I was born in the early 80’s, so when I was little, VCR’s were just starting to become a household item. My parents tell me that they ran about $500.00 or so, so when we got one, it was a pretty big deal. One of the first tapes they got for me was Mary Poppins and I loved it. I watched it over and over, literally until the tape broke. And when the tape broke, I cried until we got a new one. And then I wore that tape almost all the way out. I still have that second Mary Poppins, actually. I watch it pretty sparingly now, so as not to break it again, and when I do watch it, it’s like I’m a 3-year-old again. I’m certainly not ashamed to say that I was watching it recently and something really stuck out to me this time.
There is a scene in which Mary Poppins, a magical nanny, has just gotten home from a day of fantastic adventure with her two charges, Jane and Michael Banks. The children are terribly excited and keep asking her for more. They’ve had a wonderful time and they don’t want it to end. Her reply to this? “Enough is as good as a feast.”
I’m sure my interpretation of this is colored not only by our present economic state, but also by my own stinginess. I am, by nature, a very frugal person. I find that at the grocery store, for instance, I don’t have a brand preference pretty much any of the time and I find also, that I don’t necessarily allow myself to have any preferences at all. I figure if I can get a pound of ground chuck for the same price or less as a few nice steaks, I’m going to go with the ground chuck. Not because I like it necessarily, but because I can have more for less. And doesn’t it make sense to spend as little as possible?
I’m like this with clothing, too. If I need a pair of shoes, for instance, I always look for the cheapest pair, telling myself that maybe I’ll buy a nice pair when I have enough money. The weird thing about this is that I’m not poor at all. Having just done my taxes, I am celebrating my second year as a single person in the work force living above the poverty line. You’d think that this would make me feel like splurging, but it doesn’t. It makes me feel frightened of losing what I have. And having admitted that in print, I have to acknowledge that this isn’t necessarily healthy (though I think I’ve known that all along).
Come to think of it, I’m like this with most things. As I was moving this last time, I found myself donating and throwing away everything that I didn’t need immediately and almost everything that wasn’t nailed down. My fiancé even tried to dissuade me when I was throwing away things like clothes I still wear and things we actually need. I had gone to one end of the spectrum and it took another person to make me step back and realize it.
On the other end of the spectrum I see things on TV like the show Hoarders, in which I see people who spend their lives accumulating so much stuff that they end up literally buried in it. People who believe that gobs of moldy food and piles of trash have value and should be kept in the house. This is certainly not healthy.
In my line of work, I come into contact with certain individuals who literally cannot stop spending money. Who always need one more thing or a better version of something. They feel entitled to whatever they want, in as large a quantity as they want, whenever they want. This isn’t healthy either.
So where, as a culture or as individuals, do we find a happy medium? Perhaps certain 29-year-olds find it in viewing Mary Poppins. Perhaps by indulging in moderation, I can prevent myself from feeling deprived without treading into the dangerous territory of being buried alive in mounds of stuff or overextending myself by always chasing the bigger, better thing. Perhaps as a culture, we can benefit from striving to live well, without living greedily. I think that’s what Mary Poppins meant when she was talking to Jane and Michael. That it is important to indulge – to have adventures, whatever that means to any one of us – and it is equally important to know when to stop. Enough is, indeed, as good as a feast.
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Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Finding Hope: A Holiday Reminder
Generally, I avoid the news. I know that’s not ever the politically correct thing for an intelligent woman to say, but it’s true. I hate watching the news. It’s always some sensationalized, pre-packaged nonsense story telling me that I need to be afraid of something. Reinforcing horrendous stereotypes. Amanda, you need to buy more hand sanitizer. Amanda, here’s the newest way to lose that pesky beer gut of yours. Amanda, they’ve recalled peanut butter. And so on and so forth until I’m either disgusted into a state of complacency or so aggravated that I have a hard time remaining compassionate towards other people. The news is bad for my health and, I might suggest, everyone else’s.
I live in the same world as everyone else does, though. In an apartment, even, rather than under a proverbial rock, and much to my dismay, some news items sneak through and make it under the layer of sand where I sometimes bury my head. Recently, two news items have struck me, not only because of their horrific nature, but also because of their undeniable interconnection.
First, there is the Penn State coach who is accused of sexually abusing children and those who sought to protect him from scrutiny. For days, I saw all over the internet how everyone felt so sorry for one coach when he lost his job for failing to report these instances of abuse. A good friend of mine who also happens to be a social worker brought up a good point regarding this story. She commented that she is tired of hearing how sorry everyone feels for the perpetrators of these grievous abuses and would like to hear someone speaking up for the children in the situation. I couldn’t have agreed more.
Second, there are the two (well, one current and one former) middle school special ed. teachers in Washington Court House, Ohio who were caught on tape both verbally and physically abusing a special needs teenager over a period of four days. According to various news stories, the parents of this fourteen year old had complained to the principal of the school, who barely seemed to do more than blatantly ignore them and then to the superintendent of the school system in question, who indicated that their accusations were bordering on harassment and suggested that their daughter was lying about these experiences. The girl’s parents had to hide a tape recorder in their daughter’s clothing and only when they caught the women in question on tape did the school system take any action. They terminated one of the teachers. The other, so far, has only been required to take a course on preventing bullying.
Anybody else feel sick yet? I sure do. I feel sick to know that even in a supposedly enlightened world, those with power are not only bullying, but also attempting to dismantle and destroy those without it. It’s happening with people. It’s happening with institutions (much as it always has). To make matters worse, it seems like more and more of us are trying to excuse some of it. In the case of the football coach, some people seemed to be more upset that the football team was losing its coach than they were that innocent children were being abused. In the case of the two abusive teachers, while the school system fired one of them, they thought that an eight hour long course on preventing bullying was adequate penance for having contributed to and having allowed the verbal and physical abuse of a child. These two instances are really discouraging. Are we really at a point as a human race that those who are charged with protecting end up being those against whom the powerless require protection? And what in the world are we supposed to do to try to heal?
I sat on my fiancé’s couch seething about this recently as he attempted to dismantle a desk and shelf that I think take up too much space in the room. He asked me to move in a few months ago, proposed about a month ago and we have recently begun the process of “merging our stuff.” The desk has been a point of contention between us. He picked out and bought it, along with a few other pieces and while I do find them attractive, I also find them bulky, so for several months, we have been discussing how to make “his space” into a livable “our space.” Part of this ended up meaning that the bulky furniture goes.
As he took apart furniture, I yelled in his direction about the news. “What is wrong with people?” I shrieked as he tried to find a suitable tool to remove stripped screws from metal fixtures.
“Seriously! How can we even call ourselves human beings when we are doing things like this to one another? I feel like there’s no hope for any of us!”
He sneezed at three years of dust under the desk as he started pulling it apart and it occurred to me that he wasn’t listening to me at all. I turned my fury on him and as he dumped a bag of screws and screw accouterments all over the living room floor and as the cat delighted in dancing around in the carnage, I realized something: this is how we should be treating one another. Suddenly, my anger dissolved into a bewildered love for my fellow humans.
Rather than using our power against each other so that we can feel less helpless in a chaotic world, we should all be doing what we can to make each other’s lives better. More comfortable. More compassion-based and less fear based. While I was lamenting the state of humankind and declaring us all one, giant lost cause, my partner in crime was unknowingly showing me hope in an act of kindness – in his willingness to inconvenience himself and dismantle his routine and his life so that I could be more comfortable. So that I could feel at home.
It is very easy, when confronted with the scope of our potential for evil, to give up on ourselves. To give up on the idea that we can be good to each other and for each other. There is no way to eradicate huge epidemic problems such as abuse or bullying. There is no sweeping statement or act that can prevent terrible things from happening in the world. All we have is control over our own actions. Mostly, what we have are small acts of kindness.
What we have is an immense power to do good, one small act at a time, every time we are able, as many times as we are able, as often, as much, etcetera. Sometimes it takes something as inane as the dismantling of a desk to remind me of the good in people. This holiday season, act in the interest of compassion, in the interest of kindness and in the interest of love, one act at a time.
I live in the same world as everyone else does, though. In an apartment, even, rather than under a proverbial rock, and much to my dismay, some news items sneak through and make it under the layer of sand where I sometimes bury my head. Recently, two news items have struck me, not only because of their horrific nature, but also because of their undeniable interconnection.
First, there is the Penn State coach who is accused of sexually abusing children and those who sought to protect him from scrutiny. For days, I saw all over the internet how everyone felt so sorry for one coach when he lost his job for failing to report these instances of abuse. A good friend of mine who also happens to be a social worker brought up a good point regarding this story. She commented that she is tired of hearing how sorry everyone feels for the perpetrators of these grievous abuses and would like to hear someone speaking up for the children in the situation. I couldn’t have agreed more.
Second, there are the two (well, one current and one former) middle school special ed. teachers in Washington Court House, Ohio who were caught on tape both verbally and physically abusing a special needs teenager over a period of four days. According to various news stories, the parents of this fourteen year old had complained to the principal of the school, who barely seemed to do more than blatantly ignore them and then to the superintendent of the school system in question, who indicated that their accusations were bordering on harassment and suggested that their daughter was lying about these experiences. The girl’s parents had to hide a tape recorder in their daughter’s clothing and only when they caught the women in question on tape did the school system take any action. They terminated one of the teachers. The other, so far, has only been required to take a course on preventing bullying.
Anybody else feel sick yet? I sure do. I feel sick to know that even in a supposedly enlightened world, those with power are not only bullying, but also attempting to dismantle and destroy those without it. It’s happening with people. It’s happening with institutions (much as it always has). To make matters worse, it seems like more and more of us are trying to excuse some of it. In the case of the football coach, some people seemed to be more upset that the football team was losing its coach than they were that innocent children were being abused. In the case of the two abusive teachers, while the school system fired one of them, they thought that an eight hour long course on preventing bullying was adequate penance for having contributed to and having allowed the verbal and physical abuse of a child. These two instances are really discouraging. Are we really at a point as a human race that those who are charged with protecting end up being those against whom the powerless require protection? And what in the world are we supposed to do to try to heal?
I sat on my fiancé’s couch seething about this recently as he attempted to dismantle a desk and shelf that I think take up too much space in the room. He asked me to move in a few months ago, proposed about a month ago and we have recently begun the process of “merging our stuff.” The desk has been a point of contention between us. He picked out and bought it, along with a few other pieces and while I do find them attractive, I also find them bulky, so for several months, we have been discussing how to make “his space” into a livable “our space.” Part of this ended up meaning that the bulky furniture goes.
As he took apart furniture, I yelled in his direction about the news. “What is wrong with people?” I shrieked as he tried to find a suitable tool to remove stripped screws from metal fixtures.
“Seriously! How can we even call ourselves human beings when we are doing things like this to one another? I feel like there’s no hope for any of us!”
He sneezed at three years of dust under the desk as he started pulling it apart and it occurred to me that he wasn’t listening to me at all. I turned my fury on him and as he dumped a bag of screws and screw accouterments all over the living room floor and as the cat delighted in dancing around in the carnage, I realized something: this is how we should be treating one another. Suddenly, my anger dissolved into a bewildered love for my fellow humans.
Rather than using our power against each other so that we can feel less helpless in a chaotic world, we should all be doing what we can to make each other’s lives better. More comfortable. More compassion-based and less fear based. While I was lamenting the state of humankind and declaring us all one, giant lost cause, my partner in crime was unknowingly showing me hope in an act of kindness – in his willingness to inconvenience himself and dismantle his routine and his life so that I could be more comfortable. So that I could feel at home.
It is very easy, when confronted with the scope of our potential for evil, to give up on ourselves. To give up on the idea that we can be good to each other and for each other. There is no way to eradicate huge epidemic problems such as abuse or bullying. There is no sweeping statement or act that can prevent terrible things from happening in the world. All we have is control over our own actions. Mostly, what we have are small acts of kindness.
What we have is an immense power to do good, one small act at a time, every time we are able, as many times as we are able, as often, as much, etcetera. Sometimes it takes something as inane as the dismantling of a desk to remind me of the good in people. This holiday season, act in the interest of compassion, in the interest of kindness and in the interest of love, one act at a time.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
“To Speak the Truth is Easy and Pleasant”: Russian Novels, Renewal and a Few Peeps from the Peanut Gallery
I don’t know if anyone besides me does this, but I read particular books in particular seasons. For instance at the first break of Spring, I read Richard Brautigan’s In Watermelon Sugar. In the dead of Winter, I like All Quiet on the Western Front (Erich Maria Remarque). In Summer, when I can’t sleep because it’s too hot, I read Altered States by Paddy Chayefsky.
Fall is very special to me, though. October is my birth month, I love crisp weather, I can’t get enough of the smell of leaves and Halloween is easily in the running for being my favorite holiday. Unlike many people I know, I find Fall (rather than Spring) to be a time of renewal in the sense that you know you’re going to be enjoying its beauty and that beauty will make you introspective enough to really examine your motives so that you can live with the isolation of your own company through the Winter months. Am I making sense? In case I’m not, I’ll get a little closer to the point.
At the end of September / beginning of October, I read my very favorite book by Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita. I came across this book accidentally in the fall of 2008. I had just moved to downtown Baltimore, I didn’t have any money and I had a lot of time on my hands. It was my roommate’s and it was lying around our apartment and I just happened to pick it up just as the weather started getting crisp. I don’t know if it was the weather or my situation at the time or the fact that I may or may not have been drinking a lot of vodka and chain-smoking a lot on the steps of my building, but that book was life altering for me and now I read it every fall. My favorite quote in it takes place when Jesus Christ is explaining to Pontius Pilate that, “to speak the truth is easy and pleasant.” Please take my advice and read the book and the quote will make more sense, but for now, that’s not necessarily the point either.
I just recently started my annual reading of The Master and Margarita and on a whim, I decided to read the translator’s introduction, in which she explains that Bulgakov was a gifted satirist writing satire in Russia in the 1920’s. Russia in the 1920’s was not a good place to be writing satire and needless to say, Bulgakov was slighted, stunted, hindered, discouraged and all but literally broken of his passion for the written word and observation of his world. He knew where his passion was, though, and in a very (almost stupidly) bold move, he wrote a letter to Stalin demanding to either be deported or assigned to a job in either literature or theater. As a result of this bold act, he spent the majority of his last decade alive in Theater. He didn’t get to see much of his writing published or enjoyed during his lifetime, but he never stopped writing and he insisted upon either remaining close to his passion or permitted to leave his home so that he could pursue that passion. Very Russian lit, I know, but stay with me.
All that being said, sometimes I’m not sure I’m that dedicated of a writer. For instance, I get two days before these deadlines and I have no idea what I’m going to say. So, inevitably and only half-jokingly, I make a post on facebook. Something to the effect of, “I need to write a column in the next two days. Throw me a bone, Muse.” The first answer came from my dear friend, Mike, who suggested the following topic: “Weighted nymphs seem like cheating to me. A good seven or eight weight shooting taper with a sink tip well presented upstream would keep the fly more natural in the proper hands and should elicit a strike from the most wary steelhead.” Of course, the only thing I understood about this was that Mike was talking about fishing and that Mike loves to fish. When Mike wakes up in the morning, he is a hunter and a fisherman. Possibly before he is, does or interacts with anything else, he is a hunter and a fisherman. He had to know I was probably not going to address whether weighted nymphs are a cheat move when going after trout, but he couldn’t help it. Mike wakes up Mike. A fisherman, hunter and smart ass.
The second answer I got came from my friend, Nate. He and I have been friends for years and years. We grew up together and we are usually those smug two in the corner making fun of everyone else. His answer was to write about, “Halloween as a moment of change and self-actualization.” He was a philosophy major and he is now in his first year of law school. When he wakes up in the morning, he thrives on understanding and mastering the art of human interaction. He can’t help it. Just as, I’m sure, he couldn’t help but state that I may, “submit his royalty check whenever I please.” Do you see where I’m going with this? No? Okay, one more example.
I got a third answer from my Aunt Traci who suggested that I write about the interaction between older and younger generations, their perceptions of one another and whether these perceptions are accurate. My Aunt Traci has many passions in life, but the most obvious of these to me is the passion that she has for raising and interacting with her children. She can’t help that. Her first reaction when I asked for a noteworthy topic was to suggest the interaction between generations and finding points of communication or even dissonance. This is who she is when she wakes up.
People always talk about a refusal to compromise as if it is a skill that is learned or a fashion that can be worn. I wonder if maybe a refusal to compromise regarding one’s passions in life isn’t simply an inability to compromise because it would contradict the essences of our respective selves. When you wake up in the morning, before you are anything else, what are you?
See what I mean about fall being a time of renewal? When I woke up this morning, I had no idea what to write about. So I acknowledged my passion without even thinking about it. I acknowledged and was able to then pay a little tribute to the interconnection between all of us. Mikhail was very right. To speak the truth, whether or not you know you’re doing it, really is easy and pleasant.
Fall is very special to me, though. October is my birth month, I love crisp weather, I can’t get enough of the smell of leaves and Halloween is easily in the running for being my favorite holiday. Unlike many people I know, I find Fall (rather than Spring) to be a time of renewal in the sense that you know you’re going to be enjoying its beauty and that beauty will make you introspective enough to really examine your motives so that you can live with the isolation of your own company through the Winter months. Am I making sense? In case I’m not, I’ll get a little closer to the point.
At the end of September / beginning of October, I read my very favorite book by Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita. I came across this book accidentally in the fall of 2008. I had just moved to downtown Baltimore, I didn’t have any money and I had a lot of time on my hands. It was my roommate’s and it was lying around our apartment and I just happened to pick it up just as the weather started getting crisp. I don’t know if it was the weather or my situation at the time or the fact that I may or may not have been drinking a lot of vodka and chain-smoking a lot on the steps of my building, but that book was life altering for me and now I read it every fall. My favorite quote in it takes place when Jesus Christ is explaining to Pontius Pilate that, “to speak the truth is easy and pleasant.” Please take my advice and read the book and the quote will make more sense, but for now, that’s not necessarily the point either.
I just recently started my annual reading of The Master and Margarita and on a whim, I decided to read the translator’s introduction, in which she explains that Bulgakov was a gifted satirist writing satire in Russia in the 1920’s. Russia in the 1920’s was not a good place to be writing satire and needless to say, Bulgakov was slighted, stunted, hindered, discouraged and all but literally broken of his passion for the written word and observation of his world. He knew where his passion was, though, and in a very (almost stupidly) bold move, he wrote a letter to Stalin demanding to either be deported or assigned to a job in either literature or theater. As a result of this bold act, he spent the majority of his last decade alive in Theater. He didn’t get to see much of his writing published or enjoyed during his lifetime, but he never stopped writing and he insisted upon either remaining close to his passion or permitted to leave his home so that he could pursue that passion. Very Russian lit, I know, but stay with me.
All that being said, sometimes I’m not sure I’m that dedicated of a writer. For instance, I get two days before these deadlines and I have no idea what I’m going to say. So, inevitably and only half-jokingly, I make a post on facebook. Something to the effect of, “I need to write a column in the next two days. Throw me a bone, Muse.” The first answer came from my dear friend, Mike, who suggested the following topic: “Weighted nymphs seem like cheating to me. A good seven or eight weight shooting taper with a sink tip well presented upstream would keep the fly more natural in the proper hands and should elicit a strike from the most wary steelhead.” Of course, the only thing I understood about this was that Mike was talking about fishing and that Mike loves to fish. When Mike wakes up in the morning, he is a hunter and a fisherman. Possibly before he is, does or interacts with anything else, he is a hunter and a fisherman. He had to know I was probably not going to address whether weighted nymphs are a cheat move when going after trout, but he couldn’t help it. Mike wakes up Mike. A fisherman, hunter and smart ass.
The second answer I got came from my friend, Nate. He and I have been friends for years and years. We grew up together and we are usually those smug two in the corner making fun of everyone else. His answer was to write about, “Halloween as a moment of change and self-actualization.” He was a philosophy major and he is now in his first year of law school. When he wakes up in the morning, he thrives on understanding and mastering the art of human interaction. He can’t help it. Just as, I’m sure, he couldn’t help but state that I may, “submit his royalty check whenever I please.” Do you see where I’m going with this? No? Okay, one more example.
I got a third answer from my Aunt Traci who suggested that I write about the interaction between older and younger generations, their perceptions of one another and whether these perceptions are accurate. My Aunt Traci has many passions in life, but the most obvious of these to me is the passion that she has for raising and interacting with her children. She can’t help that. Her first reaction when I asked for a noteworthy topic was to suggest the interaction between generations and finding points of communication or even dissonance. This is who she is when she wakes up.
People always talk about a refusal to compromise as if it is a skill that is learned or a fashion that can be worn. I wonder if maybe a refusal to compromise regarding one’s passions in life isn’t simply an inability to compromise because it would contradict the essences of our respective selves. When you wake up in the morning, before you are anything else, what are you?
See what I mean about fall being a time of renewal? When I woke up this morning, I had no idea what to write about. So I acknowledged my passion without even thinking about it. I acknowledged and was able to then pay a little tribute to the interconnection between all of us. Mikhail was very right. To speak the truth, whether or not you know you’re doing it, really is easy and pleasant.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Carcinogens to Carrots - An Alliterative Allegory
It's Monday night and Sam has already taken the Ohio Bar Exam. This means that after three years of living with a law student and three months of living with what basically amounted to a plucky, zombie with non-rotting skin and a blonde pixie cut, I have my sister back. And she's so relaxed. For example, a commercial just came on for Conan the Barbarian and the dialogue went like this:
Sam: OOH! Khal Drogo!
Me: What?
Sam: This really hot guy from... um...
Me: What are you talking about?
Sam: Conan the Barbarian!
Me: You're just saying nouns!
Sam: Sorry! Sorry. This is the movie, Conan the Barbarian. The guy playing Conan was
in the show, Game of Thrones. His character on the show was named Khal Drogo.
Me: Oh.
In her own words, "I'm excited to cook dinner, I don't get angry about unloading the dishwasher and I don't cry when people leave their pots and pans in the sink. I just feel, like, completely relaxed." Is it articulate enough a sentiment to hold up in a court of law? That's not really for me to decide, but it's really nice coming home from work and having a buddy to do stupid shit with.
After what I'll call a moment of clarity at the doctor's office recently, I've resolved to stop sneaking my favorite little cylindrical vices (among other things) and just to generally treat my body more like organic matter that requires a certain internal environment to function properly and less like the side of the couch on which I may or may not wipe boogers.
I think a lot of this attempt at a commitment to health has to do with the fact that I don't feel invincible anymore. When I was in my early twenties, I felt like I could drink a quart of well whiskey, puke it up, have some taco bell, drive myself home and still wake up the next morning and be able to function. Now, if I have a beer and go to bed without drinking a glass of water, I wake up feeling congested and headachy. I used to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. Now, if I smoke even one, I feel it all day. I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted and now if I don't eat enough fruits and veggies, I feel like I'm lumbering around like a bloated raccoon. I know the appropriate response to this is the time-marches-on resignation to "getting older," but for someone who relishes the ability to pleasure-seek without consequence, in other words this chick *points at self*, it sucks!
I get all temper-tantrum-feeling knowing that a diet of pulled pork, Marlboro reds and bourbon isn't going to work out for me on a permanent basis. Now I have to add it all to the list of things that I'll be able to do when I die and go to heaven, right along with "shred like Eddie Van Halen."
So meanwhile, never to be defeated by my own sabotage (or at least, not for long), I have needed to find better ways to blow off steam. Writing is obviously one of those things, so one of the things I've committed to do is write or edit at least one thing every day.
It's weird coming of age. I was watching Sam read a borrowed kindle, as content as a housecat, while I leaned against the kitchen counter, having my evening carrot and watching Hoarders. She gave me this weird look and I asked her what was up. She said she wanted to keep reading but she didn't want to stay on her ass anymore. I suggested that she come have an evening carrot-in-lieu-of-a-cigarette with me.
"We could pace," she said.
"I never really paced," I replied. "I leaned." I handed her a carrot and she crunched into it with the sort of dramatic flair only possessed by almost-lawyers.
"We could always stretch." And she showed me a stretch that involved your top half eventually going totally limp over your bottom half, thereby folding herself completely in half. The way you fold a baby only vertical and the other way around.
"Nah, I like tree pose," and I proceeded to chew my carrot like a Cuban cigar and pose like a statue of Shiva while Sam wobbled over with each attempt.
"You know, Amanda: Carrots. Cigarettes. They both start with C." She started trailing off. "Carcinogens versus Keratin...."
"Really?" I said.
"Cornucopias of cantankerous carrots to cancel carcinogenic cigarettes, perhaps?"
"Oh, jesus."
Then I told her about how I had writer's block and asked her to give me a theme.
"Why not write about your metamorphosis from a cigarette smoker to a carrot eater. It could be, like, a touching coming of age drama. Also, use some alliterations. Those are fun."
"Done."
Sam: OOH! Khal Drogo!
Me: What?
Sam: This really hot guy from... um...
Me: What are you talking about?
Sam: Conan the Barbarian!
Me: You're just saying nouns!
Sam: Sorry! Sorry. This is the movie, Conan the Barbarian. The guy playing Conan was
in the show, Game of Thrones. His character on the show was named Khal Drogo.
Me: Oh.
In her own words, "I'm excited to cook dinner, I don't get angry about unloading the dishwasher and I don't cry when people leave their pots and pans in the sink. I just feel, like, completely relaxed." Is it articulate enough a sentiment to hold up in a court of law? That's not really for me to decide, but it's really nice coming home from work and having a buddy to do stupid shit with.
After what I'll call a moment of clarity at the doctor's office recently, I've resolved to stop sneaking my favorite little cylindrical vices (among other things) and just to generally treat my body more like organic matter that requires a certain internal environment to function properly and less like the side of the couch on which I may or may not wipe boogers.
I think a lot of this attempt at a commitment to health has to do with the fact that I don't feel invincible anymore. When I was in my early twenties, I felt like I could drink a quart of well whiskey, puke it up, have some taco bell, drive myself home and still wake up the next morning and be able to function. Now, if I have a beer and go to bed without drinking a glass of water, I wake up feeling congested and headachy. I used to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. Now, if I smoke even one, I feel it all day. I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted and now if I don't eat enough fruits and veggies, I feel like I'm lumbering around like a bloated raccoon. I know the appropriate response to this is the time-marches-on resignation to "getting older," but for someone who relishes the ability to pleasure-seek without consequence, in other words this chick *points at self*, it sucks!
I get all temper-tantrum-feeling knowing that a diet of pulled pork, Marlboro reds and bourbon isn't going to work out for me on a permanent basis. Now I have to add it all to the list of things that I'll be able to do when I die and go to heaven, right along with "shred like Eddie Van Halen."
So meanwhile, never to be defeated by my own sabotage (or at least, not for long), I have needed to find better ways to blow off steam. Writing is obviously one of those things, so one of the things I've committed to do is write or edit at least one thing every day.
It's weird coming of age. I was watching Sam read a borrowed kindle, as content as a housecat, while I leaned against the kitchen counter, having my evening carrot and watching Hoarders. She gave me this weird look and I asked her what was up. She said she wanted to keep reading but she didn't want to stay on her ass anymore. I suggested that she come have an evening carrot-in-lieu-of-a-cigarette with me.
"We could pace," she said.
"I never really paced," I replied. "I leaned." I handed her a carrot and she crunched into it with the sort of dramatic flair only possessed by almost-lawyers.
"We could always stretch." And she showed me a stretch that involved your top half eventually going totally limp over your bottom half, thereby folding herself completely in half. The way you fold a baby only vertical and the other way around.
"Nah, I like tree pose," and I proceeded to chew my carrot like a Cuban cigar and pose like a statue of Shiva while Sam wobbled over with each attempt.
"You know, Amanda: Carrots. Cigarettes. They both start with C." She started trailing off. "Carcinogens versus Keratin...."
"Really?" I said.
"Cornucopias of cantankerous carrots to cancel carcinogenic cigarettes, perhaps?"
"Oh, jesus."
Then I told her about how I had writer's block and asked her to give me a theme.
"Why not write about your metamorphosis from a cigarette smoker to a carrot eater. It could be, like, a touching coming of age drama. Also, use some alliterations. Those are fun."
"Done."
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Failed Cookie Mission and How it Revealed Human Compassion as well as Stupidity
Okay, so if anyone knows me at all, they know that I've basically been on a diet since I was five-years-old for the most part. It's how I grew up. It's what women did. Food is not fuel, but rather an elaborate system of rewards and punishments, bla, bla, bla. That's not really the point of this post. I'm giving you background to the failed cookie mission, here. Needless to say, I'm probably on a diet right now. Meaning that I'm pretty anal-retentive about the amount of calories I consume in an average day. Two factors combined to trigger something in my brain that made me eat a very delicious dinner of chicken marsala and mashed potatoes this weekend, though.
1. I've decided that way too many people still think it's funny to make fun of overweight people. I mean, for all you know, they've just committed to trying to change their lives and there you are, sitting in judgment of them. It's like this with anything for the most part, though. Don't judge a person until you know the situation and even then, just don't judge a person. It's gross and it's unnecessary. I decided that I was going to refuse to conform to society's various stigmas, throw caution to the wind and have a very enjoyable meal.
2. I met my weight loss goal for the week and my sister makes the greatest chicken marsala this side of the Mississippi.
So we ate the dinner and afterwards, the Vajskop sisters wanted something sweet to round it off. After a weird amount of sleepy, full-bellied negotiations about this, it was determined by the lot of us that I was to go to the store for cookies.
So I went out into the sweltering heat of Ohio summer, got in the car and started leaving the apartment complex, only to be temporarily held up by a young girl strutting around the entrance of the complex. She didn't seem to have any idea my car was there, so I just sat there, not wanting to hit her and thinking that she'd better be careful or she'd get hurt. I don't live on a very busy street, but it's still pretty important to look for traffic when you're on foot. I thought I'd wait to turn until she was totally finished crossing and then I'd go forth and complete the cookie mission, but she never made it across. She was hit by a motorcycle. No, I am not kidding.
For the first few seconds, I thought I had imagined it, but after looking at it for more than five seconds, I realized that it was very much a real thing which had just happened. I learned yesterday, that my go-to swear word is "shit."
I parked and called 911. I called my sisters and told them that I couldn't go to the store. They came down to wait with me. And I learned a few things about humans yesterday.
1. For the most part, people will try to do anything they can to avoid injuring each other. I watched the driver spill a very-expensive bike in an attempt to not hit this girl. I watched as several people stopped to see if the people were okay and to direct traffic until the police got there. I witnessed how quickly EMT's and police officers work to get to the scene of an accident and how efficiently they triaged everyone before loading them into ambulances.
2. Even though I'm not the hugest fan of the police in general, most police officers are nice people who want good things for the world and unfortunately, there are a few rhoided-out jerks who ruin the image of the police for everyone. When I approaced an officer to let him know that I had witnessed the accident, he was very kind, not at all condescending or suspicious of my efforts to be helpful.
3. People love to gossip, to a very sick degree. When I was filling out my statement, there was one particularly aggressive gentleman who kept pushing me to tell him what happened and became even more aggressive when I didn't want to discuss it with him. Also, what started out as four or five people at the scene when it actually happened turned into thirty or forty people who did not know these people at all, but had no problem lookey-looing, getting in the way and loudly speculating about who they believed to be at fault in the situation.
4. My sisters are two of the most fantastic people in the world. When I had explained what happened, they both came running down to meet me and to make sure that I was okay and not too shaken up, which I thought was hilarious since I was not the one who had just gotten creamed in the middle of the road.
From what I was able to glean by talking to the police, the only major injury belonged to the motorcycle itself. The people likely went home last night, and that gave me a huge sense of relief.
Needless to say, the cookie mission was a failure, but talk about being in a particular place at a particular time.
The universe is weird.
1. I've decided that way too many people still think it's funny to make fun of overweight people. I mean, for all you know, they've just committed to trying to change their lives and there you are, sitting in judgment of them. It's like this with anything for the most part, though. Don't judge a person until you know the situation and even then, just don't judge a person. It's gross and it's unnecessary. I decided that I was going to refuse to conform to society's various stigmas, throw caution to the wind and have a very enjoyable meal.
2. I met my weight loss goal for the week and my sister makes the greatest chicken marsala this side of the Mississippi.
So we ate the dinner and afterwards, the Vajskop sisters wanted something sweet to round it off. After a weird amount of sleepy, full-bellied negotiations about this, it was determined by the lot of us that I was to go to the store for cookies.
So I went out into the sweltering heat of Ohio summer, got in the car and started leaving the apartment complex, only to be temporarily held up by a young girl strutting around the entrance of the complex. She didn't seem to have any idea my car was there, so I just sat there, not wanting to hit her and thinking that she'd better be careful or she'd get hurt. I don't live on a very busy street, but it's still pretty important to look for traffic when you're on foot. I thought I'd wait to turn until she was totally finished crossing and then I'd go forth and complete the cookie mission, but she never made it across. She was hit by a motorcycle. No, I am not kidding.
For the first few seconds, I thought I had imagined it, but after looking at it for more than five seconds, I realized that it was very much a real thing which had just happened. I learned yesterday, that my go-to swear word is "shit."
I parked and called 911. I called my sisters and told them that I couldn't go to the store. They came down to wait with me. And I learned a few things about humans yesterday.
1. For the most part, people will try to do anything they can to avoid injuring each other. I watched the driver spill a very-expensive bike in an attempt to not hit this girl. I watched as several people stopped to see if the people were okay and to direct traffic until the police got there. I witnessed how quickly EMT's and police officers work to get to the scene of an accident and how efficiently they triaged everyone before loading them into ambulances.
2. Even though I'm not the hugest fan of the police in general, most police officers are nice people who want good things for the world and unfortunately, there are a few rhoided-out jerks who ruin the image of the police for everyone. When I approaced an officer to let him know that I had witnessed the accident, he was very kind, not at all condescending or suspicious of my efforts to be helpful.
3. People love to gossip, to a very sick degree. When I was filling out my statement, there was one particularly aggressive gentleman who kept pushing me to tell him what happened and became even more aggressive when I didn't want to discuss it with him. Also, what started out as four or five people at the scene when it actually happened turned into thirty or forty people who did not know these people at all, but had no problem lookey-looing, getting in the way and loudly speculating about who they believed to be at fault in the situation.
4. My sisters are two of the most fantastic people in the world. When I had explained what happened, they both came running down to meet me and to make sure that I was okay and not too shaken up, which I thought was hilarious since I was not the one who had just gotten creamed in the middle of the road.
From what I was able to glean by talking to the police, the only major injury belonged to the motorcycle itself. The people likely went home last night, and that gave me a huge sense of relief.
Needless to say, the cookie mission was a failure, but talk about being in a particular place at a particular time.
The universe is weird.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
"I've come to keep you company my dear..."
In the mornings before work, I’ve been re-reading Mary Daly’s work. I can’t decide if it makes me feel uplifted or guilty. Empowered or helpless. I wish she was still somewhere where she could write books and publish them and I could purchase them and read them. In some sense it was like she was saving me. Dragging me toward life on the margins. For now, I feel as though in a lot of ways, am part of the problem and I see no legitimate way out right now. This is because I have forgotten how to view the world. I’ve only ever known how in small bursts. I expected her to live for as long as I needed her to so that someone would be there to guide me.
I had a dream about her before she died. I was driving my car and something was wrong with the gas tank. No matter how much gas I put into the car, it would always be three gallons from empty. I was pulled over by the police and they asked me why I hadn’t fixed the car. I explained that I was a graduate student and I couldn’t afford a major car repair. I was arrested because in the dream, being poor was a federal crime. I was sentenced to what I will call “diet crucifixion.” I’m calling it that because it wasn’t brutal like the crucifixion of the Roman Empire. I wasn’t nailed to anything. Instead, a pink cross was made from PVC pipe and erected in the parking lot of a used car dealership. I was secured to it with ropes and left in the sun to die of dehydration. At first dawn on the second day, Mary cut me off the cross. I was so grateful that I tried to hug her. To make her hold me like a mother would. She became annoyed and pushed me away. I became stoic and seemingly in response to my stoicism, because she knew I felt alone and afraid, she smirked, tossed me a very crispy and cold red delicious apple and said as if to correct my need to be embraced, “I’ve come to keep you company, my dear.” And I understood. The point wasn’t to be cut off the cross to be embraced or loved or even comforted. The point was that I was down and I had nourishment and in that, I had the ability to walk away. Mary was gone, but I walked off the dealership lot.
I’m glad I typed that somewhere, so that I can reference it later. It is important for me to remember that dream as often as I can because it is the only way I have to remember her work in my core instead of just in my brain. She would refer to it as “lusty leaping,” which is something at which I am not yet particularly talented. The less I pity myself, I’ve noticed, the better at it I get.
And further, the more I realize that I need to write. Even if only a few people read it. Even if no one reads it. This is what I am able to do.
I had a dream about her before she died. I was driving my car and something was wrong with the gas tank. No matter how much gas I put into the car, it would always be three gallons from empty. I was pulled over by the police and they asked me why I hadn’t fixed the car. I explained that I was a graduate student and I couldn’t afford a major car repair. I was arrested because in the dream, being poor was a federal crime. I was sentenced to what I will call “diet crucifixion.” I’m calling it that because it wasn’t brutal like the crucifixion of the Roman Empire. I wasn’t nailed to anything. Instead, a pink cross was made from PVC pipe and erected in the parking lot of a used car dealership. I was secured to it with ropes and left in the sun to die of dehydration. At first dawn on the second day, Mary cut me off the cross. I was so grateful that I tried to hug her. To make her hold me like a mother would. She became annoyed and pushed me away. I became stoic and seemingly in response to my stoicism, because she knew I felt alone and afraid, she smirked, tossed me a very crispy and cold red delicious apple and said as if to correct my need to be embraced, “I’ve come to keep you company, my dear.” And I understood. The point wasn’t to be cut off the cross to be embraced or loved or even comforted. The point was that I was down and I had nourishment and in that, I had the ability to walk away. Mary was gone, but I walked off the dealership lot.
I’m glad I typed that somewhere, so that I can reference it later. It is important for me to remember that dream as often as I can because it is the only way I have to remember her work in my core instead of just in my brain. She would refer to it as “lusty leaping,” which is something at which I am not yet particularly talented. The less I pity myself, I’ve noticed, the better at it I get.
And further, the more I realize that I need to write. Even if only a few people read it. Even if no one reads it. This is what I am able to do.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
a normal column, this time
Inspired by my recent move...
Three's a Charm: A Tribute
I spend a lot of my writing-life creating works of fiction. Probably eighty-five percent of what I produce is fiction and prose that never really goes anywhere but onto a computer. I’m okay with this because it’s a release for me. Because its purpose is for me to deal with my every day life. If you’ve ever met me, you’d know that I’m stubbornly unemotional. I have emotions. After all, I’m not made of wood. I simply choose not to let my demeanor reflect what they are most of the time. I digest my world by writing about it. As I’m sure you’re aware (since you’re reading this), I spend the other fifteen percent of my writing-life doing columns of one kind or another. Advice. Opinion. What have you. And again, in these situations, I use the medium to examine and call into question aspects of humanity that anger or amuse me. Or I use it to express amazement at every day life. At least, I hope this is what I’m doing.
I noticed something about myself as a writer that I don’t like very much. I just finished going through every column and nearly every work of fiction that I’ve produced in the past few years and it seems as though I do my best and most poignant work when I’m angry, afraid or sad. I thought about why that might be and the part of me that wants to justify things to myself did exactly that by thinking that when life is really, really great, it’s easier to digest. Then another part of my brain started to question my justification. Any artistic expression is in essence a tribute to something, isn’t it? A painter makes a painting and it is a visual tribute to the subject of the painting. Likewise, a writer writes and it is a written tribute to the subject of the writing, isn’t it? And along those lines of logic, I have to stop and ask myself why I so often pay tribute to my own anger and sadness and so infrequently to my happiness? Is that messed up or what? I’ve decided that in this column and in a rare-ish outpouring of emotion, I’m going to tell you my favorite story about my favorite moment so far.
I peaked as a four-year-old. This is something I tell people all the time and it makes me sound very self deprecating. Until, of course, I tell the story about why. Picture it. Strongsville, Ohio 1987. I’ve spent a four-year-old’s eternity begging for siblings and then finally, one day, my parents sit me down and tell me that I’m about to be somebody’s big sister. And then I spend what seems like another eternity watching my mother’s belly grow, talking to it, reading it Dr. Seuss books and telling it about my day. Imagine my unabashed toddler enthusiasm when I find out that she’s not just going to give me one sibling, but two!
After this, there is a lot more waiting. The babies are getting really big and my poor mom is barely able to move any more. The babies are using her ribcage as a jungle gym. They move around and her body moves with them. I tell them every day that I love them and I can’t wait for them to meet me. I tell them that I’m going to protect them and teach them everything I can and play with them. And then finally, the time comes.
I am at home with a house full of relatives, waiting for my parents to come home and waiting for the babies. I already know that she had them and they exist in the world and that she and they are okay. I’m told that I have two sisters and I’m in love before I even meet them.
So imagine my absolute horror when my mom and dad and brand new, tiny, perfect, beautiful sisters arrive and no one will let me near them! My mother sits in an arm chair with one baby in each arm and a roomful of aunts and a couple of grandmothers are oohing and ahhing over the new babies. I can barely see them and I start to cry. People assume that I’m jealous of all of the attention they are getting and they pat my head. They brush me aside and hand me toys to try to distract me but this only makes me furious. My mom sees me crying and she tells me to sit down on the love seat. She puts one pillow in each of my arms and says to one of my aunts, “Give her those babies, please.”
The room erupts into protest. “She’ll hurt them!” “What if she drops them!” “Are you insane??” My mom, without raising her voice a single decibel, but this time through slightly gritted teeth (she’s famous for making her point this way) says again, “I want you to give her those babies. Now, please.” If you’ve met my mother, you know it’s a dicey sort of game to argue with her. Especially if she’s asking you a second time to do something that she has already asked you to do, only this time through slightly gritted teeth. And especially when she has just had twins.
So my aunt did what my mother asked her to do. She put one baby in my right arm and one in my left and my four year old self, with legs dangling over the side of the loveseat, met her two best friends. “These are your sisters, Amanda,” my mom said to me. I looked at them, awestruck. Totally relieved and completely happy. One looked up at me like I was some strange bug and the other drooled profusely, eyes wide as little moons. And even at four-years-old I knew that not everyone had something like this. Not everyone gets to have even one best friend, let alone two. And certainly not everyone gets to have two, phenomenal sisters who love them and who they love.
We’re all in our twenties now. One is about to finish law school and baffles me with her ability to navigate the world with grace and ease. The other designs gorgeous flower arrangements, has a degree in biochemistry and is fantastic at taking even the worst situations and making them not only okay, but also hilarious and fun. A day does not go by in which we do not make each other laugh, or support each other’s endeavors or call each other out on our ridiculousness. And at twenty-eight, I know that not everyone gets to have this. I don’t just feel lucky because it goes beyond luck. I feel charmed. Like some magical force in the universe coordinated our being born into the same family. People laugh at me because they don’t get along with their siblings. They think I’m nuts. I say there are worse reasons to be called nuts.
So now you all know something that makes me happy. Not to mention, you’ve read a very unlike-me outpouring of emotion. Let it never be said, readers, that I forgot to pay tribute to my happiness.
Three's a Charm: A Tribute
I spend a lot of my writing-life creating works of fiction. Probably eighty-five percent of what I produce is fiction and prose that never really goes anywhere but onto a computer. I’m okay with this because it’s a release for me. Because its purpose is for me to deal with my every day life. If you’ve ever met me, you’d know that I’m stubbornly unemotional. I have emotions. After all, I’m not made of wood. I simply choose not to let my demeanor reflect what they are most of the time. I digest my world by writing about it. As I’m sure you’re aware (since you’re reading this), I spend the other fifteen percent of my writing-life doing columns of one kind or another. Advice. Opinion. What have you. And again, in these situations, I use the medium to examine and call into question aspects of humanity that anger or amuse me. Or I use it to express amazement at every day life. At least, I hope this is what I’m doing.
I noticed something about myself as a writer that I don’t like very much. I just finished going through every column and nearly every work of fiction that I’ve produced in the past few years and it seems as though I do my best and most poignant work when I’m angry, afraid or sad. I thought about why that might be and the part of me that wants to justify things to myself did exactly that by thinking that when life is really, really great, it’s easier to digest. Then another part of my brain started to question my justification. Any artistic expression is in essence a tribute to something, isn’t it? A painter makes a painting and it is a visual tribute to the subject of the painting. Likewise, a writer writes and it is a written tribute to the subject of the writing, isn’t it? And along those lines of logic, I have to stop and ask myself why I so often pay tribute to my own anger and sadness and so infrequently to my happiness? Is that messed up or what? I’ve decided that in this column and in a rare-ish outpouring of emotion, I’m going to tell you my favorite story about my favorite moment so far.
I peaked as a four-year-old. This is something I tell people all the time and it makes me sound very self deprecating. Until, of course, I tell the story about why. Picture it. Strongsville, Ohio 1987. I’ve spent a four-year-old’s eternity begging for siblings and then finally, one day, my parents sit me down and tell me that I’m about to be somebody’s big sister. And then I spend what seems like another eternity watching my mother’s belly grow, talking to it, reading it Dr. Seuss books and telling it about my day. Imagine my unabashed toddler enthusiasm when I find out that she’s not just going to give me one sibling, but two!
After this, there is a lot more waiting. The babies are getting really big and my poor mom is barely able to move any more. The babies are using her ribcage as a jungle gym. They move around and her body moves with them. I tell them every day that I love them and I can’t wait for them to meet me. I tell them that I’m going to protect them and teach them everything I can and play with them. And then finally, the time comes.
I am at home with a house full of relatives, waiting for my parents to come home and waiting for the babies. I already know that she had them and they exist in the world and that she and they are okay. I’m told that I have two sisters and I’m in love before I even meet them.
So imagine my absolute horror when my mom and dad and brand new, tiny, perfect, beautiful sisters arrive and no one will let me near them! My mother sits in an arm chair with one baby in each arm and a roomful of aunts and a couple of grandmothers are oohing and ahhing over the new babies. I can barely see them and I start to cry. People assume that I’m jealous of all of the attention they are getting and they pat my head. They brush me aside and hand me toys to try to distract me but this only makes me furious. My mom sees me crying and she tells me to sit down on the love seat. She puts one pillow in each of my arms and says to one of my aunts, “Give her those babies, please.”
The room erupts into protest. “She’ll hurt them!” “What if she drops them!” “Are you insane??” My mom, without raising her voice a single decibel, but this time through slightly gritted teeth (she’s famous for making her point this way) says again, “I want you to give her those babies. Now, please.” If you’ve met my mother, you know it’s a dicey sort of game to argue with her. Especially if she’s asking you a second time to do something that she has already asked you to do, only this time through slightly gritted teeth. And especially when she has just had twins.
So my aunt did what my mother asked her to do. She put one baby in my right arm and one in my left and my four year old self, with legs dangling over the side of the loveseat, met her two best friends. “These are your sisters, Amanda,” my mom said to me. I looked at them, awestruck. Totally relieved and completely happy. One looked up at me like I was some strange bug and the other drooled profusely, eyes wide as little moons. And even at four-years-old I knew that not everyone had something like this. Not everyone gets to have even one best friend, let alone two. And certainly not everyone gets to have two, phenomenal sisters who love them and who they love.
We’re all in our twenties now. One is about to finish law school and baffles me with her ability to navigate the world with grace and ease. The other designs gorgeous flower arrangements, has a degree in biochemistry and is fantastic at taking even the worst situations and making them not only okay, but also hilarious and fun. A day does not go by in which we do not make each other laugh, or support each other’s endeavors or call each other out on our ridiculousness. And at twenty-eight, I know that not everyone gets to have this. I don’t just feel lucky because it goes beyond luck. I feel charmed. Like some magical force in the universe coordinated our being born into the same family. People laugh at me because they don’t get along with their siblings. They think I’m nuts. I say there are worse reasons to be called nuts.
So now you all know something that makes me happy. Not to mention, you’ve read a very unlike-me outpouring of emotion. Let it never be said, readers, that I forgot to pay tribute to my happiness.
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