Or maybe I should call this another SOAS/CTJ. It's really a combo platter. Hmmm.
The bike shop we go to most frequently because MacMookie does massage-trade with the owner (the place is called "Cycle-Analyst" and Macmookie is in training to be a licensed psychoanalyst.. can ya beat that?) has the most awesome selection of bike horns and bells you ever did see. Squishy horns shaped like dinosaur heads or dog butts, tinkly asian-style bells that practically whisper, zen-like, "let me pass beside you on your left, grasshopper," classic ringa-ringa-ringa bicycle bells what look like they're straight out of the 1923 Sears & Roebuck's catalog, and airhorns. Lately, I'm leaning towards the airhorn, even though I've had my eye on this cute little number with a picture of a bear on it for a mere $4.50... but really what I need? Lately? Is a horn that blares out, "Get OUT OF THE BIKE LANE, YOU OVER-ENTITLED YUPPIE BITCHES." Seriously. That sound harsh? Let me 'splain. Here in Denver we have designated bike routes, like most cities with over 50,000 people- and some of those bike routes go along regular ol' city streets what aren't the busiest streets or main arteries, but also aren't dinky little residential side streets. In those streets, width permitting, are painted lines which designate actual bike lanes,complete with arrow markers pointing the direction bike traffic should go (along with the flow of other traffic, duh) and a symbol inside of that arrow depicting a unisex, helmeted cyclist. Should I repeat that? The symbol depicts a CYCLIST only, not a jogger, or a walker, and not, most importantly, a trio of trophy wives walking 3 abreast, with at least 2 strollers and 2 dogs on leash between them. No. It's a cyclist.
The route I take to work follows a designated bike route with one segment of it containing the precious bike lanes. It's a beautiful ride, for the city, the whole length, but this segment with the actual bike lanes is really somethin' else. A wide parkway, with a gorgeous, shady green median separating the lanes of traffic going in opposite directions. Enough space on each side for one lane of car traffic, the bike lane, and then a parking lane that abuts the curb. On the other side of those curbs, as you might guess, are these things called sidewalks. They are broad and commodious compared to the skinny, aborted things in my neighborhood. There is probably enough room on them for two portly people to walk side by side, with a dog, or for two people to pass each other, single file. If I lived over there, I would walk down the footpath on the grassy median, but I'm just that kinda Nature Gal. I much prefer dirt and grass under my feet than pavement. Plus, it's probably the safest place to be, and I'm also a paranoid safety freak. I will bike or walk MILES out of the way just to take the safest route. Especially if my bambina is with me.
**Which brings me to another point- yes, I am also a mom. Yes, we own a jogging stroller (which we will be selling, since we just got a bike trailer/stroller- woohoo!). Yes, we frequently put b. girl in said stroller and walk around the neighborhood, to the park, the store, etc. But there is NO WAY IN HELL I would take that thing, with her in it, in the middle of the f'in street when other, safer options were available. My neighborhood has those aforementioned skinny sidewalks though, so frequently we do have to walk in the street. But I never walk in the MIDDLE of the street, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't expect people to get the hell out of MY way because I'm entitled to be there, as a pedestrian or whatever (even though technically, pedestrian rights are supreme in such cases.) The area with the bike lane is different. Here comes the judgmental bitch part, hold to your armrests- what kind of shitty parent are you if you put your own spoiled-ass convenience and entitlements ahead of your CHILD's safety??? Huh? Is it really that much of a BOTHER to negotiate curbs and the occasional untrimmed hedge? Or god forbid, get some actual dirt on your $150 tennies? Maybe next time I'm out there, instead of flipping them off, I'll call Social Services. Right after I call Traffic Right-of-Way enforcement.
Do me a favor and read those paragraphs again. My point is that most of 7th Avenue has plenty of room, and plenty of pleasant options, for the average pedestrian, without ever stepping foot in the bike lane. And yet.
Also, as you might guess, the people lucky enough to live along or near this gorgeous street are uh... shall we say.. rich. I'm not gonna say wealthy, because that dresses up a condition that doesn't need to be. They're rich. If you asked them, they might say "well-to-do," or you might even get a "yes, we've been very blessed" from the Catholics, but most of them are heavily invested in the notion, or false premise that 1) they earned what they have through some combination of hard work, brains and talent, and 2)they deserve it, they're entitled, so shut up, all you poor-ass whiny minorities and half-breed peasants that actually have to work for a living- obviously you're just not SMART enough to be rich and live in this gorgeous neighborhood.
That's the sense I get, anyway, when I'm trying to get to this thing called a job I have, Monday thru Friday, 8-5, after dropping off my wee one at daycare. Now, this may be a big ol' wild-ass guess on my part, but the women with their $700 baby strollers and designer doggies walking in the bike lane 3 across, DO NOT, by contrast, have anywhere they really need to be at 8am. Which is why I feel pretty damn free to honk my bike horn, and failing to dislodge them with that, yell. I try not to be rude. I just try to be very clear, so they can hear me, and understand what I'm saying. "GET...OUT...OF...THE...BIKE...LANE" is usually what I say, and start to say it when I'm least 50 feet behind them, so they have time to comply. But do they comply? Hardly ever. I'm usually met with over-entitled attitude in response. Yes, these people, though clearly in the wrong, try to argue with me. That's when I flip them off.
You might think this is a little thing to get all worked up about, in the grand scheme of things- big deal? Why not just go around them? Who died and made me the Bike Police, as well as the Entitlement Police? I certainly don't want to be like the over-entitled jackass that Peeps pedaled past this morning, who was tail-gating another cyclist on the multi-use bike path, and then had a frickin' cow when the cyclist he was tailgating slowed down for a homeless man with a huge shopping cart. According to Peeps, Jack-ety hollered, "oh my GAWD! I can't believe this!" as if the ignominy of applying his brakes for a hazard completed his "trifecta of human atrocities- First there was slavery, then the horrors of WWII, and now THIS!" I have to quote Peeps and give him full props because that is just too frickin hilarious.
So back to me- if you've read any of my past blogs, you'll know that over-entitled assholes of any stripe tick me off to no end. And I firmly believe that if you don't confront these "little things" you encounter in your daily life, and right the wrongs that you see, no matter how tiny they are, nothing will ever change. The power structure will remain as it is, with rich, white males at the top and everyone else in the world crushed under their immense bulk- except when it collapses (soon), everyone, and I mean everyone, will be utterly destroyed along with them. There's a way to dismantle the current patriarchy and inherently corrupt power structure without killing everyone and destroying the planet- but it takes a mountain's worth of these little things to incrementally add up and turn the tide. You have to do it. I have to do it. No one else will do it. Especially people who don't even realize what assholes they are, who were brought up to believe that if you're rich, and white, you can pretty much do whatever the fuck you want. You think they're just going to wake up one day and wail, "oh my goodness gracious, I've been SO wrong, for SO long!" ???
Nah. I'm still not advocating violence, so put your guns away you buncha trigger-happy rednecks. But verbal bitch-smacking is an art, a type of martial art, and like any artform, it takes practice. And now you might be thinking, "well Queenie, don't WE feel a wee bit over-entitled to our self-righteous anger, hmm?"
Well yup, I'm aware of that. As a woman who LOOKS white, I have all the privileges and entitlements that most white women in America do. It matters not one flea foot to passersby that I'm 1/16th Mohawk, 1/8th Basque (does that qualify as Latina?), and come from an abusive family where I was treated like a 2nd class citizen and raised to believe that I was a complete piece of shit. People can't SEE that when I bike past them, flipping them off. To them I look like just another angry-about-nothin', over-entitled white woman. Even though I grew up feeling more like a minority, and all my friends tended to be either minorities or social outcasts of some kind (please don't be offended, friends:) e.g. the overweight kids, the poor kids, the kids who were plenty smart but had learning disabilities or wacky senses of humour that no one else got... I also realize at the same time, that I have no earthly idea what it's like to walk around on earth as a black woman, or even a Latina, or a full-blooded Ind'n, with people making all sorts of assumptions and judgments about you (mostly negative) based on unreliable visual cues.
{Perhaps I should do a whole CTJ on that fact, entitled: um, hello, we are visual animals, and prejudice is largely based on visual cues, rather than the whole reality of a person. Think back to high school. Ok, that's for another time.}
So there's always been quite a bit of cognitive dissonance in my life, but for other people, there's also visual dissonance. E.g. "you don't LOOK like you've had a hard life... therefore I'm going to assume that everything has come easily for you, and feel justified in being nasty to you." Same goes for me. Maybe these yuppie women have husbands who beat them, or are such complete assholes that they only respite they get from their posh misery is walking down the bikelane with their girlfriends once a day and acting like they have real power in their lives for oh, about an hour. But I doubt it.
I'll own up to the partial source of my righteous indignation being plain old, garden variety jealousy. More accurately, envy. Because I would cut off my left breast for the chance to stay home with my kiddo, go for strolls with the girls, and have my biggest worry be what to plant in the flower garden this year. That's probably what they say to themselves too, watching my figure recede in the distant foreground- middle finger silouetted against the morning sky- "She's just jealous." Yep.
For all I know they are nice people despite their arrogant stupidity and bad parenting, and under different circumstances we would get along swimmingly.
But I doubt it.
However I'm going to try to keep an open heart, an open mind, and yes, an open hand, all the better to deliver bitch -smacks with.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
The New and Improved Manifesto, with 50% More Swear Words!
The new manifesto:
Perhaps you've heard this before, in one way or another: where your wound is, that's also where your blessings come from. It may be the font of much pain, whatever your wound is, but turned around, expressed creatively in poetry, art, music, political essays... that's where your blessings will also come from. If you ignore your wound however, if you get too much attention for it that nurtures the pain and encourages festering rather than healthy expression- it will kill you. Not can, will. Put simply, another way- If I don’t write, and soon, my head will explode. Or, as I am more worried about, my heart. Now, I look forward to it all day actually, being able to sit down, alone, in this cool poorly lit rented basement, and write.
That never happened before.
Proof of the wounds killing powers: When I don’t write, all the rage and even cleverness inside me turns to bile and pus and hot blood that boils up and up- so when I DO write, it’s like popping that boil- not pretty.
On the bright side, For once I’m glad that one of my cock-and-bull rationalization theories came true, that having a kid would actually make something “click” as Bruce says, and the bullshit wars inside me would come to end, and I would stop procrastinating, and write.
Not a healthy pattern though. I did the “Artist’s Way” exercises ten years ago- I still remember them. Write every day, no matter what. Don’t think, just write.
This is how to unblock yourself. But what with moving, not being able to find my journals, working full-time, trying to make time with the kiddo quality, etc. etc. Yep, I got lost in all that. Getting lost is dangerous like this- it puts my marriage in trouble, actually, when I don’t take time for me. Hell, it puts ME in trouble- the depression threatens to come back, in a hurry.
To be totally up front, I have to tell you - this is rage management for me. This is not a mommy blog. Not even "anger" management-no, rage. Apparently a lot of us Adult-Children-of-Abusive-Parents-Who-Still-Totally-Suck have this phenomena, and many of us can't afford therapy, so we do other things.
If anyone has a problem with that, well, I don’t really give a shit so, quit reading I guess. I had a poetry teacher in college throw up his hands, sneer and snivel in disgust in the middle of a student’s reading of her poem, about how she’d been incested by her father, gotten pregnant as a result at age 13, gave birth to the baby on the bathroom floor, watched as her father immediately killed the baby, and buried it in the backyard- and the old professor’s reaction to her telling this story for the first time was “Jeeeeezus Christ! This is not your goddamned therapy session! Can we all STOP using poetry as an outlet for all this psychodrama!“ All of us were too shocked at his grotesque reaction to say anything at the time, but let me tell you, I’m beyond all that “Shock and Awe” we’re all supposed to be experiencing in the face of the crumbling patriarchy’s ugliness and hate (which we all know now is mere bluff and bluster, right?) and I’m still not above verbally emasculating or bitch-slapping stupid, insensitive people, in public.
So here I am, finally writing. I probably need to scribble in my journal as well, for there are some things which aren’t ready for prime time yet. See, I just want a manifesto that will allow me to post writings, essays, etc. without self-censoring too much. Without stifling my creativity before it even starts. Because this bottling up of everything, it is making me sick, and old, and tired, methinks. Either that, or I have a thyroid problem. (*I don't, darnit) See, I wrote that first manifesto because I didn’t want to turn into the leftist version of those right-wing hatemongering pieces of shit*******, who encourage readers to do their worst and pretty soon it’s just a big ol’ pissing contest . There’s so much hate out there, you hardly need to encourage it. Also I wanted it to be a safe place, where people could feel like they could post a comment or opinion without getting skewered by some numb nut in return.
But mostly I did it because the font of my wound turns me into a human volcano sometimes, and threatens to destroy me. To prevent that- even if just for the selfish reason of, if my rage overwhelms me, I’ll never get to do what I want to do, be who I want to be- gotta write. No way around it.
Put very simply, I will speak my mind. At the same time I realize there's a fine line to be walked between speaking my mind, and turning into a blowhard. My saving grace may be my total inability to tell lies very well. This blog aims to "walk the line" though, in defense of everything I love and hold dear, which ain't much. Thank you Johnny Cash, for giving us all permission to flip the double bird at the man, and to do it in an extremely public, extremely visible medium. I also aim to do it using lots of sarcasm, irony, and humour. Apparently this is a hallmark of Generation X, my generation, which of course I didn't really want to be a part of for a long time, because we don't like being a part of anything. At the ripe old age of 37 I've come to realize, I'm so Gen X I can't even see straight. Better to be self-aware than not aware at all, eh? :)
I’d like to encourage readers to do the same, (speak their minds) but still hold off on the ignorant hate parts. Or, if you do talk shit, you better be able to back it up. Same goes for me. I talked to my friend Betito, who was raised by mental health professionals ;) for 2 hours on Friday night, and as she put it with characteristic equanimity, “calling yourself a judgmental bitch is a bit harsh, but you are opinionated, and it’s good to realize these things so we can work on them.” Yes, as you may have realized, my friends are a helluva lot nicer than I am- who would put up with me but really nice people?
Issue Example: the health care crisis, widely varying viewpoints, one fueled by insurance companies and the corporatocracy in general, others by people who are just trying to make sense of their situation with some scrap of dignity left. As she also put it, so wisely, if you actually want people to change their minds, or just think a little bit, then telling Republicans who fear “socialized medicine” that they’re really just selfish greedhounds who want poor people to die is probably not the way to go about it.
See, there’s a balance to be struck.
If you don't get the humour of Al Franken's book, "Rush Limbaugh Is A Big Fat Idiot: On the Decline of Civil Discourse in Modern America," and don't see why the title is hilariously ironic, then you probably won't get the humour of me telling people to "mind their fockin' manners for pete's sake," or similar. So this probably isn't the blog for you. If you don't get a giggle or glimmer of new-found self-awareness when I tell anyone advocating violence done on their supposed behalf but not directly by them, or affecting them, that they need to be smacked upside the head, this blog isn't for you.
***** like that, perfect example, calling them yada yada p.o.s’s. I do realize I’m not going to get anywhere by calling them names like that, but at the same I do believe that most of those pig-fuckers have never had a single piece of truth spoken to their faces, and I believe in calling people out on their ignorance, ignorant hatefulness, ignorant lemming attitude, ignorant attitudes, period, especially if they are racist or sexist or rank-ist or anything-ist, and seem to think that’s “just fine.” I’m not even going to single a gender out, much less a group (that would be hypocritical of me (cough) {yuppie men}) because this is all a result of living in a society where the totally insane has been normalized for about, oh, 50 years now. Maybe 150, depending on where you go. But we’re definitely all livin’ in this stanky, tepid soup of insanity and actin’ like it’s totally fockin’ normal. Welp, maybe it’s just because I grew up in a household that was basically a microcosm of everything wrong in our society, where seriously insane bullshit was normalized, ignored, swept under the rug, etc, but I’ve come to believe it’s a healing thing, calling people out on their shit. If you say nothing, you are just helping perpetuate it.
There’s also a TON of people out there these days, fueled by the asinine corporate media or god knows what, who apparently had no mamas to teach them to mind their fockin’ manners, or were raised by a goddam pack of hyenas- I’m not sure which- but if you have the opportunity to teach them manners, I believe you should.
This comes at a good time, because I’m also finally writing that letter to my parents that I should have started about 5 years ago, sent or not, for my own purposes. And it occurred to me this morning that if I take the same old angry, “accusatory” (their words) tone with them, they’ll just throw it away like they do everything else that hints at the truth of their wasted, miserable lives, and it will do more harm than good.
I need to take a different tack, to reframe this story of mine for my mental health if not theirs, and that tack is minus a helluva lotta anger. At least at first.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my story, Sacred Stories, and the story of America- how we can all reframe those, given enough practice, given the right tools, and gift-ing ourselves the time to do so. Because it’s important. Barack Obama’s on to something when he tries to engage the whole country in writing that story, being a part of it. Don’t discount him as just the new “rockstar” or “green meets brown” marketing trend that a bunch of sycophants and groupies are clinging onto. You do that, you discount humanity. For all my rage at the machine and the things humanity does, I won’t let you do that. We are better than that. For all my bitterness and unexpressed grief, jeezus gawd, I have so much in love in me for us silly humans, for this country, for this beautiful planet that I’ve only begun to explore.
I’m not saying my anger will go away, but what I’m trying to do is hone it into a warrior’s skills rather than flailing self-destruction. I’ve been watching lots of warrior movies lately, like “300” and “Apocalypto” - I think for some mental practice. Should also dig out Braveheart and watch it with mi esposo again- he’s a Scotsman, he understands the whole part about ancestral anger. Here’s to the journey, the practice, and yes, the “smackening.”
More later-
Perhaps you've heard this before, in one way or another: where your wound is, that's also where your blessings come from. It may be the font of much pain, whatever your wound is, but turned around, expressed creatively in poetry, art, music, political essays... that's where your blessings will also come from. If you ignore your wound however, if you get too much attention for it that nurtures the pain and encourages festering rather than healthy expression- it will kill you. Not can, will. Put simply, another way- If I don’t write, and soon, my head will explode. Or, as I am more worried about, my heart. Now, I look forward to it all day actually, being able to sit down, alone, in this cool poorly lit rented basement, and write.
That never happened before.
Proof of the wounds killing powers: When I don’t write, all the rage and even cleverness inside me turns to bile and pus and hot blood that boils up and up- so when I DO write, it’s like popping that boil- not pretty.
On the bright side, For once I’m glad that one of my cock-and-bull rationalization theories came true, that having a kid would actually make something “click” as Bruce says, and the bullshit wars inside me would come to end, and I would stop procrastinating, and write.
Not a healthy pattern though. I did the “Artist’s Way” exercises ten years ago- I still remember them. Write every day, no matter what. Don’t think, just write.
This is how to unblock yourself. But what with moving, not being able to find my journals, working full-time, trying to make time with the kiddo quality, etc. etc. Yep, I got lost in all that. Getting lost is dangerous like this- it puts my marriage in trouble, actually, when I don’t take time for me. Hell, it puts ME in trouble- the depression threatens to come back, in a hurry.
To be totally up front, I have to tell you - this is rage management for me. This is not a mommy blog. Not even "anger" management-no, rage. Apparently a lot of us Adult-Children-of-Abusive-Parents-Who-Still-Totally-Suck have this phenomena, and many of us can't afford therapy, so we do other things.
If anyone has a problem with that, well, I don’t really give a shit so, quit reading I guess. I had a poetry teacher in college throw up his hands, sneer and snivel in disgust in the middle of a student’s reading of her poem, about how she’d been incested by her father, gotten pregnant as a result at age 13, gave birth to the baby on the bathroom floor, watched as her father immediately killed the baby, and buried it in the backyard- and the old professor’s reaction to her telling this story for the first time was “Jeeeeezus Christ! This is not your goddamned therapy session! Can we all STOP using poetry as an outlet for all this psychodrama!“ All of us were too shocked at his grotesque reaction to say anything at the time, but let me tell you, I’m beyond all that “Shock and Awe” we’re all supposed to be experiencing in the face of the crumbling patriarchy’s ugliness and hate (which we all know now is mere bluff and bluster, right?) and I’m still not above verbally emasculating or bitch-slapping stupid, insensitive people, in public.
So here I am, finally writing. I probably need to scribble in my journal as well, for there are some things which aren’t ready for prime time yet. See, I just want a manifesto that will allow me to post writings, essays, etc. without self-censoring too much. Without stifling my creativity before it even starts. Because this bottling up of everything, it is making me sick, and old, and tired, methinks. Either that, or I have a thyroid problem. (*I don't, darnit) See, I wrote that first manifesto because I didn’t want to turn into the leftist version of those right-wing hatemongering pieces of shit*******, who encourage readers to do their worst and pretty soon it’s just a big ol’ pissing contest . There’s so much hate out there, you hardly need to encourage it. Also I wanted it to be a safe place, where people could feel like they could post a comment or opinion without getting skewered by some numb nut in return.
But mostly I did it because the font of my wound turns me into a human volcano sometimes, and threatens to destroy me. To prevent that- even if just for the selfish reason of, if my rage overwhelms me, I’ll never get to do what I want to do, be who I want to be- gotta write. No way around it.
Put very simply, I will speak my mind. At the same time I realize there's a fine line to be walked between speaking my mind, and turning into a blowhard. My saving grace may be my total inability to tell lies very well. This blog aims to "walk the line" though, in defense of everything I love and hold dear, which ain't much. Thank you Johnny Cash, for giving us all permission to flip the double bird at the man, and to do it in an extremely public, extremely visible medium. I also aim to do it using lots of sarcasm, irony, and humour. Apparently this is a hallmark of Generation X, my generation, which of course I didn't really want to be a part of for a long time, because we don't like being a part of anything. At the ripe old age of 37 I've come to realize, I'm so Gen X I can't even see straight. Better to be self-aware than not aware at all, eh? :)
I’d like to encourage readers to do the same, (speak their minds) but still hold off on the ignorant hate parts. Or, if you do talk shit, you better be able to back it up. Same goes for me. I talked to my friend Betito, who was raised by mental health professionals ;) for 2 hours on Friday night, and as she put it with characteristic equanimity, “calling yourself a judgmental bitch is a bit harsh, but you are opinionated, and it’s good to realize these things so we can work on them.” Yes, as you may have realized, my friends are a helluva lot nicer than I am- who would put up with me but really nice people?
Issue Example: the health care crisis, widely varying viewpoints, one fueled by insurance companies and the corporatocracy in general, others by people who are just trying to make sense of their situation with some scrap of dignity left. As she also put it, so wisely, if you actually want people to change their minds, or just think a little bit, then telling Republicans who fear “socialized medicine” that they’re really just selfish greedhounds who want poor people to die is probably not the way to go about it.
See, there’s a balance to be struck.
If you don't get the humour of Al Franken's book, "Rush Limbaugh Is A Big Fat Idiot: On the Decline of Civil Discourse in Modern America," and don't see why the title is hilariously ironic, then you probably won't get the humour of me telling people to "mind their fockin' manners for pete's sake," or similar. So this probably isn't the blog for you. If you don't get a giggle or glimmer of new-found self-awareness when I tell anyone advocating violence done on their supposed behalf but not directly by them, or affecting them, that they need to be smacked upside the head, this blog isn't for you.
***** like that, perfect example, calling them yada yada p.o.s’s. I do realize I’m not going to get anywhere by calling them names like that, but at the same I do believe that most of those pig-fuckers have never had a single piece of truth spoken to their faces, and I believe in calling people out on their ignorance, ignorant hatefulness, ignorant lemming attitude, ignorant attitudes, period, especially if they are racist or sexist or rank-ist or anything-ist, and seem to think that’s “just fine.” I’m not even going to single a gender out, much less a group (that would be hypocritical of me (cough) {yuppie men}) because this is all a result of living in a society where the totally insane has been normalized for about, oh, 50 years now. Maybe 150, depending on where you go. But we’re definitely all livin’ in this stanky, tepid soup of insanity and actin’ like it’s totally fockin’ normal. Welp, maybe it’s just because I grew up in a household that was basically a microcosm of everything wrong in our society, where seriously insane bullshit was normalized, ignored, swept under the rug, etc, but I’ve come to believe it’s a healing thing, calling people out on their shit. If you say nothing, you are just helping perpetuate it.
There’s also a TON of people out there these days, fueled by the asinine corporate media or god knows what, who apparently had no mamas to teach them to mind their fockin’ manners, or were raised by a goddam pack of hyenas- I’m not sure which- but if you have the opportunity to teach them manners, I believe you should.
This comes at a good time, because I’m also finally writing that letter to my parents that I should have started about 5 years ago, sent or not, for my own purposes. And it occurred to me this morning that if I take the same old angry, “accusatory” (their words) tone with them, they’ll just throw it away like they do everything else that hints at the truth of their wasted, miserable lives, and it will do more harm than good.
I need to take a different tack, to reframe this story of mine for my mental health if not theirs, and that tack is minus a helluva lotta anger. At least at first.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my story, Sacred Stories, and the story of America- how we can all reframe those, given enough practice, given the right tools, and gift-ing ourselves the time to do so. Because it’s important. Barack Obama’s on to something when he tries to engage the whole country in writing that story, being a part of it. Don’t discount him as just the new “rockstar” or “green meets brown” marketing trend that a bunch of sycophants and groupies are clinging onto. You do that, you discount humanity. For all my rage at the machine and the things humanity does, I won’t let you do that. We are better than that. For all my bitterness and unexpressed grief, jeezus gawd, I have so much in love in me for us silly humans, for this country, for this beautiful planet that I’ve only begun to explore.
I’m not saying my anger will go away, but what I’m trying to do is hone it into a warrior’s skills rather than flailing self-destruction. I’ve been watching lots of warrior movies lately, like “300” and “Apocalypto” - I think for some mental practice. Should also dig out Braveheart and watch it with mi esposo again- he’s a Scotsman, he understands the whole part about ancestral anger. Here’s to the journey, the practice, and yes, the “smackening.”
More later-
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
10 REASONS MY BABY IS CUTER THAN YOURS
The whole "tagged" thing got me thinking, I really could brag on my baby way more than myself. And it's somewhat acceptable in American culture to brag about your children, so here goes;
1. She's nearly 2 and 1/2, but still gets the syllables in two-syllable words mixed up. My favorite is "chicken" for "kitchen." Now we've taken to calling the kitchen, the chicken. For some reason I don't have a problem with this adult infantalizing of our language, when I do indeed have problems with parents who talk to their kids constantly in baby-jabber e.g. "Does Emma-wee want to weah her wed waincoat today? Does she? Oh, mommy wuvs dat waincoat!" And then are surprised when, in preschool, their kids are diagnosed with speech impediments and need hours of expensive therapy to correct a problem that they have created. JUST SPEAK LIKE FRIGGIN' ADULTS PEOPLE! PLEASE! gads.
Actually the aforementioned problem makes me laugh my ass off because it usually happens to over-indulgent yuppie parents, and they get what they deserve. :)
As long as 'ella pronounces both "chicken" and "kitchen" correctly, we're fine.
2. Speaking of cute language things, she also came up with saying "Weeeee" in place what I think should be "very" or "way". We have also taken to using this, adverb, shall we say, in our own speech, especially around her. Example: 'ella and Daddy Bruce have a nighttime ritual, which helps her go night-night, where they walk around the house and turn all the lights off, and say "night-night kitchen/chicken" "night-night bathroom" etc. Once, she realized her sippy cup was still in the kitchen after they'd turned off the lights, so she ran to get it and immediately exclaimed, "ooo, it weee dark in the chicken!!" Still cracks me up. We imagine it is very dark, indeed, inside the chicken.
3. Have I mentioned 'ella goes to a Jewish temple preschool? Well, she does. We're not Jews, but one of my grandmothers was and we like the educational /enrichment aspects of it, plus the warm fuzzy care they give and the added bonus of having around 20 surrogate Jewish mothers, blah blah blah. Right now they're on Passover Break. Before Passover break, as you might imagine, they were gearing up with all sorts of songs, art projects featuring Baby Moses, etc. A couple mornings before vacation, she woke up and spontaneously told her father, "Let my people Go!" We think she wanted out of her crib. Again, we are still laughing about this.
4. As another sign of her brilliance, she already has imaginary friends. They are fairie-sized, near as we can tell, they like to hang out near lamps, and they are named Coco, Bobo, and Plunk-o, near as we can tell. She catches "Coco" in her hands like a firefly, gives him a smooch and sends him off to school. (this happens a lot at bedtime- so apparently her fairie-friends live in a different space-time-zone).
5. She tries to kiss our devil-cat Hazel on the butt, even though we've repeatedly advised against that.
6. The actual cuteness- well, I'm extremely paranoid about pedophiles and stalkers, for reasons I may elaborate on later, so I refuse to post photos of her- but suffice it to say, she's cuter than a bug's ear. She is just starting to get hair, so she still looks somewhat baby-like, and the hair she is getting in? That's right, it's a mullet.
7. Maybe it's because she's 2, but she wants everything in twos now. This is either really cute, or it drives me crazy. She has to have TWO sippies, not just one. One with juice, one with milk. Or both with milk. She doesn't care that it's the same substance in different bottles - she wants TWO. She's our two-fisted wonder.
8. She's also a dancing fool, and has been ever since she could move. Maybe I'm just a doting parent, but ever since she was TINY she's been able to pick out music from the general noise-stream going on around her- and soon as she hears it, she would either go stock-still, or start bopping around like she was on SoulTrain. One day she came home from daycare, heard some jingle music on the TV, and said "shake your booty mommy!" and stuck her butt out and started shakin' it. I did not teach her this. It's clearly natural talent.
9. This goes under the more disturbing traits- a little background- I haven't spoken to my parents in 8 years because they were abusive (unprintable). She has never met them and never will. My dad was a heavy-equipment broker and had "yellow-iron fever" as my mom put it. In short, Ella LOVES heavy equipment. Bulldozers, backhoes, D-10s, hot asphalt plants, huge earthmovers, whatever. To her, they all go by the beloved name, "Truck!" While I encourage the tomboy-ness of this, I know that God is laughing at me.
10. She puts pajamas on her stuffed Sneetch and calls him/her "Nietzsche!" At least that's what it sounds like. nuff said!
1. She's nearly 2 and 1/2, but still gets the syllables in two-syllable words mixed up. My favorite is "chicken" for "kitchen." Now we've taken to calling the kitchen, the chicken. For some reason I don't have a problem with this adult infantalizing of our language, when I do indeed have problems with parents who talk to their kids constantly in baby-jabber e.g. "Does Emma-wee want to weah her wed waincoat today? Does she? Oh, mommy wuvs dat waincoat!" And then are surprised when, in preschool, their kids are diagnosed with speech impediments and need hours of expensive therapy to correct a problem that they have created. JUST SPEAK LIKE FRIGGIN' ADULTS PEOPLE! PLEASE! gads.
Actually the aforementioned problem makes me laugh my ass off because it usually happens to over-indulgent yuppie parents, and they get what they deserve. :)
As long as 'ella pronounces both "chicken" and "kitchen" correctly, we're fine.
2. Speaking of cute language things, she also came up with saying "Weeeee" in place what I think should be "very" or "way". We have also taken to using this, adverb, shall we say, in our own speech, especially around her. Example: 'ella and Daddy Bruce have a nighttime ritual, which helps her go night-night, where they walk around the house and turn all the lights off, and say "night-night kitchen/chicken" "night-night bathroom" etc. Once, she realized her sippy cup was still in the kitchen after they'd turned off the lights, so she ran to get it and immediately exclaimed, "ooo, it weee dark in the chicken!!" Still cracks me up. We imagine it is very dark, indeed, inside the chicken.
3. Have I mentioned 'ella goes to a Jewish temple preschool? Well, she does. We're not Jews, but one of my grandmothers was and we like the educational /enrichment aspects of it, plus the warm fuzzy care they give and the added bonus of having around 20 surrogate Jewish mothers, blah blah blah. Right now they're on Passover Break. Before Passover break, as you might imagine, they were gearing up with all sorts of songs, art projects featuring Baby Moses, etc. A couple mornings before vacation, she woke up and spontaneously told her father, "Let my people Go!" We think she wanted out of her crib. Again, we are still laughing about this.
4. As another sign of her brilliance, she already has imaginary friends. They are fairie-sized, near as we can tell, they like to hang out near lamps, and they are named Coco, Bobo, and Plunk-o, near as we can tell. She catches "Coco" in her hands like a firefly, gives him a smooch and sends him off to school. (this happens a lot at bedtime- so apparently her fairie-friends live in a different space-time-zone).
5. She tries to kiss our devil-cat Hazel on the butt, even though we've repeatedly advised against that.
6. The actual cuteness- well, I'm extremely paranoid about pedophiles and stalkers, for reasons I may elaborate on later, so I refuse to post photos of her- but suffice it to say, she's cuter than a bug's ear. She is just starting to get hair, so she still looks somewhat baby-like, and the hair she is getting in? That's right, it's a mullet.
7. Maybe it's because she's 2, but she wants everything in twos now. This is either really cute, or it drives me crazy. She has to have TWO sippies, not just one. One with juice, one with milk. Or both with milk. She doesn't care that it's the same substance in different bottles - she wants TWO. She's our two-fisted wonder.
8. She's also a dancing fool, and has been ever since she could move. Maybe I'm just a doting parent, but ever since she was TINY she's been able to pick out music from the general noise-stream going on around her- and soon as she hears it, she would either go stock-still, or start bopping around like she was on SoulTrain. One day she came home from daycare, heard some jingle music on the TV, and said "shake your booty mommy!" and stuck her butt out and started shakin' it. I did not teach her this. It's clearly natural talent.
9. This goes under the more disturbing traits- a little background- I haven't spoken to my parents in 8 years because they were abusive (unprintable). She has never met them and never will. My dad was a heavy-equipment broker and had "yellow-iron fever" as my mom put it. In short, Ella LOVES heavy equipment. Bulldozers, backhoes, D-10s, hot asphalt plants, huge earthmovers, whatever. To her, they all go by the beloved name, "Truck!" While I encourage the tomboy-ness of this, I know that God is laughing at me.
10. She puts pajamas on her stuffed Sneetch and calls him/her "Nietzsche!" At least that's what it sounds like. nuff said!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
SYSTEM OF A SMACKDOWN
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON MYSPACE, AUGUST 2007:
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
There's a sign on the hostess stand of one of my favorite breakfast restaurants in Denver, where they do an extremely popular "Petticoat Bruncheon" on weekends, (wherein all the waiters are dressed in drag- yes, it's hysterical, especially when you're hungover or just plain tired and in need of some strong coffee and belly laughs) that reads, in happy, hand-lettered Crayola prose, "Don't Seat Yourself or You Might Get Bitch-Slapped by Some Drag Queen."
After a few months of careful thought, teeth gnashing, stewing and brewing, I've decided I need a similar sign. This blog post right here will be that sign. Now, I'm no drag queen (que lastima), but I can deliver a bitch-slap to the legions of the over-entitled who routinely tromp over posted boundaries, like nobody's bidness. If that makes me a self-righteous bitch, so be it. Sue me. Whatevah, at this ripe old age of 37, I seriously don't give a shit what anyone thinks of me personally. Plus, and this is the crucial point, I do feel entitled to my righteous anger because as one of my heroines Margaret Cho put it, I've been through it, whereas the person who pissed me off royally most recently HAS NOT. At least, not that I'm aware of- but I think if he had, he wouldn't be writing the sexist bullshit that he is.
And what is that, you may well arsk? OY VEY. At the risk of generating more buzz or god forbid, "fame" for this clown, I'll tell you quickly. It's this guy I went to high school with, in the class one year ahead of me, given name: Nate Warren. However, his nome de blog is (gag) Colonel Hector Bravado, and he spews every so often for this rather amusing website based here in Denver called Elitist Hipster Snob. (Oh yes, they drip with irony. Most of the time they are mildly entertaining without being outright offensive, but apparently they are self-edited or rather their editing policy is somewhere along the lines of "oh, you wanna write for us? Can you spell? Cool.") In high school he wrote roughly the same quality of crapola, but he had shades of brilliance occasionally, if he would just give up on the "angry white male" thing which we all fully expected he would grow out of in due time….. but, alas. The blog in question is a 17-years too-late "album review" of sorts for a gangsta rap group that I had never heard of, but it matters little, cuz our friend the over-privileged white boy was basically celebrating the "message" of their music which was is in a nutshell, smack down the bitches, kill the bitches, your gun is an extension of your penis, your gang is only family you need, etc. etc. woohoo! Drink some brews and you better(direct quote here) "hide your little sisters from me after I listen to this album, or they'll wake up with a lil' Colonel in they bellies, and the rest of me dried up on they faces."
As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.
Now, you may say I'm overreacting and by doing so, giving him too much power. But the only woman I know who would put up with dried cum on her face is either dead, or a totally whacked out crack whore. AND, may I remind everyone that the writer of this tripe is white, male, and grew up in the suburbs. Yes, he was raised by a single mom, but I KNEW his mom, and she was a little nutty, but a total feminist. Plus, most mens I know who was raised by the single mommies (including my husband) are MORE sensitive to woman's plight in this world, not LESS. I was actually looking for his mom when I found him- she was a noted columnist for the Denver Post for many years, Jill Jacobs Scott. You'd think she'd raise her kids up not to spew this hateful shite, que no? And aside from that, I don't think his dad was a deadbeat so… at any rate, didn't we all agree like 15 years ago that there's no excuse for this shit, not even among the so-called gangsta rappers who have supposedly "had it hard?" None! Nope, sorry, 'hijito, take your punk-ass little baby whining somewhere else. No, in fact, shut up altogether. No one needs to hear that shit, except the other crazy-ass voices in your head where an internal censor or critic should be. Don't even try off-loading your toxic waste that passes for writing in this day and age on some sorry-ass 3rd World Country- I can't think of a country sorry enough to accept it- not even illiterate rice farmers in Bangladesh. ESPECIALLY not them.
Now, if I were one of our mutual teachers from 20 years ago, who would no doubt be as profoundly disappointed in him as I am, I might just sigh, shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose while muttering, "Nate, nate, nate… we had such high hopes for you. Didn't you go to Colorado College? Didn't I write you a goddamned letter of recommendation????" Whereas, my immediate response to this drivel was admittedly knee-jerk. I ripped him a new asshole on his blog page, and bluntly asked him why he thinks that spewing sexist, misogynist bullshit is any better than the racist bullshit that was routinely spewed, oh a generation ago, by the likes of the KKK and most members of all-white country clubs.
E.g. Biff: "Hey Thad, I was thinking of organizing a little nigger hunt this weekend. You in?"
Thad: "Capital idea! I'll get the shotguns and the Vaseline!"
Sadly, our homeboy doesn't see the comparison as relevant at all- oh no, he thinks an ocean of impenetrable "cool" lies between him and the ugly, racist ravings of insecure white men half a century ago (or, now).
So, I've put off writing, reacting, or responding to this particular issue for almost 3 months now for several reasons (chief among them, I have a life/better shit to do) Now, instead of just a teething toddler gnawing on my breasts all night, I've got this damned subject gnawing at me. It won't go away by focusing on the positive. It doesn't go away even when I go to my happy place (fyi, it's Joann's Rancho Casados in Espanola, NM). It comes with. It orders the enchiladas and leers at me from across the room. Yes, in that most sacred of spaces, JOANN'S it dares to trespass!!
So here's my sign: IF YOU SPEW RACIST, SEXIST BULLSHIT ANYWHERE, ANYTIME, IN ANY FORM NEAR ME, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
IF YOU WILLFULLY AND ROUTINELY DENY YOUR PRIVILEGE AND ENTITLEMENTS WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAPING YOURSELF IN THE "COOL" CACHET OF THE ARTFORMS OR LIFESTYLES OF THE UNDERPRIVILEGED, YOU WILL GET THE SMACKDOWN.
Other reasons for getting the smackdown will be posted here as I see fit.
What's the smackdown? Let's just say I'm skilled in the arts of verbal emasculation. And the other kind too. I grew up with older brothers, and lived to tell about it. Nuff said?
Think of it as a forced Come to Jesus. Jesus whips out the Smackdown. Jesus wins.
* oh, and in case you think I should be duly punished for "flaming" someone on the internets, I already have. My creepy, psychotic old prom date who was a good friend of Nate's in high school sent me a message because he saw my message on Nate's blog. Friggin great. This is the guy, speaking of rape, who very nearly forced me to have sex with him after the prom because, as he so charmingly put it, "It's expected." Niiiccce…….
Monday, February 25, 2008
THERE'S ABOUT TO BE A DORA-CIDE
Lord knows I don't want to turn into one of those dreaded "mommy-bloggers" but my brain is about to explode and I'm afraid i'm going to throw a sharp knife at my spouse as soon as he walks thru the door rather than greet him with a sweet kiss after leaving me alone for 3 days straight with a sick toddler, if I dont' write. Said Toddler is so cranky, and understandably so, from her fever, diarrhea, runny nose and cough that ALL she wants to do is watch the Dora portion of this Nick Jr. videotape we got from a friend/babysitter whose VCR broke. I don't know whether to thank her or throttle her. Normally little girl loves Blues Clues, which follows Dora on the tape, but lately she's decided it's "scary" - her new favorite word.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
So I'm subjected not only to horrendously stinky poopy diapers, crankiness, non-napping, and worrying about her fever, but in addition, I have to watch this goddamned video apparently, 25 or so times today alone. Nothing else will do. This episode involves Dora and freaky monkey friend saving their stupid bull friend by patching his leaky hot-air balloon with the magical "STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE! STICKY TAPE!" Repite por favor, boys and girls. "STICKY TAPE!!!" it's highly likely that this is what I will scream at Bruce right before I throw the kitchen knife at his head when he walks in that door. There will be drool coming out of my mouth and my clothes and hair, as usual, will be in disarray. The difference between me and the other homicidal, drooling, driven mad with too-much-kidshit-overload "mommy bloggers" is that i'm not some whiny stay-at-home mom who just needs a break but other than that has no real stress, because hello, if you can afford to stay at home, than obviously you can pay the heating bill and buy groceries without taking a calculator with you to the store. Nope, I gots me a full-time job just like 90% of my sisthren, and though spouse has also just started a full-time job, he doesn't accrue any PTO til like 2 months from now, which blows. However, since one or all of us has been sick since November, it seems like, I am now totally out of sick time and making a pretty big dent in my vacation.
My point is, the spousal unit is staying home with little girl tomorrow if she's still running a temperature, not me. Given my current mental state, I think this is fair. We're also in the Final Stage of the BIg Project I was hired to complete at work, code red, damn the torpedoes until March 30th, and every second counts. And since I've had so many sick days, needless to ssay I'm behind. Stressed? me?
The other point of this venting blog is that clearly, somehow, someway, I've got to find a way to write more regularly and turn this into something real, or my brain will REALLY explode, and not even the magical sticky tape will be able to fix it. (Come to think of it, i need some of that stuff. Dora fixed her backpack strap, a bird's nest that had fallen out of a tree, made her shoes sticky enough to get over Slippery Rock, some rips in a sailboat, and yes, that accursed hotair balloon with their dumb friend in it. I needs me some of that.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
What were you doing 15 years ago?
Originally posted on Myspace December 18, 2007:
WARNING: LOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG
Yesterday evening-ish time I was processing a survey report, likes I always do, and noticed that the date of the report was the same as yesterday- December 18th- except it was 15 years prior. This got me to thinkin', so I sent off the following epistle to my fren' Peeps.
December 18, 1992. A small group of contract archaeologists were writing up their reports from the field season and decided against formally recording the 47 IFS ("Isolated" Finds) they ran across in one survey, in one relatively small area. Apparently they also decided against 2nd guessing their own crappy work and maybe taking a look at their own damn maps and thinking, "hmm, all these IFS occur in a relatively concentrated area….. maybe it's a site? Maybe we should go back and try to actually record it? Naaahhhh… Christmas is coming! I have shopping to do! Let the SHPO deal with it!"
December 18, 2007. Bitter desk archaeologist at the SHPO processes crap-tastic 15 year old report and attempts to formally record 47 IFS that are 400 miles away and buried under 2 feet of snow not to mention years of paperwork, and subsequent overlapping surveys.
I feel old.
________________________________________
Then I just couldn't stop thinking. Darn you, monkey – mind! Put down the pipe!
What else was going on though? In my personal life, I had just helped the train wreck posing as my parents move from the house I had grown up into temporary digs in a nearby town-home, that belonged to the people who had just bought their house (long story- too bad reality TV didn't exist back then- we could have done "House Swap!" Right before the Holidays! Watch the action! )what reeked of their chain-smoking and bad, greasy food. They were from Ohio. The woman's name was Arlene (not making that up), her common-law husband's name was John, and he had a 16 year-old's spiky new wave mullet haircut on top of his 35-year-old head. They had a one-year-old baby boy that they hadn't gotten around to naming yet, so they called him "Boy" jokingly. The other candidate for a name was "John, Junior." Very creative. The poor kid was strapped into some kind of baby-bouncer-chair every time I saw him, his eyes glazed over because of their constant chain - smoking, and he probably already had asthma. He was the latest in their collection of children from either of their previous relationships, ranging in age from 8 to 17. They were so excited about moving into our house because they would finally have enough room to house all of their children, who were scattered around various parts of the country (I'm assuming, in foster care). But they couldn't sell their town-home in time to move, so they needed to rent it out, and whaddya know, my parents needed a place for them and all their crap to stay for about 4 months until their brand-spanking-new mini-mansion was completed. So a deal was struck.
In the myopic, co-dependent misery that was my life prior to divorcing my parents (if someone knows of a better word for it, notify me) I remember thinking that they deserved the mini-mansion with all the trimmings, despite the fact that only days earlier, and with much fake hand-wringing and crocodile tears they had both told me that, much as they wanted to, there was no possible way they could help me with college, so I was on my own. I distinctly remember my mother shaking her head and scoffing at me after yet another fruitless phone call to the UNM financial aid office; "Well you'd better get a scholarship or something, otherwise you won't be able to go. Honestly S--- I don't think you plan for anything." At the same time, her pride and joy, the first-born, baby-boy and prince of the family, aka my brother, was petitioning to the get into Nebraska's School of Architecture because he didn't make the cut on the first or second rounds, his grades weren't good enough. So he had to present his projects and applications to a 7-person jury of Architecture professors and basically plead his case and beg them to take him, because despite failing Calculus twice and taking more than 6 years to complete a 2-year prerequisite program, he really did show promise, etc. etc. So he was on the phone to us every 10 minutes giving us/them updates on what the verdict would be. I also distinctly remember, during one such phone call, fraught with all the drama and tension of a spoiled little prince going up against the judges and jury of the Real World for the first time, my dad getting on the phone and declaring that if poor widdle Jeeemy DID manage to get into Architecture School, they would pay his rent for the rest of college so he could concentrate on his classes and finish. About 2 minutes later, they both turned to me and told me that'd I'd better get down to New Mexico early and get a couple jobs lined up before classes even started, because work-study and financial aid probably wouldn't cover my living expenses. But, clueless as I was 15 years ago, I took their peculiar brand of bullshit at face value.
On that bright note-- So there I was- about to head off for my 3rd try at a Bachelor's degree, starting Spring semester, January 1993 at UNM in Albuquerque. Bill Clinton had just been elected. I had voted for Ross Perot because he was a 3rd party candidate, but I wasn't bitter that he lost, I was happy that he got a third of the vote. Overall, we felt hopeful that the country, and the economy, was about to take a turn for the better. In spite of the blind-siding WHACK upside the head we (here in Colorado) also received on Election night- that a nascent hate group down in Colorado Springs (which would later become Focus On the Family) had stealthily managed to shove through legislation through subterfuge and flat-out lying, which specifically took away equal rights for gays. It was called Amendment 2, and it was struck down 2 weeks later as unconstitutional, but no matter, the damage was done.
For anyone reading this who is not from Colorado, but likes to judge us as a bunch of ignorant, gun-toting rednecks who hate them there gays, let me just tell you that the majority of us (who are nothing like the aforementioned stereotype) were totally like, DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED??????
I mean, we were all well aware that Colorado Springs, and El Paso County in general, is so saturated with military installations and right-wing churches (they seem to go hand-in-hand) and rich retirees originally hailing from East Coast military installations, that essentially, the place has its head so far up its own ass it can't tell night from day. But still, DENYING BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS TO GAYS BASED ON SOME MISINTERPRETATION OF BIBLICAL RHETORIC AND YOUR OWN HOMOPHOBIC REPRESSED NEUROSES???? COME ON!!
They had gone too far. And while New York-based groups made a big deal over canceling their scheduled conventions at our brand-spanking-new Convention Center in Downtown Denver in protest, and we were scratching our heads trying to figure out how this all happened without our knowing it, a few of us secretly admitted to ourselves that this here cloud might have a silver lining. I mean, uh, not to sound just as hateful as the anti-gay freaks down south, but um, anything that keeps a bunch of nastyass, no-manners east coasters out of our fair state can't be all bad, right? Anyway, that's what we were secretly and not-so secretly thinking. It's funny because, in 1992 the "flood" of immigrants from the East Coast, West Coast, and everywhere in between was barely a trickle, but man, you wouldn't know it from all the bellyachin' we did about them taking our jobs, driving up housing prices, polluting our air and wasting our water.
Wooo! If we had only known then the true inundation that was to occur as the '90's roared into the 21st Century! Weee, doggies! as us rednecks like to holler. My attitude towards newcomers has tempered since then, but only slightly. (sorry, Peeps.) My friends in Montana have a similar philosophy. They were overjoyed when Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber) and that crazy militia dude were arrested in Montana within weeks of each other. E.g. "Woohoo!! Now the whole country will think we're a bunch of psychotic, gun-toting red necks, and maybe they'll stop moving here!!" You get the picture.
Anyhoo, the other reason I've been thinking about this 15-year thing is that, you guessed it, we're gluttons for punishment, and we just moved into a new place…. Right before the holidays, with all the associated stressors, yada yada. Except that, it's my own little family what moved, whom I happen to love very much, and not my abusive moon-bat-crap crazy parental-unit birth family and their associated junk that they value more than personal relationships, so really, it wasn't that bad. I'm tired, but stressed? Nah, it's nothing like 15 years ago, thank God.
For those of you (probably girls, I'm guessing) waiting with baited breath to hear the outcome of my brother's fate, yes he DID make it into Architecture school, and today he is a successful architect along with his lovely wife, who is a partner in her own firm and makes way more money than him (see? Karma does exist), and they have two adorable children, and they both make about 14 times as much coin-ola as Bruce and I combined. And although he has pulled his head about halfway out of his arse regarding our parents, he still fails to see the connection between their favored treatment of him and his relative success. And he probably never will. :) But hey, he doesn't get the rare privilege of being an Archaeologist for the great State of Colorado and fixing crappy-ass 15 year old reports, now does he?
(* for those of you snickering at my musical choice, below, let me say I was specifically thinking of the Judy Collins' song, "Who knows where the time goes?"
Plus, she went to East High School, what I lived across from for almost 8 years, but, no more!
Currently listening :
The Very Best of Judy Collins
By Judy Collins
Release date: By 21 August, 2001
WARNING: LOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG
Yesterday evening-ish time I was processing a survey report, likes I always do, and noticed that the date of the report was the same as yesterday- December 18th- except it was 15 years prior. This got me to thinkin', so I sent off the following epistle to my fren' Peeps.
December 18, 1992. A small group of contract archaeologists were writing up their reports from the field season and decided against formally recording the 47 IFS ("Isolated" Finds) they ran across in one survey, in one relatively small area. Apparently they also decided against 2nd guessing their own crappy work and maybe taking a look at their own damn maps and thinking, "hmm, all these IFS occur in a relatively concentrated area….. maybe it's a site? Maybe we should go back and try to actually record it? Naaahhhh… Christmas is coming! I have shopping to do! Let the SHPO deal with it!"
December 18, 2007. Bitter desk archaeologist at the SHPO processes crap-tastic 15 year old report and attempts to formally record 47 IFS that are 400 miles away and buried under 2 feet of snow not to mention years of paperwork, and subsequent overlapping surveys.
I feel old.
________________________________________
Then I just couldn't stop thinking. Darn you, monkey – mind! Put down the pipe!
What else was going on though? In my personal life, I had just helped the train wreck posing as my parents move from the house I had grown up into temporary digs in a nearby town-home, that belonged to the people who had just bought their house (long story- too bad reality TV didn't exist back then- we could have done "House Swap!" Right before the Holidays! Watch the action! )what reeked of their chain-smoking and bad, greasy food. They were from Ohio. The woman's name was Arlene (not making that up), her common-law husband's name was John, and he had a 16 year-old's spiky new wave mullet haircut on top of his 35-year-old head. They had a one-year-old baby boy that they hadn't gotten around to naming yet, so they called him "Boy" jokingly. The other candidate for a name was "John, Junior." Very creative. The poor kid was strapped into some kind of baby-bouncer-chair every time I saw him, his eyes glazed over because of their constant chain - smoking, and he probably already had asthma. He was the latest in their collection of children from either of their previous relationships, ranging in age from 8 to 17. They were so excited about moving into our house because they would finally have enough room to house all of their children, who were scattered around various parts of the country (I'm assuming, in foster care). But they couldn't sell their town-home in time to move, so they needed to rent it out, and whaddya know, my parents needed a place for them and all their crap to stay for about 4 months until their brand-spanking-new mini-mansion was completed. So a deal was struck.
In the myopic, co-dependent misery that was my life prior to divorcing my parents (if someone knows of a better word for it, notify me) I remember thinking that they deserved the mini-mansion with all the trimmings, despite the fact that only days earlier, and with much fake hand-wringing and crocodile tears they had both told me that, much as they wanted to, there was no possible way they could help me with college, so I was on my own. I distinctly remember my mother shaking her head and scoffing at me after yet another fruitless phone call to the UNM financial aid office; "Well you'd better get a scholarship or something, otherwise you won't be able to go. Honestly S--- I don't think you plan for anything." At the same time, her pride and joy, the first-born, baby-boy and prince of the family, aka my brother, was petitioning to the get into Nebraska's School of Architecture because he didn't make the cut on the first or second rounds, his grades weren't good enough. So he had to present his projects and applications to a 7-person jury of Architecture professors and basically plead his case and beg them to take him, because despite failing Calculus twice and taking more than 6 years to complete a 2-year prerequisite program, he really did show promise, etc. etc. So he was on the phone to us every 10 minutes giving us/them updates on what the verdict would be. I also distinctly remember, during one such phone call, fraught with all the drama and tension of a spoiled little prince going up against the judges and jury of the Real World for the first time, my dad getting on the phone and declaring that if poor widdle Jeeemy DID manage to get into Architecture School, they would pay his rent for the rest of college so he could concentrate on his classes and finish. About 2 minutes later, they both turned to me and told me that'd I'd better get down to New Mexico early and get a couple jobs lined up before classes even started, because work-study and financial aid probably wouldn't cover my living expenses. But, clueless as I was 15 years ago, I took their peculiar brand of bullshit at face value.
On that bright note-- So there I was- about to head off for my 3rd try at a Bachelor's degree, starting Spring semester, January 1993 at UNM in Albuquerque. Bill Clinton had just been elected. I had voted for Ross Perot because he was a 3rd party candidate, but I wasn't bitter that he lost, I was happy that he got a third of the vote. Overall, we felt hopeful that the country, and the economy, was about to take a turn for the better. In spite of the blind-siding WHACK upside the head we (here in Colorado) also received on Election night- that a nascent hate group down in Colorado Springs (which would later become Focus On the Family) had stealthily managed to shove through legislation through subterfuge and flat-out lying, which specifically took away equal rights for gays. It was called Amendment 2, and it was struck down 2 weeks later as unconstitutional, but no matter, the damage was done.
For anyone reading this who is not from Colorado, but likes to judge us as a bunch of ignorant, gun-toting rednecks who hate them there gays, let me just tell you that the majority of us (who are nothing like the aforementioned stereotype) were totally like, DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED??????
I mean, we were all well aware that Colorado Springs, and El Paso County in general, is so saturated with military installations and right-wing churches (they seem to go hand-in-hand) and rich retirees originally hailing from East Coast military installations, that essentially, the place has its head so far up its own ass it can't tell night from day. But still, DENYING BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS TO GAYS BASED ON SOME MISINTERPRETATION OF BIBLICAL RHETORIC AND YOUR OWN HOMOPHOBIC REPRESSED NEUROSES???? COME ON!!
They had gone too far. And while New York-based groups made a big deal over canceling their scheduled conventions at our brand-spanking-new Convention Center in Downtown Denver in protest, and we were scratching our heads trying to figure out how this all happened without our knowing it, a few of us secretly admitted to ourselves that this here cloud might have a silver lining. I mean, uh, not to sound just as hateful as the anti-gay freaks down south, but um, anything that keeps a bunch of nastyass, no-manners east coasters out of our fair state can't be all bad, right? Anyway, that's what we were secretly and not-so secretly thinking. It's funny because, in 1992 the "flood" of immigrants from the East Coast, West Coast, and everywhere in between was barely a trickle, but man, you wouldn't know it from all the bellyachin' we did about them taking our jobs, driving up housing prices, polluting our air and wasting our water.
Wooo! If we had only known then the true inundation that was to occur as the '90's roared into the 21st Century! Weee, doggies! as us rednecks like to holler. My attitude towards newcomers has tempered since then, but only slightly. (sorry, Peeps.) My friends in Montana have a similar philosophy. They were overjoyed when Ted Kaczynski (the Unabomber) and that crazy militia dude were arrested in Montana within weeks of each other. E.g. "Woohoo!! Now the whole country will think we're a bunch of psychotic, gun-toting red necks, and maybe they'll stop moving here!!" You get the picture.
Anyhoo, the other reason I've been thinking about this 15-year thing is that, you guessed it, we're gluttons for punishment, and we just moved into a new place…. Right before the holidays, with all the associated stressors, yada yada. Except that, it's my own little family what moved, whom I happen to love very much, and not my abusive moon-bat-crap crazy parental-unit birth family and their associated junk that they value more than personal relationships, so really, it wasn't that bad. I'm tired, but stressed? Nah, it's nothing like 15 years ago, thank God.
For those of you (probably girls, I'm guessing) waiting with baited breath to hear the outcome of my brother's fate, yes he DID make it into Architecture school, and today he is a successful architect along with his lovely wife, who is a partner in her own firm and makes way more money than him (see? Karma does exist), and they have two adorable children, and they both make about 14 times as much coin-ola as Bruce and I combined. And although he has pulled his head about halfway out of his arse regarding our parents, he still fails to see the connection between their favored treatment of him and his relative success. And he probably never will. :) But hey, he doesn't get the rare privilege of being an Archaeologist for the great State of Colorado and fixing crappy-ass 15 year old reports, now does he?
(* for those of you snickering at my musical choice, below, let me say I was specifically thinking of the Judy Collins' song, "Who knows where the time goes?"
Plus, she went to East High School, what I lived across from for almost 8 years, but, no more!
Currently listening :
The Very Best of Judy Collins
By Judy Collins
Release date: By 21 August, 2001
LANDLORDHOOD
It's official- for those who don't already know, today is the day we officially enter into landlord-hood, and that adjacent fantasy get-rich-quick (not) realm of "real estate investing." Or rather, we tried to sell our house for 3 years and for various reasons couldn't, and little girl isn't getting any smaller, so measures had to be taken.
We did most of the final clean-up this morning on my way to work, and tomorrow we'll do the walk-through and handing over of keys to our new, superstar tenants and kick off the new year in style.
I'm going to focus on what amazing luck we've had in finding these great tenants, at the price we wanted, rather than the glitches encountered along the way, like the fact the flooring guys were supposed to be completely done the Friday before Christmas but instead RIGHT NOW, AS I TYPE THIS are finally applying the last coat of varnish/sealer/ whatever the fuck it is I don't care if it's toxic waste, I don't live there anymore!!!
Also an amazing bit of luck that our tenants took their time getting out here and are now staying with friends in Boulder for the night, because their furniture won't get here til tomorrow anyway... which gives the varnish time to dry, and PHEWW we dodge the whole inevitable-neighbors-throwing-their-New-Year's-Rockin-Eve party-the-first-night-our-nice-tenants-get-into-town-perhaps-prompting-them-to-change-their minds - and-move-out-immediately-bullet.
Phew. That was close.
But anyway, before I get started on another rant, I wanted to post this link to a clip of Will Farrell's daughter as his landlord- she's about the same age as 'ella in this clip, and so , inspired by this , we're pretty sure we're going to leave any rent collection/ confrontative type issues up to her from now on. :)
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/74
We did most of the final clean-up this morning on my way to work, and tomorrow we'll do the walk-through and handing over of keys to our new, superstar tenants and kick off the new year in style.
I'm going to focus on what amazing luck we've had in finding these great tenants, at the price we wanted, rather than the glitches encountered along the way, like the fact the flooring guys were supposed to be completely done the Friday before Christmas but instead RIGHT NOW, AS I TYPE THIS are finally applying the last coat of varnish/sealer/ whatever the fuck it is I don't care if it's toxic waste, I don't live there anymore!!!
Also an amazing bit of luck that our tenants took their time getting out here and are now staying with friends in Boulder for the night, because their furniture won't get here til tomorrow anyway... which gives the varnish time to dry, and PHEWW we dodge the whole inevitable-neighbors-throwing-their-New-Year's-Rockin-Eve party-the-first-night-our-nice-tenants-get-into-town-perhaps-prompting-them-to-change-their minds - and-move-out-immediately-bullet.
Phew. That was close.
But anyway, before I get started on another rant, I wanted to post this link to a clip of Will Farrell's daughter as his landlord- she's about the same age as 'ella in this clip, and so , inspired by this , we're pretty sure we're going to leave any rent collection/ confrontative type issues up to her from now on. :)
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/74
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