not much to show for it. A 8-5 job answering phones... bizarrely colored X-Men hair... raging commitmentphobia... severe mistrust of everyone around me but a few of those genetically linked to me and one or two close friends... a sickening feeling of impending doom... some curious mental powers passed on through the women of my family... a capacity for observation that misses little but is rather unwelcome to most people I know... strong morals I was raised with and the lingering stain of JudeoChristian purple KoolAid on my teeth but an ever stronger desire to launch myself into the careless, hedonistic, thoroughly enjoyable party that branches off the straight and narrow into Woman of 2008land... itchy feet and a wandering soul... a feeling that I should be doing something somewhere but with no helpful roadsigns... an insatiable craving for nummy snacks and hard liquor... loneliness so ingrained and corporeal you could cut it with a knife and not even biopsy a fraction of it... a long string of unsuccessful eating disorders... schemes I won't allow myself to carry through for fear of failure... a craving for success but little to no ambition... depression as a full time vocation since the 4th grade... a shiny new car but nowhere in particular to drive it to... a creeping suspicion that I'm starting not to care about anyone or anything (because it's better to have stayed aloof and not lost than to love and be hurt again)... a personality that changes with every person I meet... limitless potential, bottled like warm champagne at a party where no one remembered to bring a corkscrew...
If there's anything missing from my life, it's dreams. Careers... travels... homes... loves... friends... I gave up on anticipation a long time ago. I'm kind of a pessimist; I prefer to anticipate disappointment. That way, if something goes wrong, I'm already mentally prepared, and if something goes well, I'm pleasantly surprised. I anticipate failure and then resent that it follows me wherever I go.
But where's the solution? I can't seem to settle on a future. I won't turn to optimism. I won't look forward to an unforseeable future. And I'm always too tired to really think about it.
This is angsty and depressing (but then again, so am I! Charming. Hee.) I'm going to go watch Scrubs and hope the Ambition Fairy visits me tonight and leaves me something under my pillow.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Grimm Goodbye
I have made a resolution on this day.
I'm not a big fan of children, in general... It's cool if they're someone else's, and I can play with them a bit and then get them all sugared up before giving them back to their longsuffering, vaguely twitchy Mommies and Daddies. I'm fine with that. Apart from that, though, I'm simply not the maternal type(unless you consider Shaken Baby Syndrome a positive step towards Happy Families.)
That having been said, I recognize that someday in my future, I might choose (or be forced) to unleash a genetic copy of myself into the world. A girl, of course. Because boys are smelly. And they make me awkward. And one should never have to be awkward with one's own progeny.
And it occurred to me that it would be prohibitively intimidating to be answerable for the development of a whole new person in such a disorienting, frenetic, violent world (triple word score for that sentence.) Not only do parents face the obvious crises looming over every child (violence, sex, substance abuse), but also the less visible forms of mental/emotional/spiritual angst such as depression, peer pressure, and the (wait, wait... let me climb up onto my soapbox. Ooof... okay. I'm up.) unbalance caused by the manipulation of modern media/entertainment.
No, really. Look how much kids these days are affected by what they see on tv! Their lives are saturated with Paris Hilton and Hannah Montana and Solja Boy. Not that these are bad things (necessarily. Well...), but they affect the way children think and develop and interact with others.
THAT having been said, I'll get on with my original point (if I can remember that far back), which is: as crucial as outside influences are to the development of the mind of a child, I hereby resolve that should I ever have a girl child, fairy tales shall be barred from my domicile henceforth.
I grew up in a great age of Disney musicals... The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin... come on. Those movies were and are to this day great works of art (to me). And I lived through a great age of cartoon female empowerment; Belle was a not only gorgeous and smart, but a ballbuster and a hero in her own right. Mulan dressed as a boy to fight a war and save her father's life. Jasmine, too independent for a privileged, useless life behind castle walls with a privileged, useless royal husband, snuck out and dressed as an urchin to pursue a freer life (and interesting point about Jasmine: she was a royal who married a commoner, unlike most Disney princesses. She had nothing to gain in the relationship but a life companion. I think that says a lot for her). I would never say that newer Disney musicals haven't fought the good fight for girl pride and empowerment (the traditional, sleep-'til-your-prince-saves-you-and-kisses-you-awake Disney musicals notwithstanding). Never.
However, for all their girlpower and role-modelage, I think that fairy tale adaptations give a subtler message, and one I heard with my whole heart at an early age.
Love. What little girl didn't swoon when the prince kisses his true love? What little imagination didn't picture herself in a flowing white gown, waltzing around the ballroom? What little heart didn't beat for the day it's true love would ride up and carry it off to a happily ever after? Mine did. I dreamed of a dark headed prince in shining armour, and I practiced being carried off into the sunset (True story. On a rocking chair. I never told anyone that. I'm making you my Secret-Keeper.) And not that a girl shouldn't dream, but... I think that through the medium of Disney cartoons, I was ruined for the ordinary. I was made to be discontented with anything less than a prince. I was shown that a simple girl like me could accomplish daring feats and save the day, and then ride off in the arms of her rich, titled, handsome beloved.
It seems like any life would be blase after a prototype like that. But I beg to disagree... I ask for so much less than the fairy tale life, and crave something so much better: just something to call my own.
I spent so many years in romantic anticipation. Why did I not see that my time would be better spent proactively making my own life spectacular, rather than waiting for it to be validated by the presence of the princely stereotype? Why did I look forward to a happy ending and not an eventful story? I've lately begun to mourn the wasted years I spent in Disney ingenue naivete. And I'm ready- oh, so ready- to set that aside.
No single girl of a certain age is likely to be fortunate enough to NOT be told, "Someday your prince will come." I have been, many times. And people are well-meaning, so I try not to be annoyed. But I ask you this: what if he doesn't? Does that ruin the ending? Does that lessen the triumph of the lessons learned and the life full of victories and defeats and attempts? No, I think it's a distraction, and one I prefer to live without.
I attended a tiny religious school. One of the things that frustrated me the most while I was there was twofold: A. That many girls at school were DESPERATE to land a husband and start nesting and B. That as much as I scorned their impatience, I would not have minded the same thing happenening to me. Thank God it didn't.... And I don't mean to scoff at the people who did choose to make that decision so early. If that's your choice, so be it; I just think that a permanent romantic relationship is not something that should be forced or rushed into or really even "pursued", as it were. Fairy tales (as told by Disney) make love and romance out to be the destination at the end of the journey, or the prize at the end of the race. I have to disagree... to me, it's only one plot arc in the scope of the whole story.
One of our generations's zeitgeists (and the one that I appreciate the most, I think) is that it's not only possible, but rather encouraged for young men and women to run amok and accomplish things and have a life and enjoy themselves before "settling down". Marriage is now being preempted by other things. I would have resented that on behalf of marriage, once upon a time, but now I can't support the concept more. Is it better to enter into an early commitment and give up on your own limitless promise for a life of pursuing other people's limitless promise? Or is it better to live your own life for yourself before devoting it to others? And the answer is relative to everyone.
I am sick to death of living in anticipation. I am so exhausted from the disappointment of a life spent in wishing for something better and living for a future than may not exist for me. I am discontented with the promise of a sugar-coated happily ever after. I am bored by Prince Charming in all his irritating perfection.
Ahhh, Prince Charming. Let's talk about him. Sure, he's pretty and brave and good with a sword; chances are he usually has something romantic to say and is more than happy to warble sweet nothings in your ear in his clear midrange tenor voice. Isn't it fabulous how he dashes around the country on his steed, rescuing people and slaying evildoers and accomplishing noble... stuff? So... the older I get, the dippier Prince Charming seems to me. Maybe I value 5 o'clock shadow rumpled hair and that scene in Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy climbs out of the lake in the wet shirt oh my GOD just give me a second.
Whew. Anyway. Maybe it's that I value the ordinariness of the Everyman. Maybe it's that other people's imperfections help me accept my own. Maybe it's that I prefer comfort and laughter and familiarity to an Ideal. Either way, give me a scruffy, awkward, beer-drinking, football-watching, jeans-wearing, imperfect boy over a Charming anyday. Bub-bye, Charming. It was real, and it was fun, and it was real fun, but I could never commit to anyone prettier than myself. Peace out.
If I ever had a girl, I would want her to grow up infused with the scope of what she could accomplish, not mooning over who she may someday marry. I would want her to envision where she'll go to college and how she'll change the world, not what she'll wear to her wedding. I would want her to be strong and brave and not ever once wait to be rescued. I would encourage her to look for what gives her happiness rather than what fills an ideal.
So, I have to accept that this whole diatribe didn't ever go where I wanted it to go and was mostly a single, childless girl discoursing on issues she's almost entirely seperate from and rhapsodizing about how sensible and free-spirited her non-existent girlchild will be. But I feel really strongly about this. There's nothing cuter than a little girl twirling around in a princess dress. But, there's nothing sadder than a older girl trolling for an unrealistic man of her dreams. I'm not talking about lowering standards... I'm more encouraging women to let fantasy compromise with reality and to not to judge men off of what they see on tv.
Whatever. I have to get back to work.
I'm not a big fan of children, in general... It's cool if they're someone else's, and I can play with them a bit and then get them all sugared up before giving them back to their longsuffering, vaguely twitchy Mommies and Daddies. I'm fine with that. Apart from that, though, I'm simply not the maternal type(unless you consider Shaken Baby Syndrome a positive step towards Happy Families.)
That having been said, I recognize that someday in my future, I might choose (or be forced) to unleash a genetic copy of myself into the world. A girl, of course. Because boys are smelly. And they make me awkward. And one should never have to be awkward with one's own progeny.
And it occurred to me that it would be prohibitively intimidating to be answerable for the development of a whole new person in such a disorienting, frenetic, violent world (triple word score for that sentence.) Not only do parents face the obvious crises looming over every child (violence, sex, substance abuse), but also the less visible forms of mental/emotional/spiritual angst such as depression, peer pressure, and the (wait, wait... let me climb up onto my soapbox. Ooof... okay. I'm up.) unbalance caused by the manipulation of modern media/entertainment.
No, really. Look how much kids these days are affected by what they see on tv! Their lives are saturated with Paris Hilton and Hannah Montana and Solja Boy. Not that these are bad things (necessarily. Well...), but they affect the way children think and develop and interact with others.
THAT having been said, I'll get on with my original point (if I can remember that far back), which is: as crucial as outside influences are to the development of the mind of a child, I hereby resolve that should I ever have a girl child, fairy tales shall be barred from my domicile henceforth.
I grew up in a great age of Disney musicals... The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin... come on. Those movies were and are to this day great works of art (to me). And I lived through a great age of cartoon female empowerment; Belle was a not only gorgeous and smart, but a ballbuster and a hero in her own right. Mulan dressed as a boy to fight a war and save her father's life. Jasmine, too independent for a privileged, useless life behind castle walls with a privileged, useless royal husband, snuck out and dressed as an urchin to pursue a freer life (and interesting point about Jasmine: she was a royal who married a commoner, unlike most Disney princesses. She had nothing to gain in the relationship but a life companion. I think that says a lot for her). I would never say that newer Disney musicals haven't fought the good fight for girl pride and empowerment (the traditional, sleep-'til-your-prince-saves-you-and-kisses-you-awake Disney musicals notwithstanding). Never.
However, for all their girlpower and role-modelage, I think that fairy tale adaptations give a subtler message, and one I heard with my whole heart at an early age.
Love. What little girl didn't swoon when the prince kisses his true love? What little imagination didn't picture herself in a flowing white gown, waltzing around the ballroom? What little heart didn't beat for the day it's true love would ride up and carry it off to a happily ever after? Mine did. I dreamed of a dark headed prince in shining armour, and I practiced being carried off into the sunset (True story. On a rocking chair. I never told anyone that. I'm making you my Secret-Keeper.) And not that a girl shouldn't dream, but... I think that through the medium of Disney cartoons, I was ruined for the ordinary. I was made to be discontented with anything less than a prince. I was shown that a simple girl like me could accomplish daring feats and save the day, and then ride off in the arms of her rich, titled, handsome beloved.
It seems like any life would be blase after a prototype like that. But I beg to disagree... I ask for so much less than the fairy tale life, and crave something so much better: just something to call my own.
I spent so many years in romantic anticipation. Why did I not see that my time would be better spent proactively making my own life spectacular, rather than waiting for it to be validated by the presence of the princely stereotype? Why did I look forward to a happy ending and not an eventful story? I've lately begun to mourn the wasted years I spent in Disney ingenue naivete. And I'm ready- oh, so ready- to set that aside.
No single girl of a certain age is likely to be fortunate enough to NOT be told, "Someday your prince will come." I have been, many times. And people are well-meaning, so I try not to be annoyed. But I ask you this: what if he doesn't? Does that ruin the ending? Does that lessen the triumph of the lessons learned and the life full of victories and defeats and attempts? No, I think it's a distraction, and one I prefer to live without.
I attended a tiny religious school. One of the things that frustrated me the most while I was there was twofold: A. That many girls at school were DESPERATE to land a husband and start nesting and B. That as much as I scorned their impatience, I would not have minded the same thing happenening to me. Thank God it didn't.... And I don't mean to scoff at the people who did choose to make that decision so early. If that's your choice, so be it; I just think that a permanent romantic relationship is not something that should be forced or rushed into or really even "pursued", as it were. Fairy tales (as told by Disney) make love and romance out to be the destination at the end of the journey, or the prize at the end of the race. I have to disagree... to me, it's only one plot arc in the scope of the whole story.
One of our generations's zeitgeists (and the one that I appreciate the most, I think) is that it's not only possible, but rather encouraged for young men and women to run amok and accomplish things and have a life and enjoy themselves before "settling down". Marriage is now being preempted by other things. I would have resented that on behalf of marriage, once upon a time, but now I can't support the concept more. Is it better to enter into an early commitment and give up on your own limitless promise for a life of pursuing other people's limitless promise? Or is it better to live your own life for yourself before devoting it to others? And the answer is relative to everyone.
I am sick to death of living in anticipation. I am so exhausted from the disappointment of a life spent in wishing for something better and living for a future than may not exist for me. I am discontented with the promise of a sugar-coated happily ever after. I am bored by Prince Charming in all his irritating perfection.
Ahhh, Prince Charming. Let's talk about him. Sure, he's pretty and brave and good with a sword; chances are he usually has something romantic to say and is more than happy to warble sweet nothings in your ear in his clear midrange tenor voice. Isn't it fabulous how he dashes around the country on his steed, rescuing people and slaying evildoers and accomplishing noble... stuff? So... the older I get, the dippier Prince Charming seems to me. Maybe I value 5 o'clock shadow rumpled hair and that scene in Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy climbs out of the lake in the wet shirt oh my GOD just give me a second.
Whew. Anyway. Maybe it's that I value the ordinariness of the Everyman. Maybe it's that other people's imperfections help me accept my own. Maybe it's that I prefer comfort and laughter and familiarity to an Ideal. Either way, give me a scruffy, awkward, beer-drinking, football-watching, jeans-wearing, imperfect boy over a Charming anyday. Bub-bye, Charming. It was real, and it was fun, and it was real fun, but I could never commit to anyone prettier than myself. Peace out.
If I ever had a girl, I would want her to grow up infused with the scope of what she could accomplish, not mooning over who she may someday marry. I would want her to envision where she'll go to college and how she'll change the world, not what she'll wear to her wedding. I would want her to be strong and brave and not ever once wait to be rescued. I would encourage her to look for what gives her happiness rather than what fills an ideal.
So, I have to accept that this whole diatribe didn't ever go where I wanted it to go and was mostly a single, childless girl discoursing on issues she's almost entirely seperate from and rhapsodizing about how sensible and free-spirited her non-existent girlchild will be. But I feel really strongly about this. There's nothing cuter than a little girl twirling around in a princess dress. But, there's nothing sadder than a older girl trolling for an unrealistic man of her dreams. I'm not talking about lowering standards... I'm more encouraging women to let fantasy compromise with reality and to not to judge men off of what they see on tv.
Whatever. I have to get back to work.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Funk: 7, Elizabeth: 0
The thing is... as anyone who has ever even met me could tell you, I'm not a big fan of organized religion. At all. So, I realized that my penultimate chance to prevail against the perceived evils of organized religion and wield a mighty sword of entirely relative truth would be to... organize my own religion.
And voila! Here we are. Lizlam. We are few but proud, and wicked hot. We believe in loving all people but never quite calling them in the morning... We thrive in performing arts settings and wherever pancakes are served. Our people are served by a hardworking Executive committee consisting of me, the Prophet, and my hard-working, industrious, jolly as hell Executive Vice Prophet in Charge of a Riotous Good Time To Be Had By All. We are an iron fist in a velvet glove and we fight for our (and YOUR) right to par-TAY.
And, like any true religion, we have enemies. And, like any true religion, we take those enemies down, whether in a swift public act of destruction or sneaky coup in the quiet hours of the dawn, while everyone is still passed out from being so totally wasted at the riotous Lizlam celebration the night before. Lizlam faces enemies far more devious and malevolent than ever before, so I have compiled a rudimentary list of our top ten public enemies. Please be on the lookout for these offenders; the well-being and non-bad-moodiness of Lizlamites everywhere are dependent on your cooperation in this matter.
Before we get started, we are so proud to inform our Faithful that the Executive Vice Prophet has graciously agreed to take over management of the Big Apple Branch of Lizlam. Skyler, miss you terribly and good luck bringing the light of the Goddess to the most heathen city of New York. And bring some heathen back to us at Christmas, please.
So, here follow the Top Ten Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad and Generally Craptastic Enemies of Lizlam:
10. Mornings: In a perfect (that is to say, Lizlam infused) world, the daily party kicks off at aboot noonish. Where does that leave mornings? Being slept through and ignored, where they belong. Mornings, I renounce you in the name of the Prophet and her non-morning-person Executive Prophet (and: hee. If you ever have the privilege of road-tripping with the EVP, whatEVER you do, don't leap onto the pullout couch on which she is sleeping and sing loud, freeverse songs in her ear. Just... take my advice.) Any time before noon: make yourself scarce.
9. Celebrities and their CelebuSpawn: Cause, really? We pay attention why? The only thing more horrifying than an egomaniacal, arguably talented and filthy rich stick insect to whom we pay good money to speak someone else's words into a camera is the very real danger that that same evil being will probably create a merged genetic copy of itself and another breathtakingly shallow, hard-partying, no education-having Hollywood hellbeast and unleash it's celebuspawn on a country that embraces and covets the wasteful, hedonistic stick insect lifestyle. So, let's lay waste to the rich and the useless and then sell all their crap and use the profits to Lidice the shite out of the entire Hollywoodland universe. Stat!
8. Living Single: The state of singlehood, not the '90's sitcom. We all have to do it, and it sucks. I really have no way to elucidate here. If you're single, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not, you're probably...
7.... the Smug Married: Oh yes, THAT married person who asks you loudly, "Are you seeing anyone?" or "Why haven't YOU gotten married yet?" or "Let me tell you all about how f-ing happy I am with my [significant other]!" or "I'm so glad [significant othe] and I had children before we got too old! Speaking of not getting any younger..." or "I can't understand why no one wants to date you! Why, if I were twenty years younger..."
6. Subcutaneous fat and the people who have none: You know who you are. If I have to hear one more size six girl boohoohooing over something making her look fat or mourning the fact that she can't have another cookie because it'll go to her hips (read: it'll make her HAVE hips) or watch one more teenage boy polishing off three pizzas as I pick miserably at a pile of lettuce with no dressing, I SWEAR I'm going to eat until I've gained 95,000 pounds and then singlehandedly (or doublechinnedly, as the case may be) seek out each whiny skinny bitch and SIT on them and CRUSH them and teach them to fear MY fat more than their own. And even Chuck Norris will tremble. Except he's not skinny... so no worries there. Can you imagine the epic battle between my Fat Wobble of Doom and his Roundhouse Kick for the skinnyfolk's SOULS?
Time to move on. But just imagine...
And the top 5:
5. Reality TV: Reality shows have slipped a roofie into television's drink, dragged its intert form into an alley, gang raped it and left it for dead and really? It's time to pay for your crimes. The Bachelor, Survivor, AMERICAN IDOL
(yours will be the most painful and prolonged of demises, I can promise you that), Pants Off Dance Off, the Surreal Life... your time has come. The Tribe has spoken. America has voted and you substandard voyeur fodder porn star vehicle wretched excuses for the sheltering of the lowest forms of humanity shall disappear in fire and blood and anguish! Except for anything on the Food Network. Bobby Flay much?
4. Jay's exboyfriend Greg:
I don't have a recent snapshot... so this old one will have to do. Just look for the EVIL and the cold, dead eyes. Someday, I'm going to ninja to his house in the dead of night, ring his doorbell and, when he answers, punch him in the balls. And as he doubles over in pain, whispering, "WHY?" I'm going to point my finger in his face and say "You KNOW why." It's gonna happen. Be ready.
3. Hickory, NC: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave... Hickory is the ideal location to settle and roost and raise a family. But, to the single, non-drunk-faced young person of today, it's a sucking, bleak, depressing, boring, evilly sentient black hole of despair. We all have plans to leave. But few of us ever make it. Most are stuck forever, wandering in a Silent Hill-like Mayberry, praying for deliverance. Deliverance. What a perfect word. In SO many ways.
Paddle faster, I hear banjos. Someone get us out of here!
2. Paula Deen: Can you really look at this woman and not get chills down your spine from the evil? No one who cooks with that much butter or speaks with such an ungodly rural twang should be permitted to walk the earth among us decent, hard-working Lizlamites. Paula Deen, I hope the devil enjoys fried chicken and milkshakes made with heavy whipping cream!
1. The Uterus:
It's spongy, it's theoretically fertile and it's a royal pain in the pelvis. Unless you're planning on dropping a litter any time soon (which is not really smiled upon in Lizlam), the uterus is not only worthless, but painful and cranky making. Best to have it out if possible. Uterus, the tribe has spoken. Pack up your one-three weeks a month of pain, anguish and GET OUT! And don't come back!
And voila! Here we are. Lizlam. We are few but proud, and wicked hot. We believe in loving all people but never quite calling them in the morning... We thrive in performing arts settings and wherever pancakes are served. Our people are served by a hardworking Executive committee consisting of me, the Prophet, and my hard-working, industrious, jolly as hell Executive Vice Prophet in Charge of a Riotous Good Time To Be Had By All. We are an iron fist in a velvet glove and we fight for our (and YOUR) right to par-TAY.
And, like any true religion, we have enemies. And, like any true religion, we take those enemies down, whether in a swift public act of destruction or sneaky coup in the quiet hours of the dawn, while everyone is still passed out from being so totally wasted at the riotous Lizlam celebration the night before. Lizlam faces enemies far more devious and malevolent than ever before, so I have compiled a rudimentary list of our top ten public enemies. Please be on the lookout for these offenders; the well-being and non-bad-moodiness of Lizlamites everywhere are dependent on your cooperation in this matter.
Before we get started, we are so proud to inform our Faithful that the Executive Vice Prophet has graciously agreed to take over management of the Big Apple Branch of Lizlam. Skyler, miss you terribly and good luck bringing the light of the Goddess to the most heathen city of New York. And bring some heathen back to us at Christmas, please.
So, here follow the Top Ten Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad and Generally Craptastic Enemies of Lizlam:
10. Mornings: In a perfect (that is to say, Lizlam infused) world, the daily party kicks off at aboot noonish. Where does that leave mornings? Being slept through and ignored, where they belong. Mornings, I renounce you in the name of the Prophet and her non-morning-person Executive Prophet (and: hee. If you ever have the privilege of road-tripping with the EVP, whatEVER you do, don't leap onto the pullout couch on which she is sleeping and sing loud, freeverse songs in her ear. Just... take my advice.) Any time before noon: make yourself scarce.
9. Celebrities and their CelebuSpawn: Cause, really? We pay attention why? The only thing more horrifying than an egomaniacal, arguably talented and filthy rich stick insect to whom we pay good money to speak someone else's words into a camera is the very real danger that that same evil being will probably create a merged genetic copy of itself and another breathtakingly shallow, hard-partying, no education-having Hollywood hellbeast and unleash it's celebuspawn on a country that embraces and covets the wasteful, hedonistic stick insect lifestyle. So, let's lay waste to the rich and the useless and then sell all their crap and use the profits to Lidice the shite out of the entire Hollywoodland universe. Stat!
8. Living Single: The state of singlehood, not the '90's sitcom. We all have to do it, and it sucks. I really have no way to elucidate here. If you're single, you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you're not, you're probably...
7.... the Smug Married: Oh yes, THAT married person who asks you loudly, "Are you seeing anyone?" or "Why haven't YOU gotten married yet?" or "Let me tell you all about how f-ing happy I am with my [significant other]!" or "I'm so glad [significant othe] and I had children before we got too old! Speaking of not getting any younger..." or "I can't understand why no one wants to date you! Why, if I were twenty years younger..."
6. Subcutaneous fat and the people who have none: You know who you are. If I have to hear one more size six girl boohoohooing over something making her look fat or mourning the fact that she can't have another cookie because it'll go to her hips (read: it'll make her HAVE hips) or watch one more teenage boy polishing off three pizzas as I pick miserably at a pile of lettuce with no dressing, I SWEAR I'm going to eat until I've gained 95,000 pounds and then singlehandedly (or doublechinnedly, as the case may be) seek out each whiny skinny bitch and SIT on them and CRUSH them and teach them to fear MY fat more than their own. And even Chuck Norris will tremble. Except he's not skinny... so no worries there. Can you imagine the epic battle between my Fat Wobble of Doom and his Roundhouse Kick for the skinnyfolk's SOULS?
Time to move on. But just imagine...
And the top 5:
5. Reality TV: Reality shows have slipped a roofie into television's drink, dragged its intert form into an alley, gang raped it and left it for dead and really? It's time to pay for your crimes. The Bachelor, Survivor, AMERICAN IDOL
(yours will be the most painful and prolonged of demises, I can promise you that), Pants Off Dance Off, the Surreal Life... your time has come. The Tribe has spoken. America has voted and you substandard voyeur fodder porn star vehicle wretched excuses for the sheltering of the lowest forms of humanity shall disappear in fire and blood and anguish! Except for anything on the Food Network. Bobby Flay much?4. Jay's exboyfriend Greg:
I don't have a recent snapshot... so this old one will have to do. Just look for the EVIL and the cold, dead eyes. Someday, I'm going to ninja to his house in the dead of night, ring his doorbell and, when he answers, punch him in the balls. And as he doubles over in pain, whispering, "WHY?" I'm going to point my finger in his face and say "You KNOW why." It's gonna happen. Be ready.3. Hickory, NC: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave... Hickory is the ideal location to settle and roost and raise a family. But, to the single, non-drunk-faced young person of today, it's a sucking, bleak, depressing, boring, evilly sentient black hole of despair. We all have plans to leave. But few of us ever make it. Most are stuck forever, wandering in a Silent Hill-like Mayberry, praying for deliverance. Deliverance. What a perfect word. In SO many ways.
Paddle faster, I hear banjos. Someone get us out of here!
2. Paula Deen: Can you really look at this woman and not get chills down your spine from the evil? No one who cooks with that much butter or speaks with such an ungodly rural twang should be permitted to walk the earth among us decent, hard-working Lizlamites. Paula Deen, I hope the devil enjoys fried chicken and milkshakes made with heavy whipping cream!
1. The Uterus:
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Things that make me saddish.
So, I've hit day four of The Funk. And day four of The Funk has hit back. Hard. Right in the babymaker. Except not. Ew.
In honor of my inexplicable doldrumitude, I'm going to share some things that make me feel even more Eeyorish than I would normally. Sigh. Thanks for noticing this list:
1. People sitting alone in restaurants: I mean, I do it all the time, generally with a good book. But I'm talking, like, elderly people... sitting alone... not surrounded by family... probably remembering the good ol' days before Hank/Betty died when they would eat together... probably wishing that that girl with the clearly fake red hair who keeps peering at them from the next table would either say something conversational or learn to mind their own damn business. Kids these days! No respect for America's finest generation. Meh.
Anyway, despite the fact that they seem to judge me so harshly, I feel sad for them.
2. Kids that get picked on in school: And I know it's everyone. But kids are ANIMALS and some kids get it worse than others. Ugh. I can't even think about this one. Move on.
3. CHRISTMAS: Christmas turns me into a pathetic, quivering, sobbing, snotty, temperamental DISASTER. Seriously. I generally start my drinking oh, maybe Thanksgiving? And don't stop until the last stocking has been emptied of it's plunder and the tree is nestled safely back in it's box in our attic.
I hate the music, I hate the lights, I hate the Santas and the creches, I definitely hate how perky everyone gets and I strangely enough don't really enjoy getting presents. Giving, always fun for me. Getting, not so much. I also hate how incongruous the lights and festivity and general feeling of ho ho ho are with the fact that it's pitch black by 4 pm. Yick. And for some reason, all Christmas music (From "Don't They Know It's Christmas Time at Home" to "What Do You Give a Wookie for Christmas") makes me think of all the poor children who don't get Christmas presents because they're POOR. Ugh. I need to become a communist and get it over with.
And need I mention that Jesus wasn't born in the winter and that most Christmas traditions are pagan? Not like I mind- oh, no- but still. Christmas. Ugh.
Wow, this has been really cathartic for me. Let's move on to:
4. Dead/sick/abused animals: I know that everything has to die, but not necessarily under a tire. Sigh. And I think that people who abuse animals should have pieces of their body forcibly and painfully removed. Just saying.
5. Buying a book at Barnes and Noble and thinking, wow, this looks intriguing, but then finding out it wasn't worth the $17.27 you paid after your member discount: This is really getting to be a strain on the budget. But books are like Pandora's Box to me... I have no self control. I hate disappointing books. I hate not finishing a book out of boredom. Sigh.
6. Child Abuse: I think the only punishment for sexual abuse of a minor should be castration. Make it happen, people.
7. Being easily forgotten: I really think that's my worst fault, is that I'm virtually impossible to remember. And it makes me sad.
8. People dying their hair blonde: because, seriously? WHY?
9. One-legged puppies: because they've got the heart of a champion. Oh, Li'l Brudder.... I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm thinking about male modelling... or high finance.
10. The fact that I use my blogspace to make long personal lists about myself: Isn't there something else I could be talking about here? I'd better wrap this up.
Ugh. I'm blue like jazz, man... I'm going to eat some more Chex mix (so I can be sad about being fat, too) and maybe pretend not to notice myself in the mirror.
In honor of my inexplicable doldrumitude, I'm going to share some things that make me feel even more Eeyorish than I would normally. Sigh. Thanks for noticing this list:
1. People sitting alone in restaurants: I mean, I do it all the time, generally with a good book. But I'm talking, like, elderly people... sitting alone... not surrounded by family... probably remembering the good ol' days before Hank/Betty died when they would eat together... probably wishing that that girl with the clearly fake red hair who keeps peering at them from the next table would either say something conversational or learn to mind their own damn business. Kids these days! No respect for America's finest generation. Meh.
Anyway, despite the fact that they seem to judge me so harshly, I feel sad for them.
2. Kids that get picked on in school: And I know it's everyone. But kids are ANIMALS and some kids get it worse than others. Ugh. I can't even think about this one. Move on.
3. CHRISTMAS: Christmas turns me into a pathetic, quivering, sobbing, snotty, temperamental DISASTER. Seriously. I generally start my drinking oh, maybe Thanksgiving? And don't stop until the last stocking has been emptied of it's plunder and the tree is nestled safely back in it's box in our attic.
I hate the music, I hate the lights, I hate the Santas and the creches, I definitely hate how perky everyone gets and I strangely enough don't really enjoy getting presents. Giving, always fun for me. Getting, not so much. I also hate how incongruous the lights and festivity and general feeling of ho ho ho are with the fact that it's pitch black by 4 pm. Yick. And for some reason, all Christmas music (From "Don't They Know It's Christmas Time at Home" to "What Do You Give a Wookie for Christmas") makes me think of all the poor children who don't get Christmas presents because they're POOR. Ugh. I need to become a communist and get it over with.
And need I mention that Jesus wasn't born in the winter and that most Christmas traditions are pagan? Not like I mind- oh, no- but still. Christmas. Ugh.
Wow, this has been really cathartic for me. Let's move on to:
4. Dead/sick/abused animals: I know that everything has to die, but not necessarily under a tire. Sigh. And I think that people who abuse animals should have pieces of their body forcibly and painfully removed. Just saying.
5. Buying a book at Barnes and Noble and thinking, wow, this looks intriguing, but then finding out it wasn't worth the $17.27 you paid after your member discount: This is really getting to be a strain on the budget. But books are like Pandora's Box to me... I have no self control. I hate disappointing books. I hate not finishing a book out of boredom. Sigh.
6. Child Abuse: I think the only punishment for sexual abuse of a minor should be castration. Make it happen, people.
7. Being easily forgotten: I really think that's my worst fault, is that I'm virtually impossible to remember. And it makes me sad.
8. People dying their hair blonde: because, seriously? WHY?
9. One-legged puppies: because they've got the heart of a champion. Oh, Li'l Brudder.... I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm thinking about male modelling... or high finance.
10. The fact that I use my blogspace to make long personal lists about myself: Isn't there something else I could be talking about here? I'd better wrap this up.
Ugh. I'm blue like jazz, man... I'm going to eat some more Chex mix (so I can be sad about being fat, too) and maybe pretend not to notice myself in the mirror.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Why I disturb myself sometimes.
I've begun noticing more and more lately the tendency of people to harbor, whether they admit to it or not, a sick, twisted fetish for the grotesque and macabre. The same disturbing curiousity that makes you slow down to peer at a ugly car wreck on the highway (hoping you'll see something, praying you won't) also compels you to pick up the remote and flip to American Idol or Shot of Love with Tila Tequila. How can something so wrong seem so right?
So, It made me wonder... what unlikely things make me go hot and cold at the same time? When my schadenfreude sense starts tingling, these are a few of my favorite guilty pleasures:
1. Jack the Ripper/Other Faceless True Crime Serial Killer types: Mmmmm, true crime makes me giddy. Jack the Ripper is, in my head, no less than a Victorian Mr. Darcy; imagine, a look of titillatingly evil glee on his handsome face as he wields a scapel and some basic anatomical knowledge and slices confidently through the pox-ridden whores of Whitechapel with an irresistibly unreadable gleam in his eye and a leer curling his lips. Being trivisected has never sounded so hot.
Not like I think murdering people is acceptable. No no no. Well.... no. But still... his lack of identity and ability to escape detection in as many as eleven murders (even in the days pre-CSI) has turned him into a daring, rakish (albeit bloodstained) cavalier of romance and bloody intrigue in my fevered world. Well played, sir. Very well played indeed.
2. Frat boys: You know the ones I'm talking about... deliciously awkward, horridly blonde spiky highlighted hair, Abercrombie t-shirt, baseball cap, God's gift to... anyone too unconcious to resist them, usually saying, "I'm SO totally waaaaaasted right now, dude" or chanting someone's name in between primal grunts. You know that guy. You see him in Chili's... you see him outside Walmart late Saturday night... you almost want to have pity sex with him so he'll stop trying SO HARD. Then, maybe he'll fall asleep and be quiet for a while. Hmm. That's a thought.
3. Awkwardness of any kind. Mmm. Awkward people, awkward product placement, awkward lesbian beverages, awkward dates, awkward silence, awkward pimple constellations... I'll take it! Saying awkward and irrelevant things? My spiritual gift. See how my natural ability feeds my creepy fetish for awkwardness? It's positively serendipitous.
4. Getting in front of wretched impatient obnoxious ignorant bitchfag drivers on a highway and slowing down when they have no way of passing me: Speaks for itself. Try to tell me you haven't done it too. I feel no remorse.
5. Anything bad that can happen to someone in Hollywood: Oh no, Paris Hilton is in jail? Nicole Richie looks like she jus crawled out of Auschwitz? Britney Spears is still alive? My confession: TMZ.com. Shameful, I know. I just want to know what crazy sexual hijinks celebrities got up to this weekend, and who might have had to miss that party in Vegas because they ran over a child south of the Valley. Heeeeeee. And now they're all spawning! Now there's a new generation of overpaid, really really ridiculously good looking trained monkeys to amuse me with their sex tape scandals and DUI's. Wouldn't it be so totally awesome if Jamie Lynn Spear's kid was cruising with, like, Nicole Richie's CelebuSpawn in her Barbie DreamYukon and got pulled over for DUI? Now THAT's comedy.
6. The Other Sister: Go out and rent it but don't you dare judge me if you do.
7. Any instructional video made to introduce adolescents to the brave new world of puberty: Periods 101, What's Happening to my Body, etc. Hormone-driven teen awkwardness? Yes, please.
8. Facebook stalking: I never saw myself as Creepy Peeping Tina, but with the advent of Facebook and it's constant information feed, it's now entirely possible for my to spy on people's conversations, know where everyone is at all times, know everything about who everyone is dating... oh my god, the great and terrible beauty of it. Skulking is an important part of life, people.
9. Physical pain: I mean, check the bullwhips at the door... but I get an insane pleasure out of chewing on a hangnail or papercutting myself in the finger. I think it's the Irish in me... I want to cause pain as well. I only wish there were English around to fling potatoes at. You walk aLONE, English!!!!
10. Playing strange music at work: I love some Bollywood and some Greek music, people. So, now, apparently, I'm a terrorist and I play terrorist music. Or so they tell me.
That's really the tiniest drop in the great big sloshy bucket of things that disturb me about... me, but I've wasted enough company time on blogs and theonion.com, and I really should get back to making stacks of paper into other stacks of paper. Hee!
So, It made me wonder... what unlikely things make me go hot and cold at the same time? When my schadenfreude sense starts tingling, these are a few of my favorite guilty pleasures:
1. Jack the Ripper/Other Faceless True Crime Serial Killer types: Mmmmm, true crime makes me giddy. Jack the Ripper is, in my head, no less than a Victorian Mr. Darcy; imagine, a look of titillatingly evil glee on his handsome face as he wields a scapel and some basic anatomical knowledge and slices confidently through the pox-ridden whores of Whitechapel with an irresistibly unreadable gleam in his eye and a leer curling his lips. Being trivisected has never sounded so hot.
Not like I think murdering people is acceptable. No no no. Well.... no. But still... his lack of identity and ability to escape detection in as many as eleven murders (even in the days pre-CSI) has turned him into a daring, rakish (albeit bloodstained) cavalier of romance and bloody intrigue in my fevered world. Well played, sir. Very well played indeed.
2. Frat boys: You know the ones I'm talking about... deliciously awkward, horridly blonde spiky highlighted hair, Abercrombie t-shirt, baseball cap, God's gift to... anyone too unconcious to resist them, usually saying, "I'm SO totally waaaaaasted right now, dude" or chanting someone's name in between primal grunts. You know that guy. You see him in Chili's... you see him outside Walmart late Saturday night... you almost want to have pity sex with him so he'll stop trying SO HARD. Then, maybe he'll fall asleep and be quiet for a while. Hmm. That's a thought.
3. Awkwardness of any kind. Mmm. Awkward people, awkward product placement, awkward lesbian beverages, awkward dates, awkward silence, awkward pimple constellations... I'll take it! Saying awkward and irrelevant things? My spiritual gift. See how my natural ability feeds my creepy fetish for awkwardness? It's positively serendipitous.
4. Getting in front of wretched impatient obnoxious ignorant bitchfag drivers on a highway and slowing down when they have no way of passing me: Speaks for itself. Try to tell me you haven't done it too. I feel no remorse.
5. Anything bad that can happen to someone in Hollywood: Oh no, Paris Hilton is in jail? Nicole Richie looks like she jus crawled out of Auschwitz? Britney Spears is still alive? My confession: TMZ.com. Shameful, I know. I just want to know what crazy sexual hijinks celebrities got up to this weekend, and who might have had to miss that party in Vegas because they ran over a child south of the Valley. Heeeeeee. And now they're all spawning! Now there's a new generation of overpaid, really really ridiculously good looking trained monkeys to amuse me with their sex tape scandals and DUI's. Wouldn't it be so totally awesome if Jamie Lynn Spear's kid was cruising with, like, Nicole Richie's CelebuSpawn in her Barbie DreamYukon and got pulled over for DUI? Now THAT's comedy.
6. The Other Sister: Go out and rent it but don't you dare judge me if you do.
7. Any instructional video made to introduce adolescents to the brave new world of puberty: Periods 101, What's Happening to my Body, etc. Hormone-driven teen awkwardness? Yes, please.
8. Facebook stalking: I never saw myself as Creepy Peeping Tina, but with the advent of Facebook and it's constant information feed, it's now entirely possible for my to spy on people's conversations, know where everyone is at all times, know everything about who everyone is dating... oh my god, the great and terrible beauty of it. Skulking is an important part of life, people.
9. Physical pain: I mean, check the bullwhips at the door... but I get an insane pleasure out of chewing on a hangnail or papercutting myself in the finger. I think it's the Irish in me... I want to cause pain as well. I only wish there were English around to fling potatoes at. You walk aLONE, English!!!!
10. Playing strange music at work: I love some Bollywood and some Greek music, people. So, now, apparently, I'm a terrorist and I play terrorist music. Or so they tell me.
That's really the tiniest drop in the great big sloshy bucket of things that disturb me about... me, but I've wasted enough company time on blogs and theonion.com, and I really should get back to making stacks of paper into other stacks of paper. Hee!
Sunday, May 25, 2008
An ode to a perfect art form.
Behold, I say unto ye:
How perfect is the pancake?
See how it lies upon the plate, docile, ready...
An existence created solely for the purpose of being consumed,
But retaining it's sweetness nonetheless.
How perfect is the pancake?
It comes in many forms...
Sometimes shaped like Mickey Mouse,
Sometimes sublime in it's simple oblong...ness.
Sometimes dripping with butter, sometimes sprinkled with chocolate...
It matters not to my stomach. I crave it all.
How perfect is the pancake?
Oh pancake, how I long to ravage you,
How I long to consume you
Whether you are mine, or I have to sneak nibbles off someone else's plate,
You are still perfect and fluffy.
How perfect is the pancake?
And how complete my love for it.
Selah. Let's eat.
How perfect is the pancake?
See how it lies upon the plate, docile, ready...
An existence created solely for the purpose of being consumed,
But retaining it's sweetness nonetheless.
How perfect is the pancake?
It comes in many forms...
Sometimes shaped like Mickey Mouse,
Sometimes sublime in it's simple oblong...ness.
Sometimes dripping with butter, sometimes sprinkled with chocolate...
It matters not to my stomach. I crave it all.
How perfect is the pancake?
Oh pancake, how I long to ravage you,
How I long to consume you
Whether you are mine, or I have to sneak nibbles off someone else's plate,
You are still perfect and fluffy.
How perfect is the pancake?
And how complete my love for it.
Selah. Let's eat.
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