IBSEN
I just finished reading Ibsen's "A Doll's House" last weekend and I so thoroughly enjoyed it that I waited a whole week before reading anything else. I wanted to savor the flavor and not contaminate its awesomeness with anything new. She reconciles herself to this horrible thing she's done, but absolutely believes in "the wonderful moment" when her husband will redeem her and evidence her sacrifice has been worth it. And he FAILS. There's no caterwalling, back and forth, breast beating. She's all just "oh. you do suck as much as I feared. taa taa!" and BAM! out into the night she goes. This woman who has been coddled her entire life basically walks off a plank rather than spend ONE MORE HOUR with this guy who so completely failed her. See what I mean? Awesome.
ROUND PEG, SQUARE HOLE
That character is an example of someone who makes clear decisions which, as I learned last week in an online personality test, is a trait that I highly regard and seek out in my management team. (note to online test: duh.) I am completely tolerant and at ease with non-decisive people. Some of my best friends are wishy-washy. When it comes to management style, however, I am a shinkasen so if you're going to demand I pull into the station for directions you'd better be ready to deliver. We bullet trains operate best with a heavy burden and as few stops as possible.
GUSH
As I write this I can hear the "guh-NISH" of an air-powered nail gun operated by My Beloved as he builds a step stool for our dog. Her back end doesn't work so great, but her favorite place in the world (besides on my hip) is on our bed. But, b/c of the bad legs, she can't jump up that high anymore so he's making her a step stool. Those Hollywood types don't have a clue about marriage. After 13 yrs, that boy still lights up my life as brilliantly as on the first day he kissed me.
I am gooey with gratitude.
Sep 28, 2009
Sep 22, 2009
Slowly Saying Goodbye
This morning my co-worker's father died. He had been ill with ALS for over a year and his health rapidly deteriorated over the last month. My colleague had moved back home to help his mom care for his dad. You can sympathize with his feelings of frustration, sadness, and, today, relief at the final letting go.
Our dog is getting nearer to her time to go, too. She's 13 yo, and they have been love-filled, furry years, indeed. We have some trips planned next year and I catch myself planning for her incarceration at my MILs but then...wait, will the dog still be with us in the spring? Will we make it through these winter holidays with her? My thoughts run along this vein for a little while before I pull myself up short and just appreciate her while she's still around. But, between you and me, I growing increasingly afraid of how much it's going to hurt. To be honest, I think that fear of the pain constitutes a large part of my anxiety around her death. There's no preparing for it, and I'm not ungrateful for it. I'll gladly take my medicine like every other doof who has fallen head over heels for her four-legged partner. But I've not much experience with such a loss and the unknown of its scope is unnerving.
Our dog is getting nearer to her time to go, too. She's 13 yo, and they have been love-filled, furry years, indeed. We have some trips planned next year and I catch myself planning for her incarceration at my MILs but then...wait, will the dog still be with us in the spring? Will we make it through these winter holidays with her? My thoughts run along this vein for a little while before I pull myself up short and just appreciate her while she's still around. But, between you and me, I growing increasingly afraid of how much it's going to hurt. To be honest, I think that fear of the pain constitutes a large part of my anxiety around her death. There's no preparing for it, and I'm not ungrateful for it. I'll gladly take my medicine like every other doof who has fallen head over heels for her four-legged partner. But I've not much experience with such a loss and the unknown of its scope is unnerving.
Sep 21, 2009
You Remind Me of Someone
When I was 10-ish, I can remember going to Hershey Park with some friends and family and standing in a long line for the flume ride. It was a hot, hot day and we were melting in line, breathless for our chance to get soaked. I was sitting on the railing - it was a permanent iron railing that corralled you into a serpentine queue - and just talking to my friends and watching the other ride-goers, when I felt a hand stroke my hair. It was a touch like a friend who wanted to play with your hair, to twist it into plaits. It was such a friendly touch that I vividly recall turning around to smile at the friend who I didn't realize was standing behind me in line. However, it wasn't a friend standing behind me in line; it was a total stranger. It was a woman, about a Young Mom's age, with this look of horror and embarrassment on her face. She stammered that she thought I was someone else and giggled nervously to her companions. I didn't think it odd at the time (nor, really, do I now): I have generic brown hair and while sitting on a railing it would've been hard to judge my true height. I could have been anyone, any age. Yet it is significant because it is my earliest memory of the Doppleganger Effect.
To my knowledge, none of my acquaintances ever mistake someone else for me. I am always mistaken for someone else. People smile broadly at me in the grocery store or wave at me on the golf course, until they step closer and realize their mistake. It's a little crushing, really, to be so warmly greeted and then, upon closer inspection, to be the source of so much social awkwardness. As I get older, however, this becomes an event of some hilarity: I have such poor name-recall that often I rely on the other party to make the distinction as to whether I am a stranger to him/her or I am just unable to recall our association.
To my knowledge, none of my acquaintances ever mistake someone else for me. I am always mistaken for someone else. People smile broadly at me in the grocery store or wave at me on the golf course, until they step closer and realize their mistake. It's a little crushing, really, to be so warmly greeted and then, upon closer inspection, to be the source of so much social awkwardness. As I get older, however, this becomes an event of some hilarity: I have such poor name-recall that often I rely on the other party to make the distinction as to whether I am a stranger to him/her or I am just unable to recall our association.
Sep 20, 2009
"Third Base!"
COLLEGE: The Warping Years
This weekend, I took my college sophomore cousin and her roommate out to dinner to celebrate their return to school. The first few minutes are always a little awkward for me as I try to switch mental gears to college-age appropriate conversation. College, for me, was a nightmare. I can't relate at all to their easy-going humor about their unknown circumstances (will I get work-study? can I study abroad?). My college memories are more about failing class and getting into heated exchanges with the registrar's office.
Nothing has changed for me in the intervening years. I spent all day on the phone on Friday trying to find out how to notify the university that I would *not* be talking classes this fall. It was truly a "who's on first?" experience.
Me: My graduate advisor and his administrative assistant have been non-responsive to my emails. What is the process?
Random University Lackey: Well, miss, your advisor needs to submit the form.
Me: As I've said, my advisor is pretty worthless. Would it be possible to submit the form myself?
RUL: Of course, you just need to get the form.
Me: Great! Where can I get the form.
RUL: From your graduate advisor.
Me: ....right, see? That's sort of the problem, isn't it?
You'd think that as a Communications major that I would be learning how to avoid these kinds of mind-blowing exchanges. And yet, you'd be wrong.
'TIS THE SEASON
I spent the afternoon today frolicking on the back nine with my mother. It was a gorgeous afternoon- a gift for Fall. We enjoyed looking at the first blush of color coming into the leaves of the trees. My mother is a pretty amazing golfer. And -what I envy even more- utterly unflappable, no matter how many cars honk the middle of her backstroke or how many beer-guzzlin' locals are queued up behind us. She's putting that d*mn ball into the cup. Don't give her any of this "that's close enough" business. She is not satisfied until she hears that resounding plastic-on-plastic sound of achievement. I think it's a cross between her value-driven ethic ("I paid $9 for golfing and I'm getting $9 worth of golfing!") and her perfectionism. Regardless, I love it. At first it makes me tense to keep others waiting, but, eventually, I just relax and relish this quality that is so Mom. She's a hoot :)
This weekend, I took my college sophomore cousin and her roommate out to dinner to celebrate their return to school. The first few minutes are always a little awkward for me as I try to switch mental gears to college-age appropriate conversation. College, for me, was a nightmare. I can't relate at all to their easy-going humor about their unknown circumstances (will I get work-study? can I study abroad?). My college memories are more about failing class and getting into heated exchanges with the registrar's office.
Nothing has changed for me in the intervening years. I spent all day on the phone on Friday trying to find out how to notify the university that I would *not* be talking classes this fall. It was truly a "who's on first?" experience.
Me: My graduate advisor and his administrative assistant have been non-responsive to my emails. What is the process?
Random University Lackey: Well, miss, your advisor needs to submit the form.
Me: As I've said, my advisor is pretty worthless. Would it be possible to submit the form myself?
RUL: Of course, you just need to get the form.
Me: Great! Where can I get the form.
RUL: From your graduate advisor.
Me: ....right, see? That's sort of the problem, isn't it?
You'd think that as a Communications major that I would be learning how to avoid these kinds of mind-blowing exchanges. And yet, you'd be wrong.
'TIS THE SEASON
I spent the afternoon today frolicking on the back nine with my mother. It was a gorgeous afternoon- a gift for Fall. We enjoyed looking at the first blush of color coming into the leaves of the trees. My mother is a pretty amazing golfer. And -what I envy even more- utterly unflappable, no matter how many cars honk the middle of her backstroke or how many beer-guzzlin' locals are queued up behind us. She's putting that d*mn ball into the cup. Don't give her any of this "that's close enough" business. She is not satisfied until she hears that resounding plastic-on-plastic sound of achievement. I think it's a cross between her value-driven ethic ("I paid $9 for golfing and I'm getting $9 worth of golfing!") and her perfectionism. Regardless, I love it. At first it makes me tense to keep others waiting, but, eventually, I just relax and relish this quality that is so Mom. She's a hoot :)
Sep 15, 2009
Anesthesia
When going through a tough spot, there are any number of ways I anesthetize myself against [X where X = horrible boss, distracted spouse, financial woes, etc.]. For the past few years, my favorite heroin has been of the Mr. Darcy and Edward Cullen variety. I escape to a romantic, impossible place. My Beloved gave me the complete Jane Austen series which I ripped through several times over last winter. This fall, the crack-du-jour is the Twilight series.
After the reading the first book, all I could think was: this girl needs an editor! But tossing literary value aside, I found true enjoyment in connecting with the teen-angst of the protagonist. And quiet, humiliating shame in recognizing my 12yo neighbor and I were on the same page. Literally.
Beer, too, has been a good friend in these troubled times. Ironically, so has exercise. (You wouldn't think those two things would mix but, hey, you've been wrong before, right?) And fantasizing/planning my trip next spring to Spain, too, has been a welcome distraction - although not as, ahem, appealing, as Edward Cullen. *sigh*
Unfortunately, Real Work has not provided the respite from reality that my psyche needs right now. I'm referring to the volunteer work and the searching for a new job kind of Real Work. Of late, I've been really frustrated with my inertia on these two fronts but I've decided to be patient and just enjoy the oblivion. When I'm ready, I'll take action.
For now, pass me another Blue Moon and dim the lights. Mr. Darcy is about to declaim me as "Too generous to trifle..."
After the reading the first book, all I could think was: this girl needs an editor! But tossing literary value aside, I found true enjoyment in connecting with the teen-angst of the protagonist. And quiet, humiliating shame in recognizing my 12yo neighbor and I were on the same page. Literally.
Beer, too, has been a good friend in these troubled times. Ironically, so has exercise. (You wouldn't think those two things would mix but, hey, you've been wrong before, right?) And fantasizing/planning my trip next spring to Spain, too, has been a welcome distraction - although not as, ahem, appealing, as Edward Cullen. *sigh*
Unfortunately, Real Work has not provided the respite from reality that my psyche needs right now. I'm referring to the volunteer work and the searching for a new job kind of Real Work. Of late, I've been really frustrated with my inertia on these two fronts but I've decided to be patient and just enjoy the oblivion. When I'm ready, I'll take action.
For now, pass me another Blue Moon and dim the lights. Mr. Darcy is about to declaim me as "Too generous to trifle..."
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