You died just before noon on Wednesday morning. From the time I woke up that morning I was almost doubled-over in pain. It didn't make sense, but all of my insides hurt. My neck and back had been hurting me for days, and I'd been battling a strange headache (something with which I have little experience). On Wednesday my guts started to hurt so much that I worried I might have appendicitis.
On Thursday nothing hurt anymore. My body knew it was your time even though my mind refused to admit it. I guess pain is the logical result of a serious disconnect between mind and body.
When I got the unmistakable midday phone call, I thought to myself, "You're better. You're better. You're better. He's calling because you suddenly got better," and my esophagus grew tight like someone was inflating a balloon inside of it (kind of like it feels now).
I left the office right away, throwing things around so quickly and carelessly that I squashed a fly in one of my folders (which I found the next day).
I cried as I walked to the bus stop. Cars let me cross in places they don't normally and people kept their distance from me. A little boy, I'd guess he was about 4, stood staring at my intently. His mother kept trying to redirect his attention, but he kept looking at me, and finally she gave up. I thought about what I would say if he asked me why I was crying. Nothing seemed right, and I finally settled on "someone I love went to heaven."
I worried a lot about saying something that would scare him or make him sad. I worried that seeing a stranger cry on the bus might scare him or make him sad. I worry about children so much. I worry too much.
As I drew closer to my stop, I pushed more and more of my sadness inside until finally I wasn't crying anymore, except for the occasional rogue tear which I quickly wiped and denied. I imagine a great body of water building inside of me from all the tears I'm not crying and, like a dammed lake or river, sometimes a little leaks out to relieve all of the pressure.
I haven't let myself have a big cry - a red-faced, on-my-knees-cry, yet. I'm always afraid of hurting other people with my sadness. Listening to Elliott Smith, I think of the line, "I'll fake it through the day" (and never mind the next line about Johnny Walker Red, I'm too tired to drink).
I know I'll grieve in my own time in my own way. I know it's still too soon.
Today is the anniversary of Cliff's death. I can tell I'm in defensive mode because every year on the anniversary of Cliff's death I cry, and I haven't cried for Cliff today. That will come in due time too.
This morning when I woke up, I thought about you teaching Cliff to dance. I imagined you wearing a white shirt and black pants, and Cliff wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt and a bandanna. You were both smiling and laughing. You were both so spry. I imagined Cliff saying "You're the woman" and you replying "don't I know it," as you danced together. And I laughed and felt happy for a little while. As the day went on, I thought of that image again and again and it brought me some happiness and some relief.
I want you to know that you filled an empty place in my heart. I know your family is experiencing unimaginable pain right now because they love you so much, and even though I have the utmost sympathy for them, I keep returning to thoughts of how lucky they were to have had you in their lives, and how lucky I am to have had you in mine.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Lost Souls
I am so upset to hear of Heath Ledger's death.
I suppose I have a secret expectations from the celebrity world - that they will always provide entertainment without reality. That they will always provide diversions from my reality.
About a week ago Brad Renfro died. I was shocked. I know he'd slipped into the oblivion of most American minds (if people even knew him at all), but I'd never forgotten him, nor the first time I saw him in The Client. He was the ultimate heart-throb material - a southern bad-boy and anti-hero. Even as he aged and he acted very little, and when he did act he took really risky roles again and again (I have to shut my eyes for many scenes in Bully), I still cared about him as a human, and when I heard he had trouble I always hoped he'd get better.
So when he died, after so many months or years of silence, it felt like all my hope had been in vain. I thought again and again that he couldn't die, it would be far too James Dean for the real world. I don't know him. It seems silly. But I was sad that such a talent, albeit a troubled talent, had died so young. More than that, I was sad because I had cared about him, whether I knew him personally or not. He'd had an impact on my life.
And now Heath Ledger. It seems ridiculous. I don't know Heath Ledger. I know nothing of his character or even of his person, and yet I'm crying. I'm crying because the movies, and all of the celebrity diversions help me to forget my troubles sometimes. That's the point of movies and the entertainment industry. Sometimes movies are about troubles of one kind or another, and make you think, and hurt you, but they always pull you away from your own life and into someone else's.
And now I am sitting here thinking of how much pain Heath Ledger must have felt. How sad he must have been, and it reminds me that I have my own sadness, and that other people - all other people- have their own sadness - even the ones who are meant to keep us from ours.
I sat here hoping and hoping that someone somewhere was wrong. I read the story of his death like a novel, thinking that it might have a happy ending even though I knew it didn't. When I read that his housekeeper tried to revive him, I rooted for her to bring him back, all the while knowing he was already gone.
I sit here writing this knowing that someone I love and cherish is not going to be with me much longer, and I can't help but realize that the way I'm feeling over the death of a stranger is a reflection of the fear and pain I haven't let myself feel for her. Heath Ledger won't let me ignore the pain anymore. So I sit crying tears for Heath Ledger, that are hidden tears for someone else. Someone I'm not yet ready to cry for.
I suppose I have a secret expectations from the celebrity world - that they will always provide entertainment without reality. That they will always provide diversions from my reality.
About a week ago Brad Renfro died. I was shocked. I know he'd slipped into the oblivion of most American minds (if people even knew him at all), but I'd never forgotten him, nor the first time I saw him in The Client. He was the ultimate heart-throb material - a southern bad-boy and anti-hero. Even as he aged and he acted very little, and when he did act he took really risky roles again and again (I have to shut my eyes for many scenes in Bully), I still cared about him as a human, and when I heard he had trouble I always hoped he'd get better.
So when he died, after so many months or years of silence, it felt like all my hope had been in vain. I thought again and again that he couldn't die, it would be far too James Dean for the real world. I don't know him. It seems silly. But I was sad that such a talent, albeit a troubled talent, had died so young. More than that, I was sad because I had cared about him, whether I knew him personally or not. He'd had an impact on my life.
And now Heath Ledger. It seems ridiculous. I don't know Heath Ledger. I know nothing of his character or even of his person, and yet I'm crying. I'm crying because the movies, and all of the celebrity diversions help me to forget my troubles sometimes. That's the point of movies and the entertainment industry. Sometimes movies are about troubles of one kind or another, and make you think, and hurt you, but they always pull you away from your own life and into someone else's.
And now I am sitting here thinking of how much pain Heath Ledger must have felt. How sad he must have been, and it reminds me that I have my own sadness, and that other people - all other people- have their own sadness - even the ones who are meant to keep us from ours.
I sat here hoping and hoping that someone somewhere was wrong. I read the story of his death like a novel, thinking that it might have a happy ending even though I knew it didn't. When I read that his housekeeper tried to revive him, I rooted for her to bring him back, all the while knowing he was already gone.
I sit here writing this knowing that someone I love and cherish is not going to be with me much longer, and I can't help but realize that the way I'm feeling over the death of a stranger is a reflection of the fear and pain I haven't let myself feel for her. Heath Ledger won't let me ignore the pain anymore. So I sit crying tears for Heath Ledger, that are hidden tears for someone else. Someone I'm not yet ready to cry for.
Monday, January 21, 2008
On Dogs and Chewing Gum
They are, as it turns out, a bad combination.
Last night, while watching some crappy Sunday night programming, my roommate, let's call her "Rachel," got up from the sofa to get something out of her bedroom.
To provide a little back story, Rachel's chihuahua has been spending some decent amount of time confined in her bedroom as of late because the dog has become, how shall I say, "testy" (to put it politely, and so as not to be offensive to sensitive ears) in the past 6 months. Why the bedroom? Why the confinement? Let's just say, to quote one of my favorite Steve Martin movies, "to prevent [her] from hurting [herself], and others."
Shortly after Rachel left the sofa I heard her growl the words "YOU LITTLE SHIT."
Keeping in mind the back story, I was not taken aback as these are words I hear often.
"Carter!*" (Rachel's significant other) "Did you have gum in your bag?"
"What?!"
At this point I became curious enough to motivate myself off of the sofa and into Rachel's bedroom. I imagined entering the bedroom to find the dog with so much bubble gum in her mouth that she could barely close her jaws. I imagined her blowing incidental bubbles from the struggle, but refusing to relinquish the gum when commanded to do so.
Instead, there in the midst of Rachel's spotless white carpet, sat the shreds of what had once been a new pack of Orbit peppermint gum. The gum itself was nowhere to be found, and only the remains of a few paper gum wrappers lay strewn about on the floor. The package and the tinfoil seal appeared to be in tact, save for some serious gnawing. The chihuahua, Costello*, sat stoically atop Rachel's pristine white down comforter with her body facing us, but looking out of the adjacent window. She would not make eye contact.
I glared at the dog, "you're an idiot."
Carter entered the room behind me. "My bag was closed!" Costello had opened a closed Timbuk2 messenger bag, found the gum, and then opened the seal before eating every single piece of gum in the package.
Rachel picked up the remains of the chewing gum package, aghast. As she turned the gnawed remains over and over in her hands, I lost interest and went back into the living room.
A few minutes later Rachel stormed out of her bedroom, once again holding the gum package, and said "Do you think this is bad for her?!"
"Check the internet."
A few minutes after that Carter shuffled into my bedroom and asked for the telephone number of the emergency vet I had taken my dog to a few months back (when she decided that a cigarette butt she found on the sidewalk looked like a tasty treat**).
Apparently, sugar-free gum contains a sugar alcohol called Xylitol. Not only was the vet concerned about liver and kidney damage because Costello had ingested so much of it, but she was worried about her going into hypoglycemic shock (from my understanding, the gum had essentially made her a temporary diabetic).
The Wikipedia entry on Xylitol states:
Carter and Rachel hauled Costello off to the emergency vet at 11pm last night. Once there, Costello received epomorphine, an iv, and had her glucose levels and liver enzymes monitored for the whole night. Before they went though, Animal Poison Control told them to feed her a spoonful of vanilla ice cream (soy cream in this case), and a slice of bread -- the ice cream was to give her glucose and the bread was to absorb the Xylitol, thereby slowing her body's absorption of it too. Costello probably thought she'd hit the mother load until she realized she was going to the vet.
Costello returned bright and early this morning, largely unscathed except for the place where the vet shaved her leg to insert the IV.
As Rachel prepared to take Carter to the airport this morning, she asked if I would watch Costello (I have MLK jr. day off). I hesitated. Costello and I have a colorful past that includes, but is not limited to: urinating on beds, urinating on carpets, biting, urinating on clothing, urinating in closets, biting, pooping in front of a policeman, dropping, kicking, biting, squealing, screaming, biting, bruising, and bleeding - but I'm not going to say who did what or anything.
"Fine."
So far Costello has stayed curled in her bed, being absolutely lethargic and unresponsive to anything I say to her. I tried to give her a treat and she growled and tried to bite me (but lazily, so she didn't get anywhere near my hand). I'm glad she is back to her good-old self.
*The names have been changed to protect the innocent and stupid.
** Bear in mind both of our dogs weigh 7 lbs, respectively, so little bits of bad things can be toxic to them - ridiculous as it sounds.
(I have no idea why the leading is messed up after the Wiki entry, but I'll keep trying to fix it.)
Last night, while watching some crappy Sunday night programming, my roommate, let's call her "Rachel," got up from the sofa to get something out of her bedroom.
To provide a little back story, Rachel's chihuahua has been spending some decent amount of time confined in her bedroom as of late because the dog has become, how shall I say, "testy" (to put it politely, and so as not to be offensive to sensitive ears) in the past 6 months. Why the bedroom? Why the confinement? Let's just say, to quote one of my favorite Steve Martin movies, "to prevent [her] from hurting [herself], and others."
Shortly after Rachel left the sofa I heard her growl the words "YOU LITTLE SHIT."
Keeping in mind the back story, I was not taken aback as these are words I hear often.
"Carter!*" (Rachel's significant other) "Did you have gum in your bag?"
"What?!"
At this point I became curious enough to motivate myself off of the sofa and into Rachel's bedroom. I imagined entering the bedroom to find the dog with so much bubble gum in her mouth that she could barely close her jaws. I imagined her blowing incidental bubbles from the struggle, but refusing to relinquish the gum when commanded to do so.
Instead, there in the midst of Rachel's spotless white carpet, sat the shreds of what had once been a new pack of Orbit peppermint gum. The gum itself was nowhere to be found, and only the remains of a few paper gum wrappers lay strewn about on the floor. The package and the tinfoil seal appeared to be in tact, save for some serious gnawing. The chihuahua, Costello*, sat stoically atop Rachel's pristine white down comforter with her body facing us, but looking out of the adjacent window. She would not make eye contact.
I glared at the dog, "you're an idiot."
Carter entered the room behind me. "My bag was closed!" Costello had opened a closed Timbuk2 messenger bag, found the gum, and then opened the seal before eating every single piece of gum in the package.
Rachel picked up the remains of the chewing gum package, aghast. As she turned the gnawed remains over and over in her hands, I lost interest and went back into the living room.
A few minutes later Rachel stormed out of her bedroom, once again holding the gum package, and said "Do you think this is bad for her?!"
"Check the internet."
A few minutes after that Carter shuffled into my bedroom and asked for the telephone number of the emergency vet I had taken my dog to a few months back (when she decided that a cigarette butt she found on the sidewalk looked like a tasty treat**).
Apparently, sugar-free gum contains a sugar alcohol called Xylitol. Not only was the vet concerned about liver and kidney damage because Costello had ingested so much of it, but she was worried about her going into hypoglycemic shock (from my understanding, the gum had essentially made her a temporary diabetic).
The Wikipedia entry on Xylitol states:
Xylitol, like most sugar alcohols, can have a laxative effect, because sugar alcohols are not fully broken down during digestion. It has no known toxicity, and people have consumed as much as 400 grams daily for long periods with no apparent ill effects.
Dogs ingesting foods containing high doses of xylitol (greater than 100mg xylitol consumed per kg bodyweight) have presented with low blood sugar (hypoglycemia) which can be life-threatening. Low blood sugar can manifest as loss of coordination, depression, collapse and seizures as soon as 30 minutes after ingestion. Intake of very high doses of xylitol (greater than 500 - 1000 mg/kg bwt) has also been implicated in liver failure in 8 dogs, which can be fatal.
One reported death occurred in a standard poodle who ate five or six cookies sweetened with xylitol.
Dogs that have eaten products containing high levels of xylitol might need immediate medical attention even if they are not yet showing illness. Sick dogs (vomiting, weak, seizuring, etc) are likely to need aggressive veterinary treatment and close monitoring of blood values.
Carter and Rachel hauled Costello off to the emergency vet at 11pm last night. Once there, Costello received epomorphine, an iv, and had her glucose levels and liver enzymes monitored for the whole night. Before they went though, Animal Poison Control told them to feed her a spoonful of vanilla ice cream (soy cream in this case), and a slice of bread -- the ice cream was to give her glucose and the bread was to absorb the Xylitol, thereby slowing her body's absorption of it too. Costello probably thought she'd hit the mother load until she realized she was going to the vet.
Costello returned bright and early this morning, largely unscathed except for the place where the vet shaved her leg to insert the IV.
As Rachel prepared to take Carter to the airport this morning, she asked if I would watch Costello (I have MLK jr. day off). I hesitated. Costello and I have a colorful past that includes, but is not limited to: urinating on beds, urinating on carpets, biting, urinating on clothing, urinating in closets, biting, pooping in front of a policeman, dropping, kicking, biting, squealing, screaming, biting, bruising, and bleeding - but I'm not going to say who did what or anything.
"Fine."
So far Costello has stayed curled in her bed, being absolutely lethargic and unresponsive to anything I say to her. I tried to give her a treat and she growled and tried to bite me (but lazily, so she didn't get anywhere near my hand). I'm glad she is back to her good-old self.
*The names have been changed to protect the innocent and stupid.
** Bear in mind both of our dogs weigh 7 lbs, respectively, so little bits of bad things can be toxic to them - ridiculous as it sounds.
(I have no idea why the leading is messed up after the Wiki entry, but I'll keep trying to fix it.)
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Love Forever, Love is Free*
For the past few months, I've come to appreciate the "community" of regulars who grace my presence on my daily trek to work. The most interesting people, by far, are the people who wait for their bus at the stop where I wait to transfer to my second bus.
Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).
At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.
One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).
When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.
As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.
She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.
This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.
I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.
But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.
She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.
I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."
But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.
More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.
But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.
Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.
And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).
*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz
**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.
*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.
Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).
At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.
One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).
When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.
As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.
She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.
This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.
I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.
But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.
She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.
I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."
But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.
More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.
But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.
Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.
And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).
*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz
**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.
*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Poor me...Pour me a drink.
Last night, after a very random series of events, I happened to meet a recovering alcoholic who is 35 years sober (I'll call her "Sarah" for simplicty's sake).
I used to think that it was unfair that a person was labeled an alcoholic for life even if they only drank heavily or abused alcohol for a year (or a few years, in this woman's case), but now I see that it's not a matter of fairness; the lifelong label "alcoholic" is a matter of honesty and an abandonment of wishful thinking. If you were ever an alcoholic, you still are; the only difference is that recovering alcoholics are alcoholics without booze. Add booze to the mix and it becomes abundantly clear why they still wear that badge.
One of my friends asked Sarah "Do you ever miss it? Is it hard?"
"You know," she said, "no, it isn't. Every once in awhile I walk into a restaurant and think to myself, 'Boy, it would be nice to have a glass of wine with my meal like everyone else.' But I never had a glass of wine, I had 10."
That's when she said, "I lived by the motto: Poor me...Pour me a drink." And it dawned on me that every alcoholic I know lives by the same motto. Sarah recited, verbatim, some of the things my very own friends have said to me, when she told me the excuses she used to make - most notoriously "if you had my life, you'd drink too." She was the first person to remind me that she had money, two beautiful children, and a loving husband and family.
Sarah believes she has a disease. She believes that she inherited the genes for alcoholism from some of her numerous alcoholic relatives. She said "My husband used to say to me, 'Why are you doing this?' That's not how it works. You wouldn't ask a cancer patient why they have cancer."
This is where we disagree. Yes, alcoholism is a disease, but not like cancer. Most cancer patients have absolutely no choice in their disease (the exception would be people who develop cancer after making repeated bad lifestyle choices - smoking, drinking - but even then, genetics play a role). Alcoholics, on the other hand, know - and I don't care what anyone says - they know, at some point or another that they have a drinking problem - that the alcohol controls them and they depend on the alcohol. Most alcoholics realize this long (years and years) before they get help. It is unfair and deceptive to lump alcoholics and cancer patients together.
Let me put it this way, if a cancer patient took a pill everyday, and the doctors said "this pill you are taking is causing your cancer. If you stopped taking this pill, you'd get better," then you bet your ass people would ask cancer patients "why are you doing this?" too.
A couple of weeks ago I went into the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine. As I was checking out, I noticed the man behind me setting a bottle of cheap bourbon on the counter- plastic, gallon-size, bottom-of-the-barrel, couldn't have cost more than $11. He had the shakes. His face was bloated and his skin was pocked, wrinkled, and scarred. His nose was bulbous and red. He wore dirty khaki pants and a red plaid shirt. He looked 70, but I'd guess he was probably closer to 50. He had a look of pain on his face as he pushed his bottle to the cashier. She smiled at him nonchalantly as she read his total and bagged his bottle.
I thought to myself "how can you live with yourself?" and I wasn't thinking about the man, I was thinking about the cashier.
It's illegal for doctors to give an obvious drug addict pills, so why is it legal for a clerk in a liquor store to sell an alcoholic booze? I know there are obvious answers here, but if you think about it, it's really not that different. A doctor would refuse to prescribe medication based on the patient's behavior and demeanor - I guess he could run a tox screen, but I doubt that happens in these situations. Doctors make a judgement call based on experience. Why is it that supplying an addict with their drug of choice is illegal in most situations, but commonplace in others?
I'm not condemning that clerk, or any clerk, nor am I condemning the tens of thousands of bartenders who knowingly and unknowingly pour drinks for alcoholics each year. I am pointing out that we live in a society riddled with not only addiction, but hypocrisy.
I know prohibition is a bad idea. I know prohibition will never work. But come on, the U.S. is so tough on drugs based on this notion that they are bad for the people who take them, and bad for the people who are affected by the people who take them. What about alcohol?
Throughout my years, and the comings and goings of various friends of mine, I have always known people who were touched by alcoholism, whether personally or in their immediate family. I've also known numerous people related to, or affected by other types of drug abuse (my freshman year of college the girl who lived across the hall from me dropped out after developing a heroin addiction).
That number would be exponentially larger if I counted non-nuclear family members and friends. The times when we've talked about it, the conversations were almost always preceeded by tears and painful memories or recountings of interactions with their drunk loved one. Alcoholics cause the people around them infinite pain. They harm and harden good and loving people. They ruin the lives of their families and friends. And they don't care.
Most alcoholics will insist that they do care, but alcoholics are constant liars. Sarah repeated the old adage, "How can you tell if an alcohlic is lying? Her lips are moving." And that's the truth. She admitted, and who knows how long it took her to admit this, that when she was drinking she didn't care about anything. She didn't care about her husband or her children. She admitted she didn't care about her children. I imagine that's the case for most alcoholics. Many arguments end with the impassioned cry "You wouldn't do this if you cared about me!" to the addict. Make some minor modifications and that statement becomes the question and the answer: You do this, and you don't care about me.
Once you come to this realization, dealing with the addict becomes easier, but not any less hard (and I realize this statement is a contradiction, but if you've had any experience with an addict, you know what I mean).
I asked Sarah how she finally decided to seek help, and she told me that her sister came to visit (her family lived across the country) right after she (Sarah) had been prescribed valium for her "nerves" (she used air quotes when she recounted this). Later that day, after Sarah drank some vodka (she doesn't know how much) and took a valium, her sister found her in a coma. Sarah said that she wasn't trying to kill herself, but at that point she really didn't care if she died.
After that, her sister told her parents and her husband and they all got together to try to help her. When she was faced with losing her children, she finally pulled herself together enough to go to rehab. She explained that it wasn't so much the thought of losing her kids that motivated her, but the thought of what people would say about her if she lost her kids. I guess when love isn't enough, societal judgement is.
Not too long ago, I was riding in the car with someone (I don't remember who) who said "I don't think I could be friends with someone who uses cocaine." I laughed immediately and said "You are friends with people who use cocaine, and you don't know it." She eyed me suspiciously.
"No, not me."
"Who?"
"I don't know, but I guarentee you know at least one person who uses cocaine either recreationally or abusively. You probably know lots of them."
The same is true with alcoholics, except multiply that number by 10. Or more realistically, 50.
I know this sounds dire, but this will never get better until people start recognizing the reality of the situation. If you see someone with a problem, don't ignore it. Say something. Say something to that person, or their parents, or their friends, or their spouse. Admitting there is a problem really is the first step.
I think about how different Sarah's life could have been if her sister had visited a year or two earlier. She might not have cerosis. She might not have osteoporosis. She might not have lost her marriage of 8 years (and her relationship with her husband of 16 years). I'm glad she told me her story, and in honor of her courage and her efforts to right those wrongs she committed so many years ago, but still haunt her, I promise that I will not keep quiet any longer.
I used to think that it was unfair that a person was labeled an alcoholic for life even if they only drank heavily or abused alcohol for a year (or a few years, in this woman's case), but now I see that it's not a matter of fairness; the lifelong label "alcoholic" is a matter of honesty and an abandonment of wishful thinking. If you were ever an alcoholic, you still are; the only difference is that recovering alcoholics are alcoholics without booze. Add booze to the mix and it becomes abundantly clear why they still wear that badge.
One of my friends asked Sarah "Do you ever miss it? Is it hard?"
"You know," she said, "no, it isn't. Every once in awhile I walk into a restaurant and think to myself, 'Boy, it would be nice to have a glass of wine with my meal like everyone else.' But I never had a glass of wine, I had 10."
That's when she said, "I lived by the motto: Poor me...Pour me a drink." And it dawned on me that every alcoholic I know lives by the same motto. Sarah recited, verbatim, some of the things my very own friends have said to me, when she told me the excuses she used to make - most notoriously "if you had my life, you'd drink too." She was the first person to remind me that she had money, two beautiful children, and a loving husband and family.
Sarah believes she has a disease. She believes that she inherited the genes for alcoholism from some of her numerous alcoholic relatives. She said "My husband used to say to me, 'Why are you doing this?' That's not how it works. You wouldn't ask a cancer patient why they have cancer."
This is where we disagree. Yes, alcoholism is a disease, but not like cancer. Most cancer patients have absolutely no choice in their disease (the exception would be people who develop cancer after making repeated bad lifestyle choices - smoking, drinking - but even then, genetics play a role). Alcoholics, on the other hand, know - and I don't care what anyone says - they know, at some point or another that they have a drinking problem - that the alcohol controls them and they depend on the alcohol. Most alcoholics realize this long (years and years) before they get help. It is unfair and deceptive to lump alcoholics and cancer patients together.
Let me put it this way, if a cancer patient took a pill everyday, and the doctors said "this pill you are taking is causing your cancer. If you stopped taking this pill, you'd get better," then you bet your ass people would ask cancer patients "why are you doing this?" too.
A couple of weeks ago I went into the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine. As I was checking out, I noticed the man behind me setting a bottle of cheap bourbon on the counter- plastic, gallon-size, bottom-of-the-barrel, couldn't have cost more than $11. He had the shakes. His face was bloated and his skin was pocked, wrinkled, and scarred. His nose was bulbous and red. He wore dirty khaki pants and a red plaid shirt. He looked 70, but I'd guess he was probably closer to 50. He had a look of pain on his face as he pushed his bottle to the cashier. She smiled at him nonchalantly as she read his total and bagged his bottle.
I thought to myself "how can you live with yourself?" and I wasn't thinking about the man, I was thinking about the cashier.
It's illegal for doctors to give an obvious drug addict pills, so why is it legal for a clerk in a liquor store to sell an alcoholic booze? I know there are obvious answers here, but if you think about it, it's really not that different. A doctor would refuse to prescribe medication based on the patient's behavior and demeanor - I guess he could run a tox screen, but I doubt that happens in these situations. Doctors make a judgement call based on experience. Why is it that supplying an addict with their drug of choice is illegal in most situations, but commonplace in others?
I'm not condemning that clerk, or any clerk, nor am I condemning the tens of thousands of bartenders who knowingly and unknowingly pour drinks for alcoholics each year. I am pointing out that we live in a society riddled with not only addiction, but hypocrisy.
I know prohibition is a bad idea. I know prohibition will never work. But come on, the U.S. is so tough on drugs based on this notion that they are bad for the people who take them, and bad for the people who are affected by the people who take them. What about alcohol?
Throughout my years, and the comings and goings of various friends of mine, I have always known people who were touched by alcoholism, whether personally or in their immediate family. I've also known numerous people related to, or affected by other types of drug abuse (my freshman year of college the girl who lived across the hall from me dropped out after developing a heroin addiction).
That number would be exponentially larger if I counted non-nuclear family members and friends. The times when we've talked about it, the conversations were almost always preceeded by tears and painful memories or recountings of interactions with their drunk loved one. Alcoholics cause the people around them infinite pain. They harm and harden good and loving people. They ruin the lives of their families and friends. And they don't care.
Most alcoholics will insist that they do care, but alcoholics are constant liars. Sarah repeated the old adage, "How can you tell if an alcohlic is lying? Her lips are moving." And that's the truth. She admitted, and who knows how long it took her to admit this, that when she was drinking she didn't care about anything. She didn't care about her husband or her children. She admitted she didn't care about her children. I imagine that's the case for most alcoholics. Many arguments end with the impassioned cry "You wouldn't do this if you cared about me!" to the addict. Make some minor modifications and that statement becomes the question and the answer: You do this, and you don't care about me.
Once you come to this realization, dealing with the addict becomes easier, but not any less hard (and I realize this statement is a contradiction, but if you've had any experience with an addict, you know what I mean).
I asked Sarah how she finally decided to seek help, and she told me that her sister came to visit (her family lived across the country) right after she (Sarah) had been prescribed valium for her "nerves" (she used air quotes when she recounted this). Later that day, after Sarah drank some vodka (she doesn't know how much) and took a valium, her sister found her in a coma. Sarah said that she wasn't trying to kill herself, but at that point she really didn't care if she died.
After that, her sister told her parents and her husband and they all got together to try to help her. When she was faced with losing her children, she finally pulled herself together enough to go to rehab. She explained that it wasn't so much the thought of losing her kids that motivated her, but the thought of what people would say about her if she lost her kids. I guess when love isn't enough, societal judgement is.
Not too long ago, I was riding in the car with someone (I don't remember who) who said "I don't think I could be friends with someone who uses cocaine." I laughed immediately and said "You are friends with people who use cocaine, and you don't know it." She eyed me suspiciously.
"No, not me."
"Who?"
"I don't know, but I guarentee you know at least one person who uses cocaine either recreationally or abusively. You probably know lots of them."
The same is true with alcoholics, except multiply that number by 10. Or more realistically, 50.
I know this sounds dire, but this will never get better until people start recognizing the reality of the situation. If you see someone with a problem, don't ignore it. Say something. Say something to that person, or their parents, or their friends, or their spouse. Admitting there is a problem really is the first step.
I think about how different Sarah's life could have been if her sister had visited a year or two earlier. She might not have cerosis. She might not have osteoporosis. She might not have lost her marriage of 8 years (and her relationship with her husband of 16 years). I'm glad she told me her story, and in honor of her courage and her efforts to right those wrongs she committed so many years ago, but still haunt her, I promise that I will not keep quiet any longer.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Things That Make Me Happy
1) The sound my dog makes when she eats cereal I've dropped on the floor
2) My first sip of green tea when it's a little too hot, but not too hot to drink.
3) Waking up in the middle of the night and being COLD. I'm always hot when I sleep, so being cold when I sleep is the greatest.
4) Cherry vanilla soy cream (especially the chunks of cherry).
5) Riding my bicycle on any summer day, and especially any summer night.
6) Being thirsty and remembering that I carry my Nalgene everywhere with me.
7) Walking through Schenley Park late at night (and especially going to my secret place in the park).
8) Going to the outdoor movies in Schenley during the summer (even crappy movies are great when you're lying on a picnic blanket and eating a Scooter Crunch).
9) When the police chopper flies overhead during the movies and the lights startle everyone and you catch a glimpse of faces that are otherwise invisible in the darkness
10) Being surprised with dinner when I get home frome work
11) Being reminded that my old friends still think about me
12) Great Lake Swimmers
13) Peepers (they're really summer frogs, but I call them peepers).
14) The tradition of making homemade sangria every summer, and then having an excuse to invite my close friends over to share it with me (usually for several weekends in a row).
15) The homamade apple cider tradition that we started this year.
16) Dicsovering that allspice comes from a berry! (courtesy of the cider recipe)
17) Hearing my Grandaddy's voice
18) Remembering the way my grandpa laughed when he watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
19) Getting enough sleep
20) Picnics - even if they're only with canned tuna and pieces of cheese.
21) Swinging on the swingset at Anderson playground
22) Getting at least 8 hours of sleep
23) Running a good 3 miles and having the energy to run more
24) Christmas lights (especially those on the Ronald McDonald houses).
25) Laying on a blanket on the beach and falling asleep in the sun.
26) Forcing my fellow vacationers to turn off the central air in the beach house and taking it back old school by opening up all of the windows and turning on all of the ceiling fans.
27) Salad with homemade ginger dressing
28) Salad with Greek dressing (especially from Ali Baba and Aladdin's)
29) Any fresh salad!
30) To be continued (refer to #19).
2) My first sip of green tea when it's a little too hot, but not too hot to drink.
3) Waking up in the middle of the night and being COLD. I'm always hot when I sleep, so being cold when I sleep is the greatest.
4) Cherry vanilla soy cream (especially the chunks of cherry).
5) Riding my bicycle on any summer day, and especially any summer night.
6) Being thirsty and remembering that I carry my Nalgene everywhere with me.
7) Walking through Schenley Park late at night (and especially going to my secret place in the park).
8) Going to the outdoor movies in Schenley during the summer (even crappy movies are great when you're lying on a picnic blanket and eating a Scooter Crunch).
9) When the police chopper flies overhead during the movies and the lights startle everyone and you catch a glimpse of faces that are otherwise invisible in the darkness
10) Being surprised with dinner when I get home frome work
11) Being reminded that my old friends still think about me
12) Great Lake Swimmers
13) Peepers (they're really summer frogs, but I call them peepers).
14) The tradition of making homemade sangria every summer, and then having an excuse to invite my close friends over to share it with me (usually for several weekends in a row).
15) The homamade apple cider tradition that we started this year.
16) Dicsovering that allspice comes from a berry! (courtesy of the cider recipe)
17) Hearing my Grandaddy's voice
18) Remembering the way my grandpa laughed when he watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
19) Getting enough sleep
20) Picnics - even if they're only with canned tuna and pieces of cheese.
21) Swinging on the swingset at Anderson playground
22) Getting at least 8 hours of sleep
23) Running a good 3 miles and having the energy to run more
24) Christmas lights (especially those on the Ronald McDonald houses).
25) Laying on a blanket on the beach and falling asleep in the sun.
26) Forcing my fellow vacationers to turn off the central air in the beach house and taking it back old school by opening up all of the windows and turning on all of the ceiling fans.
27) Salad with homemade ginger dressing
28) Salad with Greek dressing (especially from Ali Baba and Aladdin's)
29) Any fresh salad!
30) To be continued (refer to #19).
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
List of Pet Peeves/Annoyances
About nine months ago, I started a list of things that annoy me, while visiting family with my Dad. I only added five things to the list, but a few weeks ago I guess you could say I was in the "annoyance zone" because they came quickly, like channel 11 news anchors to a fire. Any fire. The results were surprising, and more poetic than I would have anticipated. Here goes nothing:
Pet Peeves/Annoyances
* - If you are in absolute shock right now, read my blog "Public Service Announcement"
**-It may sound like I'm being defensive, and maybe I am, but I have these friends who moved from this boho city, to another boho city, and think it's fantastic simply because it's different - (and I bet this happens everywhere). Baltimore kills me - Oh you moved to a formerly industrial city, trying to forge a new image, with a famous hospital, a surprisingly vibrant arts community, and a football team that sometimes struggles, and sometimes kicks ass? CRAZY. Next thing you know you're gonna tell me that it has an ivy-caliber university (that isn't an ivy) and some amazing aquarium, or zoo!
-In another vein, I've encountered people who can't seem to consider themselves successful as human beings unless they have lived in, or near, New York City. I feel sorry for them. I think you appreciate New York the most when you want to be there, not when you are afraid to be somewhere else.
Pet Peeves/Annoyances
1) Sassy speed limit signs i.e. those in Montgomery Village. (At the time, I drew a picture of the signs in my notebook - the Arabic numerals look as though they were written by a carefree, self-assured architect signing a check. They are like italics, but only if "italics" could drink apple-tinis and then criticize your outfit.
2) Saying "heidgth" or "heigth" instead of "height"
3) Houses with brick front and vinyl siding - who are you fooling? (And no, this isn't a result of snobbery. Houses with all vinyl or wooden siding look fine, it's the literal facade of brick that kills me.)
4) When people say "foward" instead of "forward"
5) The way my dad says "wah wah wah" like a baby, when I'm complaining about something.
6)Super passive-aggressive conversations that culminate with the phrase "can you repeat the question?"
7)Eudora
8) Trying to do anything logical or practical in Excel. Not gonna happen.
9) "Lil" - in any place, or any context; at any time, and before, or after, any word or phrase.
10)People who whole-heartedly (and often passionately) believe that freedom of speech only applies to thing they like to hear, want to hear, or agree with.
11)People who think "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth is "Son of a Bitch," by AC/DC.*
12) People who assume Pittsburgh can't possibly be cool because they grew up there/nearby.
13) People who assume that people who stay in Pittsburgh do so out of some short-coming, failure, or fear - and not out of choice.**
14) Getting an earache from sitting in a smokey bar too long.
15) The (proposed?) smoking ban. It's a slippery slope. If the government is truly concerned about the harmful effects of smoking, they ought to ban cigarettes. Until that day comes, I'd encourage you to wonder who is lobbying for these freedom-reducing measures (and they are, crazy as that sounds), and wonder if isn't some powerhouse health care provider, interested in decreasing the amount they have to spend on health care coverage for smokers...
16) Non-profits that turned half of one billion dollars in profit last year.
17) Take a minute to think about that.
18) People who walk on the dunes and wonder why their $8 million cottage washed away in "hurricane nickelback" last year.
19) People who walk on the dunes (period).
20) Nickelback.
21) That bald ADA who made a snide comment about my job when I was summoned as a juror in a murder case.
22) Getting a 76 cent travel stipend added onto my $9 jury pay, when the city government knows very well that it costs $1.75 to ride the bus to the courthouse, and $1.75 to ride the bus home from the courthouse (and at least - and I am being so generous here - $5 to if you decide to drive, and then park downtown).
23) Having a chat with a guy who likely shot someone in the face, so he can assess my character.
24) Realizing I don't actually believe people are innocent until proven guilty.
25) Knowing people assume what my political affiliations are, based on some of my favorite books (1, 2, 3, label me!).
26) Having my political affiliation changed on my voter registration because some db begged me to sign a phony petition because I was his "last signature" and if I signed he could "go home."
27) That smug girl who said I should have known better.
28) Knowing I should have known better.
29) Anyone who has ever stolen anything from their mother.
30) Cutting my fingers when I'm eating whole crabs and then getting old bay seasoning in the little cuts.
31) Cold wind blowing up my skirt.
32) Pantyhose. Ugh.
33) Second-hand smoke in my hair. (And see, I still don't support the smoking ban!)
34) Young politicians with major responsibilities that fell into their lap, who seriously abuse their new-found power. But I'm not mentioning any names or anything.
35) Julia Roberts
36) The fact that Julia Roberts named her twins Phinnaeus and Hazel
37) The fact that I know that.
38) Dave Grohl
39) Ergo, the Foo Fighters
40) Also, the bass player from the Goo Goo Dolls
41) People who make both Cs soft in words that start with a double C - ie "a-sess-ory" instead of "ack-sess-ory."
42) Colbie Caillat. What kind of self-respecting adult uses the phrases "silly place," "crinkle my nose," and "bubbly face," in a song that isn't written for children?
43) The fact that, in June, I called DPW, my state representative, and the mayor's 311 help line, about a SINK HOLE in front of my house. And today, December 11th, a guy from a sewerage company came to my house and told me he was trying to establish the cause of said sink hole, and could I please flush some dye down my toilet (and remember to flush twice).
44) People who don't use their turn signals
45) People who honestly believe that using their turn signals will "give away [their] next move." (I'm talking to you, paternal nuclear family member who shall remain nameless.)
46) People who complain too much
47) When my dog headbutts me in the shnoz.
-More to come someday, I'm sure.
2) Saying "heidgth" or "heigth" instead of "height"
3) Houses with brick front and vinyl siding - who are you fooling? (And no, this isn't a result of snobbery. Houses with all vinyl or wooden siding look fine, it's the literal facade of brick that kills me.)
4) When people say "foward" instead of "forward"
5) The way my dad says "wah wah wah" like a baby, when I'm complaining about something.
6)Super passive-aggressive conversations that culminate with the phrase "can you repeat the question?"
7)Eudora
8) Trying to do anything logical or practical in Excel. Not gonna happen.
9) "Lil" - in any place, or any context; at any time, and before, or after, any word or phrase.
10)People who whole-heartedly (and often passionately) believe that freedom of speech only applies to thing they like to hear, want to hear, or agree with.
11)People who think "Hair of the Dog," by Nazareth is "Son of a Bitch," by AC/DC.*
12) People who assume Pittsburgh can't possibly be cool because they grew up there/nearby.
13) People who assume that people who stay in Pittsburgh do so out of some short-coming, failure, or fear - and not out of choice.**
14) Getting an earache from sitting in a smokey bar too long.
15) The (proposed?) smoking ban. It's a slippery slope. If the government is truly concerned about the harmful effects of smoking, they ought to ban cigarettes. Until that day comes, I'd encourage you to wonder who is lobbying for these freedom-reducing measures (and they are, crazy as that sounds), and wonder if isn't some powerhouse health care provider, interested in decreasing the amount they have to spend on health care coverage for smokers...
16) Non-profits that turned half of one billion dollars in profit last year.
17) Take a minute to think about that.
18) People who walk on the dunes and wonder why their $8 million cottage washed away in "hurricane nickelback" last year.
19) People who walk on the dunes (period).
20) Nickelback.
21) That bald ADA who made a snide comment about my job when I was summoned as a juror in a murder case.
22) Getting a 76 cent travel stipend added onto my $9 jury pay, when the city government knows very well that it costs $1.75 to ride the bus to the courthouse, and $1.75 to ride the bus home from the courthouse (and at least - and I am being so generous here - $5 to if you decide to drive, and then park downtown).
23) Having a chat with a guy who likely shot someone in the face, so he can assess my character.
24) Realizing I don't actually believe people are innocent until proven guilty.
25) Knowing people assume what my political affiliations are, based on some of my favorite books (1, 2, 3, label me!).
26) Having my political affiliation changed on my voter registration because some db begged me to sign a phony petition because I was his "last signature" and if I signed he could "go home."
27) That smug girl who said I should have known better.
28) Knowing I should have known better.
29) Anyone who has ever stolen anything from their mother.
30) Cutting my fingers when I'm eating whole crabs and then getting old bay seasoning in the little cuts.
31) Cold wind blowing up my skirt.
32) Pantyhose. Ugh.
33) Second-hand smoke in my hair. (And see, I still don't support the smoking ban!)
34) Young politicians with major responsibilities that fell into their lap, who seriously abuse their new-found power. But I'm not mentioning any names or anything.
35) Julia Roberts
36) The fact that Julia Roberts named her twins Phinnaeus and Hazel
37) The fact that I know that.
38) Dave Grohl
39) Ergo, the Foo Fighters
40) Also, the bass player from the Goo Goo Dolls
41) People who make both Cs soft in words that start with a double C - ie "a-sess-ory" instead of "ack-sess-ory."
42) Colbie Caillat. What kind of self-respecting adult uses the phrases "silly place," "crinkle my nose," and "bubbly face," in a song that isn't written for children?
43) The fact that, in June, I called DPW, my state representative, and the mayor's 311 help line, about a SINK HOLE in front of my house. And today, December 11th, a guy from a sewerage company came to my house and told me he was trying to establish the cause of said sink hole, and could I please flush some dye down my toilet (and remember to flush twice).
44) People who don't use their turn signals
45) People who honestly believe that using their turn signals will "give away [their] next move." (I'm talking to you, paternal nuclear family member who shall remain nameless.)
46) People who complain too much
47) When my dog headbutts me in the shnoz.
-More to come someday, I'm sure.
* - If you are in absolute shock right now, read my blog "Public Service Announcement"
**-It may sound like I'm being defensive, and maybe I am, but I have these friends who moved from this boho city, to another boho city, and think it's fantastic simply because it's different - (and I bet this happens everywhere). Baltimore kills me - Oh you moved to a formerly industrial city, trying to forge a new image, with a famous hospital, a surprisingly vibrant arts community, and a football team that sometimes struggles, and sometimes kicks ass? CRAZY. Next thing you know you're gonna tell me that it has an ivy-caliber university (that isn't an ivy) and some amazing aquarium, or zoo!
-In another vein, I've encountered people who can't seem to consider themselves successful as human beings unless they have lived in, or near, New York City. I feel sorry for them. I think you appreciate New York the most when you want to be there, not when you are afraid to be somewhere else.
Friday, December 7, 2007
I'm trying to be heroic in an age of modernity*
This morning, while waiting to transfer to my second morning bus during a gusty snowfall, my friend from Elderberry Junction (the woman in my very first blog post) sidled into the bus shelter next to me. I haven't seen her in awhile, so I smiled at her and she smiled at me, and we waited for our bus in the blustery cold, occasionally glancing at one another, or at the sun that was just beginning to peak over the horizon. When the bus finally came, I dutifully ensured that she boarded just in front of me, so that I could support her if she needed a hand.
I feel a responsibility for her such that, if she knew, I know she would be offended. Despite this, when she clutched the standing bar at the front of the bus, rather than taking a very close vacant seat I said, "Don't you want to sit down?"
She hesitantly stepped forward (with me one step behind her), and before she began her second step, her feet went out from under her. It happened quickly and slowly at the same time. It was fast enough that I was startled and frightened, but slow enough that I had a chance to think and brace myself (despite the fact that I was wearing knee-high stiletto boots**) so that I could catch her without falling over myself.
The floor was so wet that even though I caught her, and stopped her from further falling, her feet kept sliding, so both of us were inching closer and closer to being parallel with the (very wet and dirty) floor. Two girls in nearby seats immediately lunged forward to help, and one of them said "you're okay" a few times in the most reassuring, yet pitiless voice I've ever heard. She had the tone so many doctors strive for, but can never deliver.
As the three of us finally righted ourselves, I felt proud of humanity at large. I see people do so many disgusting and heartless things sometimes that I've really come to appreciate it when strangers go beyond simply being civil to one another.
As the woman finished her trek to her seat she mumbled "that's why I didn't want to sit down in the first place" and I felt guilty and responsible. I felt like she was saying it to me. It's equally possible that it was just something to say after experiencing something embarassing (I think of how many times I've tripped and mumbled "stupid shoes" just in case anyone was within earshot), but it's just as possible that it really was directed to me and she was mad that I coaxed her into sitting.
Oh well. Maybe next time she won't sit, but for this time, I'm happy I caught her.
* this is a lyric from Bloc Party's song "Song for Clay: Disappear Here"
** No, I'm not a prostitute.
I feel a responsibility for her such that, if she knew, I know she would be offended. Despite this, when she clutched the standing bar at the front of the bus, rather than taking a very close vacant seat I said, "Don't you want to sit down?"
She hesitantly stepped forward (with me one step behind her), and before she began her second step, her feet went out from under her. It happened quickly and slowly at the same time. It was fast enough that I was startled and frightened, but slow enough that I had a chance to think and brace myself (despite the fact that I was wearing knee-high stiletto boots**) so that I could catch her without falling over myself.
The floor was so wet that even though I caught her, and stopped her from further falling, her feet kept sliding, so both of us were inching closer and closer to being parallel with the (very wet and dirty) floor. Two girls in nearby seats immediately lunged forward to help, and one of them said "you're okay" a few times in the most reassuring, yet pitiless voice I've ever heard. She had the tone so many doctors strive for, but can never deliver.
As the three of us finally righted ourselves, I felt proud of humanity at large. I see people do so many disgusting and heartless things sometimes that I've really come to appreciate it when strangers go beyond simply being civil to one another.
As the woman finished her trek to her seat she mumbled "that's why I didn't want to sit down in the first place" and I felt guilty and responsible. I felt like she was saying it to me. It's equally possible that it was just something to say after experiencing something embarassing (I think of how many times I've tripped and mumbled "stupid shoes" just in case anyone was within earshot), but it's just as possible that it really was directed to me and she was mad that I coaxed her into sitting.
Oh well. Maybe next time she won't sit, but for this time, I'm happy I caught her.
* this is a lyric from Bloc Party's song "Song for Clay: Disappear Here"
** No, I'm not a prostitute.
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