I broke my golden rule of summer and looked at the news. Normally I stay away from it and instead watch Tremors two times in a row. Kevin Bacon, tight jeans, cowboy boots, always seems like a good idea to me.
Alas, I awoke early and did not turn on the TV, I did not want to wake Meredith. I am not in a book reading mood, as I am in the middle of three at the moment and could not pick one without feeling I am hurting the other two book's feelings. Yes I anthropamorphize my literature.
I picked up my tablet and immediately went to the news folder. Here is what I learned:
The Juggalos are a misunderstood group. Go ahead and google it, I had to.
Cam girls are asked to do some crazy ass shit, but they get paid for it.
Another idiot tried getting high trying to smoke his wife's ashes.
People apparently care what James Franco thinks about.
part two, people also care about what Justin Bieber and whats his face are fighting about.
NYPD killed another man, and I will see the Law and Order SVU version of it sometime in September.
A new site where teens can make each other even more miserable and insecure than they already are. Owner of site doesn't give a shit.
George Bush doesn't know much about his own father, which will not stop him from hiring a ghost writer to write a tell all.
Now, on to the more disturbing news, which on every site comes after the aforementioned "news"
No rest in the middle east
Ebola outbreak at an all time high and one infected woman is being flown to Atlanta for a treatment that does not exist. This I became fixated on.
Yes I am more likely to set my ex on fire (kidding) than I am to get ebola, that does not matter to a person who takes their book's feelings into consideration. I now go off the beaten path of news and begin to research all I can about ebola.
After I have thoroughly convinced myself that I have ebola and will surely be dead in a matter of minutes I take a deep breath, a xanax, and go back to the lighter side of news.
Cosmopolitan thinks Lesbians have sex like a bizarre cirque de solei act. We don't.
According to a quiz I am the iceberg in the movie Titanic.
Parental Awards Go To: the couple that hired a surrogate, who had twins, only take the healthy one and leave the one with downs syndrome in another country.
The mom who lit her husband on fire for molesting her daughter.
The mom teaching her three year old how to twerk.
The dad who left his children in the car while he went to work.
And the winner goes to an 80 year old woman who refuses to sell her house for a new development , sits on front porch with a shot gun, hey she is a Texan, what did they think would happen?
Today I will not think about ebola, I will not think about wars, I will not think about how a lake can mysteriously appear in the middle of the desert, nor will I send the link to that article to my mother in law in Arizona.
As I look up from where I am sitting at the head of my dining room table I see books instead of place mats. 501 French Verbs, some Dean Koontz book, an the Survival Guide to the Paranormal.
I am fairly certain I hear Kevin Bacon calling me.
As a nod to the news I wont be reading, and to Walter,"And that's the way it is."
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Take a Look, it's in a Book...
Generally I like to take an interest in the things my children are interested in. I will often read the same books. We used to have a rule that you could not see a movie made from a book unless you read the book first.
I believe this started as a result from my then twelve year old boy wanting to see A Clockwork Orange. I got him the book.
Today I am reading a young adult book where, two pages in, I am quite sure one or both of the main characters is going to die. Another teen cancer book. I think I have read at least three teen cancer books.
When I was a teen, in my free time I read about money, drugs, fabulously shallow people and anything else I could get my hands on.
I hid the book Wifey by Judy Bloom in my camp trunk one summer, and late at night I read aloud to my bunkmates as quietly as I could and we giggled at all the sex scenes as we were equally appalled, swearing we would never ever do such things. Gross me out, gag me with a spoon!
Times have changed and I could probably put Wifey to shame, and now older teens and horny women are reading about S&M.
Not me. Here I sit reading the pathos of first love and death all mixed into one well-written and sad book.
While reading I came across an interesting word not often used in my daily lingo.
Hamartia. The fatal flaw. How I love the Greeks for coming up with such a wonderful word. Usually it is seen in literature. Let's face it, how do you work "hamartia" in with, "God damnit, I swear not doing your own laundry is your hamartia!"
No, I think the Greeks had a deeper meaning for it.
I adore the idea that one person can be chock full of hamartias, that one man's hamartia is another man's saving grace.
This book also had a line I relate too, and kudos to the author for putting it in the mind of a teenager.
"The world contains a lot of dead people".
YES! I feel that all the time, every day, I am always saying I am keeper of the dead. I see dead people. The whole thing.
A few weeks ago I had a slight cancer scare. I had a biopsy on a Friday and on Monday morning I recieved a call saying I needed to go see the oncologist that afternoon. Oh, but not any oncologist, the same one my cancer-dead husband saw for five years. We lovingly called him Dr. Death.
I know how cancer works and the faster they want you in their office, the worse it is.
Here is the irony; I was half hoping I had it. I have been in such a pit of depression that the idea of cancer was a good thing. My husband had always called it a gift. I wanted that gift. I wanted to fight for life, rather than just let it be. I needed to see the reasons to live.
When I was declared cancer-free and just filled with some scar tissue, I was a bit let down. Back to my shell of depression I go. Back to the other kinds of doctors who shovel out pills that may or may not make me feel any better.
Is my hamartia that I am alwasy fixated on death? The feeling that I need to keep the dead alive in some way? For my children? For myself?
If that is the case then is writing my saving grace?
Could my hamartia also be my saving grace? The end result in wanting to live and daily looking for the reasons and positives, yet sometimes failing to see it all?
I will finish reading this young adult book and see who dies, who lives, and what the author makes of death and life.
And if nothing else I learned a killer word (no pun intended.)
I believe this started as a result from my then twelve year old boy wanting to see A Clockwork Orange. I got him the book.
Today I am reading a young adult book where, two pages in, I am quite sure one or both of the main characters is going to die. Another teen cancer book. I think I have read at least three teen cancer books.
When I was a teen, in my free time I read about money, drugs, fabulously shallow people and anything else I could get my hands on.
I hid the book Wifey by Judy Bloom in my camp trunk one summer, and late at night I read aloud to my bunkmates as quietly as I could and we giggled at all the sex scenes as we were equally appalled, swearing we would never ever do such things. Gross me out, gag me with a spoon!
Times have changed and I could probably put Wifey to shame, and now older teens and horny women are reading about S&M.
Not me. Here I sit reading the pathos of first love and death all mixed into one well-written and sad book.
While reading I came across an interesting word not often used in my daily lingo.
Hamartia. The fatal flaw. How I love the Greeks for coming up with such a wonderful word. Usually it is seen in literature. Let's face it, how do you work "hamartia" in with, "God damnit, I swear not doing your own laundry is your hamartia!"
No, I think the Greeks had a deeper meaning for it.
I adore the idea that one person can be chock full of hamartias, that one man's hamartia is another man's saving grace.
This book also had a line I relate too, and kudos to the author for putting it in the mind of a teenager.
"The world contains a lot of dead people".
YES! I feel that all the time, every day, I am always saying I am keeper of the dead. I see dead people. The whole thing.
A few weeks ago I had a slight cancer scare. I had a biopsy on a Friday and on Monday morning I recieved a call saying I needed to go see the oncologist that afternoon. Oh, but not any oncologist, the same one my cancer-dead husband saw for five years. We lovingly called him Dr. Death.
I know how cancer works and the faster they want you in their office, the worse it is.
Here is the irony; I was half hoping I had it. I have been in such a pit of depression that the idea of cancer was a good thing. My husband had always called it a gift. I wanted that gift. I wanted to fight for life, rather than just let it be. I needed to see the reasons to live.
When I was declared cancer-free and just filled with some scar tissue, I was a bit let down. Back to my shell of depression I go. Back to the other kinds of doctors who shovel out pills that may or may not make me feel any better.
Is my hamartia that I am alwasy fixated on death? The feeling that I need to keep the dead alive in some way? For my children? For myself?
If that is the case then is writing my saving grace?
Could my hamartia also be my saving grace? The end result in wanting to live and daily looking for the reasons and positives, yet sometimes failing to see it all?
I will finish reading this young adult book and see who dies, who lives, and what the author makes of death and life.
And if nothing else I learned a killer word (no pun intended.)
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Sit Where You Like
I did a very scary thing today. A thing that still holds taboo for many people. No, not sex, and frankly if sex is a taboo for you, then you need to do what I did today.
I saw a therapist.
This is not my first go-round with psychotherapy. It has however been a while since I sat in a chair, or on a sofa and talked about myself.
The last time I did my therapist fell asleep. Snoring and everything. Which would not have been so bad if it wasn't for the fact that I was talking about how my needs are never met.
Psychiatry is altogether different and I consider them as high paid drug dealers. In fact I refer to my psychiatrist as my dealer.
Today I met a doctor who will hopefully put the pieces of the puzzle together with me.
My first reaction upon meeting him was that he looked like the cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz, only younger and thinner.
I followed him up the staircase of yellow brick (metaphorically) to his office where I faced my first test. Where do I sit?
Standard non Freudian room, two comfortable chairs side by side (making it awkward to see him over the things on the coffee table should he choose the other chair).
"Sit where ever you like"
"HA!" I thought, I know this game, where I sit will say something deep and important about my psyche and it would be a phone call away from the flying monkeys.
I chose the sofa, giving him the chair across from me. I wanted that chair but I saw his cup next to it silently claiming that chair is his.
Had I passed my first test of where to sit? Was he taking notes? I can't recall.
Dr. Lion (as I will call him) is a very affable man. A quality one would want when handing over the oozing dark cobwebbed parts of your brain.
"So, tell me about yourself." Or maybe it was, "So, what brings you here today?" Either way that was how it began. I expected a lot of "And how does that make you feel?"
Happily that was not uttered once.
I began to ramble on, trying to be light hearted and ended up with a tissue box in my lap along the way. The yellow brick road is a tricky road to maneuver. You need to stop the inner dialogue of stupid things like "Does Dr. Lion realize I am looking to the left when he asks me questions? Because looking to the left means I am telling the truth."
My brain said "Shut up!"to the other frolicking of my mind, "is that a real fish" "Why are there toys downstairs?" My brain said be strong and look in control. Of course if I was in control I would not be on this sofa.
There was a time when my family went on vacation. A time when we were all still living the charade of being the perfect family, mother and father together, me and my two older brothers. We went on some boat that the guide would ominously tell us was haunted. Caretakers heard noises, things moved in the night, the usual ghost tour sort of thing.
One of my brothers was afraid. I was too young to grasp it all and the idea of seeing a ghost meant nothing to me. But it was all real for my brother. He cried, he did not want to go. I can not recall if he did go on the boat or not, but there is a picture of us, the happy family, with one sad boy who was crying.
Why did my parents want to immortalize that in a photo? Had my father been harsh with him and tell him to buck up, or whatever fathers said back then? Did my mother hold him close to her for comfort constantly whispering it is not real, it is just a story.
Or was he left alone to deal with his phantoms?
I have looked at that picture a lot. We make fun of it still today, and I still don't know if it stings him when we do. He takes it in good humor, but is it real humor?
I often wonder if the things I worry about are real. My phantoms that make me want to cling to my fathers leg, or have him scoop me up in his arms (Which I have no actual memory of him doing tho I am sure he did).
Dr, Lion wants me to breathe. I felt a little disheartened at this, I am always breathing. I have been a self help junkie since my teens, I have claimed my power though Betty Friedan,
"No woman gets an orgasm through shinning the kitchen floor."
I have had lunch with Tony Robbins.
"The path to success is to take massive, determined action" I always want to "OOH RAH" after that one.
NLP, EDMR, Hypnosis, meditation, masturbation (just threw that in to see if you were paying attention),yoga, chakra healing, labyrinth walking, opiates, Hellen Reddy I am Woman.
Name it, I've done it.
So why the stigma still on getting therapy? Didn't Woody Allen make it cool? Until he married his daughter of course.
Isn't this a society where everyone is on something to help them get through the day? We even drug our children.
One for him, one for me, and "Have a nice day dear!"
The hour was up and Dr. Lion had an infectious enthusiasm about our relationship.
Next appointment made, and back down the yellow brick road I went. I am guessing each time I will take a step or two more in the right direction down the road until Dr. Lion tells me I had it in me all along.
The drive home was beautiful, sun setting, a slight chill in the air and all I wanted to do was call my brother and tell him I am sorry I was too young to tell him he didn't have to go on the boat. He could stay on the yellow brick path with me.
I saw a therapist.
This is not my first go-round with psychotherapy. It has however been a while since I sat in a chair, or on a sofa and talked about myself.
The last time I did my therapist fell asleep. Snoring and everything. Which would not have been so bad if it wasn't for the fact that I was talking about how my needs are never met.
Psychiatry is altogether different and I consider them as high paid drug dealers. In fact I refer to my psychiatrist as my dealer.
Today I met a doctor who will hopefully put the pieces of the puzzle together with me.
My first reaction upon meeting him was that he looked like the cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz, only younger and thinner.
I followed him up the staircase of yellow brick (metaphorically) to his office where I faced my first test. Where do I sit?
Standard non Freudian room, two comfortable chairs side by side (making it awkward to see him over the things on the coffee table should he choose the other chair).
"Sit where ever you like"
"HA!" I thought, I know this game, where I sit will say something deep and important about my psyche and it would be a phone call away from the flying monkeys.
I chose the sofa, giving him the chair across from me. I wanted that chair but I saw his cup next to it silently claiming that chair is his.
Had I passed my first test of where to sit? Was he taking notes? I can't recall.
Dr. Lion (as I will call him) is a very affable man. A quality one would want when handing over the oozing dark cobwebbed parts of your brain.
"So, tell me about yourself." Or maybe it was, "So, what brings you here today?" Either way that was how it began. I expected a lot of "And how does that make you feel?"
Happily that was not uttered once.
I began to ramble on, trying to be light hearted and ended up with a tissue box in my lap along the way. The yellow brick road is a tricky road to maneuver. You need to stop the inner dialogue of stupid things like "Does Dr. Lion realize I am looking to the left when he asks me questions? Because looking to the left means I am telling the truth."
My brain said "Shut up!"to the other frolicking of my mind, "is that a real fish" "Why are there toys downstairs?" My brain said be strong and look in control. Of course if I was in control I would not be on this sofa.
There was a time when my family went on vacation. A time when we were all still living the charade of being the perfect family, mother and father together, me and my two older brothers. We went on some boat that the guide would ominously tell us was haunted. Caretakers heard noises, things moved in the night, the usual ghost tour sort of thing.
One of my brothers was afraid. I was too young to grasp it all and the idea of seeing a ghost meant nothing to me. But it was all real for my brother. He cried, he did not want to go. I can not recall if he did go on the boat or not, but there is a picture of us, the happy family, with one sad boy who was crying.
Why did my parents want to immortalize that in a photo? Had my father been harsh with him and tell him to buck up, or whatever fathers said back then? Did my mother hold him close to her for comfort constantly whispering it is not real, it is just a story.
Or was he left alone to deal with his phantoms?
I have looked at that picture a lot. We make fun of it still today, and I still don't know if it stings him when we do. He takes it in good humor, but is it real humor?
I often wonder if the things I worry about are real. My phantoms that make me want to cling to my fathers leg, or have him scoop me up in his arms (Which I have no actual memory of him doing tho I am sure he did).
Dr, Lion wants me to breathe. I felt a little disheartened at this, I am always breathing. I have been a self help junkie since my teens, I have claimed my power though Betty Friedan,
"No woman gets an orgasm through shinning the kitchen floor."
I have had lunch with Tony Robbins.
"The path to success is to take massive, determined action" I always want to "OOH RAH" after that one.
NLP, EDMR, Hypnosis, meditation, masturbation (just threw that in to see if you were paying attention),yoga, chakra healing, labyrinth walking, opiates, Hellen Reddy I am Woman.
Name it, I've done it.
So why the stigma still on getting therapy? Didn't Woody Allen make it cool? Until he married his daughter of course.
Isn't this a society where everyone is on something to help them get through the day? We even drug our children.
One for him, one for me, and "Have a nice day dear!"
The hour was up and Dr. Lion had an infectious enthusiasm about our relationship.
Next appointment made, and back down the yellow brick road I went. I am guessing each time I will take a step or two more in the right direction down the road until Dr. Lion tells me I had it in me all along.
The drive home was beautiful, sun setting, a slight chill in the air and all I wanted to do was call my brother and tell him I am sorry I was too young to tell him he didn't have to go on the boat. He could stay on the yellow brick path with me.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Got A Light Under That Bushel?
I am fairly certain I gave Jesus cancer. I am conflicted on if this was a good thing or a bad thing.
Where I live there are beggers on every street, seriously, every street. I see the same people day afer day. I know what their signs say, and their dogs names.
Some now have taken to the (now illegal) offer of a window washing while you wait at the red light. People here do not know to turn their wipers on as a sign of "No thank you." I am always amused and think of how many times I would come out of the Lincoln tunnel in the New York and that would be the first thing I would do.
Beggars, homeless, hobos, street people, street rats, pan handlers (in case I have some spare gold on me?), vagrants, bums, tramp, vagabond, deadbeat, and even mendicant. Call these people what you will but you know them. You switch lanes possibly to avoid them, you pray to God not for the persons suffering but for a green light so you do not have to be approached. You stare straight ahead hoping not to be noticed. Pretend to be on your smart phone and realize the absurdity of that.
Perhaps you are of another ilk, you always keep spare change, a can of water for a hot day, possibly an extra sandwhich, Yeah, I am not one of those people.
I am of the former. I hate to admit that. Almost every time I come to a red light I am in fear of being bothered in my moving caccoon of annonymity.
Once in a while a question pops into my head.
"What if that was Jesus?"
I am not what you would call a woman of faith. I was once, but that was a long time ago. I am in constant recovery.
So, what if that was Jesus standing there on the corner? Do I offer Him my Chanel bag or wallet? The wallet is worth more than what is in it, usually nothing, and could be sold.
Sometimes I think of Jesus talking to Judas and saying, "Surely youre not saying we have the resources to save all the poor from their lot."
Obviously I recall that these words came from Andrew Lloyd Webber and not the Holy Bible. But it does get me singing and thus all this thought has made me pass the time without guilt through the red light, the beggar soon forgotten.
Until today. Today I was at a particularly long light and I saw the homeless man up ahead making his ways to my car. He did not nod at any other car, he did not pause at any other car, not even the obvious ones that would have money. Instead he stopped at my 1999 green Civic with the dents and scratches.
The man was fairly tall, had dark skin, (which may have been dirt I can not say for sure.) He had on dark pants, I am not sure of his shirt or shoes, bur he wore a long dark overcoat, frayed and tattered. His hair was a little longer than shoulder length and he adorned a ccrocheted beanie cap.
He looked right at me and said, "There you are!"
I replied with a meek "Hi"
"Enthusiastically he said, "I have not seen you in a while!"
In my mind, "What if this is Jesus?" So I asked, "How are you?" A good start to posibly talking to the son of God.
His reply, "The Lord woke me up today, so I am great. And He woke you up too so you must be having a good day."
Totally confused, and thinking to two days earlier when I was looking at mental facilities to check myself into because I feel myself slipping away, I mumbled, "I have some change."
Jesus at the red light said, "I would appreciate anything, but it is just so good to see you again."
I gave him all the change I had, and then I said, "Want a smoke?"
He said he would love one, and doesnt get to smoke all that often. I quickly dug into my box of cigarettes and handed him a few.
"Thank you so much, and thank God for waking you up today too, you better go the cars will start honking at you." He laughed and I drove off.
"That was odd", I thought. I have lived in this town a long time and I even know the beggars that truly are just passing through, I can tell you without hesitation, I have never in my life seen this man before. Yet he insisted not once but twice that he has seen me before.
A beggars ploy? Possibly.
It was when I turned the corner that I realized today is Ash Wednesday and thus the begginning of Lent. A subject I have written about many times.
I sort of chuckled thinking that was is the punishment for giving Jesus cancer?
Did I quit smoking suddenly? No. Did I feel anything other than slightly amused that any God that may exist would show Himself to me as a beggar? No.
I wsa irritated that I did not think to take His picture. I look forward to tomorrow to driving that road I drive every day, twice a day to see if He is there again.
This is Austin, Keep Jesus Weird Y'all.
Where I live there are beggers on every street, seriously, every street. I see the same people day afer day. I know what their signs say, and their dogs names.
Some now have taken to the (now illegal) offer of a window washing while you wait at the red light. People here do not know to turn their wipers on as a sign of "No thank you." I am always amused and think of how many times I would come out of the Lincoln tunnel in the New York and that would be the first thing I would do.
Beggars, homeless, hobos, street people, street rats, pan handlers (in case I have some spare gold on me?), vagrants, bums, tramp, vagabond, deadbeat, and even mendicant. Call these people what you will but you know them. You switch lanes possibly to avoid them, you pray to God not for the persons suffering but for a green light so you do not have to be approached. You stare straight ahead hoping not to be noticed. Pretend to be on your smart phone and realize the absurdity of that.
Perhaps you are of another ilk, you always keep spare change, a can of water for a hot day, possibly an extra sandwhich, Yeah, I am not one of those people.
I am of the former. I hate to admit that. Almost every time I come to a red light I am in fear of being bothered in my moving caccoon of annonymity.
Once in a while a question pops into my head.
"What if that was Jesus?"
I am not what you would call a woman of faith. I was once, but that was a long time ago. I am in constant recovery.
So, what if that was Jesus standing there on the corner? Do I offer Him my Chanel bag or wallet? The wallet is worth more than what is in it, usually nothing, and could be sold.
Sometimes I think of Jesus talking to Judas and saying, "Surely youre not saying we have the resources to save all the poor from their lot."
Obviously I recall that these words came from Andrew Lloyd Webber and not the Holy Bible. But it does get me singing and thus all this thought has made me pass the time without guilt through the red light, the beggar soon forgotten.
Until today. Today I was at a particularly long light and I saw the homeless man up ahead making his ways to my car. He did not nod at any other car, he did not pause at any other car, not even the obvious ones that would have money. Instead he stopped at my 1999 green Civic with the dents and scratches.
The man was fairly tall, had dark skin, (which may have been dirt I can not say for sure.) He had on dark pants, I am not sure of his shirt or shoes, bur he wore a long dark overcoat, frayed and tattered. His hair was a little longer than shoulder length and he adorned a ccrocheted beanie cap.
He looked right at me and said, "There you are!"
I replied with a meek "Hi"
"Enthusiastically he said, "I have not seen you in a while!"
In my mind, "What if this is Jesus?" So I asked, "How are you?" A good start to posibly talking to the son of God.
His reply, "The Lord woke me up today, so I am great. And He woke you up too so you must be having a good day."
Totally confused, and thinking to two days earlier when I was looking at mental facilities to check myself into because I feel myself slipping away, I mumbled, "I have some change."
Jesus at the red light said, "I would appreciate anything, but it is just so good to see you again."
I gave him all the change I had, and then I said, "Want a smoke?"
He said he would love one, and doesnt get to smoke all that often. I quickly dug into my box of cigarettes and handed him a few.
"Thank you so much, and thank God for waking you up today too, you better go the cars will start honking at you." He laughed and I drove off.
"That was odd", I thought. I have lived in this town a long time and I even know the beggars that truly are just passing through, I can tell you without hesitation, I have never in my life seen this man before. Yet he insisted not once but twice that he has seen me before.
A beggars ploy? Possibly.
It was when I turned the corner that I realized today is Ash Wednesday and thus the begginning of Lent. A subject I have written about many times.
I sort of chuckled thinking that was is the punishment for giving Jesus cancer?
Did I quit smoking suddenly? No. Did I feel anything other than slightly amused that any God that may exist would show Himself to me as a beggar? No.
I wsa irritated that I did not think to take His picture. I look forward to tomorrow to driving that road I drive every day, twice a day to see if He is there again.
This is Austin, Keep Jesus Weird Y'all.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Excuse Me Do You Know Where I Can Buy a Hula Hoop?
I live in what most people know as a laid back hippie slacker town. Some call it a city, and in many ways it is a city, it feels like a town to me.
The truth is, there is a hint of patchouli in the air when the wind blows, but I have yet to meet a slacker. Most people work very hard for what they love. They work during the week on their paintings, jewelry, dog snuggies, and poi sticks.
The weekend comes and they have to (with their permits attained) pack all the goods so nothing gets damaged and figure out which place is the best to try and sell their wares. Some markets are good for some weekends, sometimes they drive hours for others. Does not sound like a slacker to me.
The other day at the grocery store while in line, I looked through the contents of the person in front of my basket. Oh come on you all do it. And you end up feeling superior, inferior, indifferent, or as if you found your soul mate buying bulk millet.
As I looked I saw all organic locally grown vegetables I had never even heard of. My girl friend and I have recently started juicing (note to self do not let girlfriend watch any more documentaries with me, or I will be packing for Mount Everest).
We have not been militant since day one and made an agreement not to proselytize what we are doing. No matter what. Even if I drop 100lbs in three days and am able to walk on wire between the UT Tower and the Coop (girlfriend has not seen that one yet), I would not brag of juicing.
Juicing has been going well. There are days I look at the expensive blender and want to throw it crashing out the window while I eat a Snickers bar.
Mmmmm Snickers.
I have been guilty of doing the occassional McFast Food. I have a 14 yer old that needs to eat and it is really hard to cook when juicing (even more so when you actually hate cooking).
I started taking my daughter to Starbucks. It's liquid, it must still count, and a Grande Mocha peppermint whatever has to be better for you than mcFast Food.
All this went through my mind as I perused the contents of the basket in front of me. Then I looked at the woman.
She fit the contents. Lean, Yoga mat in cool Indian case, slight sweat indicates it must have been Bikram yoga. Her hair slightly long and held back in a hemp headband. Her shoes, expensive, but okay because the company donates a pair for every one you buy. He tee shirt had an OM on it,
I was sure all her chakras were perfectly aligned, and she truly believed kale tasted good and not like the contents of my dirt devil.
Then I saw her face. She was not smiling. She looked unhappy, unaligned. I wondered if she was just in a hurry or if she needed a McFast Burger.
I loaded my groceries on the conveyor belt, she looked and smiled. Many were the same, because, well, I am juicing. She smiled as if I too were one with the kale. I smiled back and broke the bond when I loaded the tub of prefab potato salad my daughter loves to eat.
Bond broken.
We are a no bag city now, and usually I forget my bags, this time I had them. I was quick to follow Miss Chakra out to the parking lot and saw her get into her mini cooper. It made me miss my Suburban.
Then I saw it. She smiled. She exhaled and smoke came out of her mouth. She was lighting a cigarette! Granted it was one of the all natural ones that supposedly has no tar or sugar or the fun stuff I like in mine. But she was smoking!
It was her version of the McFast Smoke.
She was gloriously happy and I could not help but smile as I loaded my groceries knowing I found a friend in this hippie slacker town where it is sometimes so hard to be perfect.
The truth is, there is a hint of patchouli in the air when the wind blows, but I have yet to meet a slacker. Most people work very hard for what they love. They work during the week on their paintings, jewelry, dog snuggies, and poi sticks.
The weekend comes and they have to (with their permits attained) pack all the goods so nothing gets damaged and figure out which place is the best to try and sell their wares. Some markets are good for some weekends, sometimes they drive hours for others. Does not sound like a slacker to me.
The other day at the grocery store while in line, I looked through the contents of the person in front of my basket. Oh come on you all do it. And you end up feeling superior, inferior, indifferent, or as if you found your soul mate buying bulk millet.
As I looked I saw all organic locally grown vegetables I had never even heard of. My girl friend and I have recently started juicing (note to self do not let girlfriend watch any more documentaries with me, or I will be packing for Mount Everest).
We have not been militant since day one and made an agreement not to proselytize what we are doing. No matter what. Even if I drop 100lbs in three days and am able to walk on wire between the UT Tower and the Coop (girlfriend has not seen that one yet), I would not brag of juicing.
Juicing has been going well. There are days I look at the expensive blender and want to throw it crashing out the window while I eat a Snickers bar.
Mmmmm Snickers.
I have been guilty of doing the occassional McFast Food. I have a 14 yer old that needs to eat and it is really hard to cook when juicing (even more so when you actually hate cooking).
I started taking my daughter to Starbucks. It's liquid, it must still count, and a Grande Mocha peppermint whatever has to be better for you than mcFast Food.
All this went through my mind as I perused the contents of the basket in front of me. Then I looked at the woman.
She fit the contents. Lean, Yoga mat in cool Indian case, slight sweat indicates it must have been Bikram yoga. Her hair slightly long and held back in a hemp headband. Her shoes, expensive, but okay because the company donates a pair for every one you buy. He tee shirt had an OM on it,
I was sure all her chakras were perfectly aligned, and she truly believed kale tasted good and not like the contents of my dirt devil.
Then I saw her face. She was not smiling. She looked unhappy, unaligned. I wondered if she was just in a hurry or if she needed a McFast Burger.
I loaded my groceries on the conveyor belt, she looked and smiled. Many were the same, because, well, I am juicing. She smiled as if I too were one with the kale. I smiled back and broke the bond when I loaded the tub of prefab potato salad my daughter loves to eat.
Bond broken.
We are a no bag city now, and usually I forget my bags, this time I had them. I was quick to follow Miss Chakra out to the parking lot and saw her get into her mini cooper. It made me miss my Suburban.
Then I saw it. She smiled. She exhaled and smoke came out of her mouth. She was lighting a cigarette! Granted it was one of the all natural ones that supposedly has no tar or sugar or the fun stuff I like in mine. But she was smoking!
It was her version of the McFast Smoke.
She was gloriously happy and I could not help but smile as I loaded my groceries knowing I found a friend in this hippie slacker town where it is sometimes so hard to be perfect.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
And Here's to You Mrs. Gaga
I am going to be honest here; if I was put in a room with a gun to my head and told to name three Lady Gaga songs or I would die, it would be time to write my obituary.
I even had to Google how she spells her name before continuing this piece.
I just have not cared about her. I wondered over the last few years of her fame about my lack of enthusiasm concerning her.
I now know the reason. I was there for the original. Or at least the original of "my" generation. I had Madonna.
Yes there are differences between the two; one wore cone bras, the other sirloin dresses.
Upon reflection It is actually their similarities that suddenly make me care about Miss Gaga. Not the fact that frankly neither can truly carry a tune, or that they are attention whores, or that they try so desperately for a shock factor.
They are both educators.
Madonna taught us things, besides how to bleach our hair to a point of damage no conditioner could save.
Madonna taught us it was okay to have sex. Yes I said it. Madonna gave us permission to not only have sex but for the love of God ENJOY it. She taught us sex could be a fun thing, (or maybe that was George Michael.)
In 1991 Salt-n-Pepa wanted to talk about sex. So now we have a generation that not only had sex, enjoyed sex, but could also talk about sex.
At about that time I had been having so much sex that I was a mother raising a bunch of kids, and my personal music choice came from a purple dinosaur. I did raise my children on the soundtrack to RENT as it was (and still is) my favorite musical. You have not heard anything until you hear your six year old singing the lyrics, "Sodomy, it's between God and me."
At some point the kids grew up and went through their own musical choices, and I was right there with them shedding a slight tear when Baby Spice said she no longer wanted to be part of the group. I helped hang the Backstreet Boys Poster on my daughter's wall. When my son got knocked down, he got up again.
I used to say that my children would be hard pressed to find a genre of music I did not like. I was proven wrong when my oldest began blaring ICP from her room. Yet I never told her to turn it down.
There seemed to be a lack of sexuality in the music my children listened to. It was all good clean fun.
When we played Ani DiFranco in the car on the way to school my five year old sang along, and as parents WE were the ones saying she could not sing, "Fuck you" unless she was in the car with us and the song was playing.
They each found their own music in their own way, from dubstep to Bowie, to One Direction (yes I think Liam looks cuter with his hair longer).
And now we are back to Lady Gaga. She has not seemed to hit the radar of my children as much as other musical acts have. They know the songs, and can sing the lyrics, but they are not shocked or impressed or moved much at all by her music in any way that I can tell.
I figured out why. My children were raised in a house where yes we did talk about sex, but we also talked about homosexuality. All five of my children were taught it was perfectly fine and normal to be gay. They grew up knowing this even if a dinosaur did not sing about it.
I may not follow Lady Gaga's latest song or outfit, but I follow her politics, and she has done something Madonna did not do. She has said it is okay to be who you are, no matter what gender, race or, sexual orientation.
Wow. That is something I can respect about her.
A torch has been passed yet again and Miss Gaga is using her platform shoes to proclaim that people should chill out and accept who they are, and other people should have acceptance and tolerance as well.
I may not dance to her songs in a unitard with the bikini bottoms on the outside of the unitard (thank God). But I do give her credit for the message she is delivering in such a way that is reaching the children and teens of today.
It is a crazy idea but maybe it is true that all we need is love.
I even had to Google how she spells her name before continuing this piece.
I just have not cared about her. I wondered over the last few years of her fame about my lack of enthusiasm concerning her.
I now know the reason. I was there for the original. Or at least the original of "my" generation. I had Madonna.
Yes there are differences between the two; one wore cone bras, the other sirloin dresses.
Upon reflection It is actually their similarities that suddenly make me care about Miss Gaga. Not the fact that frankly neither can truly carry a tune, or that they are attention whores, or that they try so desperately for a shock factor.
They are both educators.
Madonna taught us things, besides how to bleach our hair to a point of damage no conditioner could save.
Madonna taught us it was okay to have sex. Yes I said it. Madonna gave us permission to not only have sex but for the love of God ENJOY it. She taught us sex could be a fun thing, (or maybe that was George Michael.)
In 1991 Salt-n-Pepa wanted to talk about sex. So now we have a generation that not only had sex, enjoyed sex, but could also talk about sex.
At about that time I had been having so much sex that I was a mother raising a bunch of kids, and my personal music choice came from a purple dinosaur. I did raise my children on the soundtrack to RENT as it was (and still is) my favorite musical. You have not heard anything until you hear your six year old singing the lyrics, "Sodomy, it's between God and me."
At some point the kids grew up and went through their own musical choices, and I was right there with them shedding a slight tear when Baby Spice said she no longer wanted to be part of the group. I helped hang the Backstreet Boys Poster on my daughter's wall. When my son got knocked down, he got up again.
I used to say that my children would be hard pressed to find a genre of music I did not like. I was proven wrong when my oldest began blaring ICP from her room. Yet I never told her to turn it down.
There seemed to be a lack of sexuality in the music my children listened to. It was all good clean fun.
When we played Ani DiFranco in the car on the way to school my five year old sang along, and as parents WE were the ones saying she could not sing, "Fuck you" unless she was in the car with us and the song was playing.
They each found their own music in their own way, from dubstep to Bowie, to One Direction (yes I think Liam looks cuter with his hair longer).
And now we are back to Lady Gaga. She has not seemed to hit the radar of my children as much as other musical acts have. They know the songs, and can sing the lyrics, but they are not shocked or impressed or moved much at all by her music in any way that I can tell.
I figured out why. My children were raised in a house where yes we did talk about sex, but we also talked about homosexuality. All five of my children were taught it was perfectly fine and normal to be gay. They grew up knowing this even if a dinosaur did not sing about it.
I may not follow Lady Gaga's latest song or outfit, but I follow her politics, and she has done something Madonna did not do. She has said it is okay to be who you are, no matter what gender, race or, sexual orientation.
Wow. That is something I can respect about her.
A torch has been passed yet again and Miss Gaga is using her platform shoes to proclaim that people should chill out and accept who they are, and other people should have acceptance and tolerance as well.
I may not dance to her songs in a unitard with the bikini bottoms on the outside of the unitard (thank God). But I do give her credit for the message she is delivering in such a way that is reaching the children and teens of today.
It is a crazy idea but maybe it is true that all we need is love.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Back to School
It is back to school time and I am amused when I sit waiting for my daughter to come out of her school. She has, in the past attended a school where it was hard to find her when the bell rang, as every girl looked the same.
Now she is in high school and she is in The Fine Arts Academy as a dance major. This high school is basically the equivalent to the high school of preforming arts in the movie FAME, sadly without spontaneous lunch songs.
I watch the children coming out of the doors, some have pink hair shaved on the sides and look very surly. Some are tossing a football looking very assure, some hold books appearing astute.
Today I saw a girl with a mullet wearing a KISS tee shirt and a leather cuff on her right wrist. We would have been friends.
The most astounding thing I saw was a parent yelling at their child to hurry up, this parent used all the cliche empty parental threats that were not at all threats.
"Hurry up! The world does not revolve around you!"
"I swear if you don't get in this car....we have to get your brother, why are you always thinking of yourself?"
I had to chuckle as I still sat and waited for my own child.
I have five children.
There was a time when I caught myself yelling at them to clean their messy rooms, I was tired of tripping over toys or worse getting a damn piece of Littlest Pet Shop stuck in my foot.
I lost it. I yelled, "YOU ALL ARE SO SPOILED ROTTEN, YOU ACT SO ENTITLED, YOU DON'T TAKE CARE OF ANYTHING, WHY DO YOU ONLY THINK OF YOURSELVES?!"
I stopped. I looked around at the mass of toys and realized my children did not buy them, I did. I looked at each child individually. Each child had a time where the world did in fact revolve around them and only them. Each child had a time where they were the only one.
I have often said to new parents that the very best advice I can give them is to not rescue their child at every turn. Let them forget their homework and not rush to school to bring it to them. Even if you are lucky enough to be a stay at home parent that is not part of your job. Get over the guilt. If you rescue them you will only be teaching them not to care for themselves.
If you think your child acts spoiled, ask yourself who spoiled them? Who bought all the toys? Who said yes at every whimper and whine?
If your child acts entitled who replaced their cell phone they lost or dropped in the pool? Of course they are entitled. you made them that way.
If your child is ungrateful who did not teach them proper manners or gratitude?
We tell our children to say thank you to grandparents or friends when they are given a gift, but do you teach your child to say thank you for dinner?
I am by far not a perfect parent. My children are not perfect people. What they are is happy. They like to be in my company and talk to me. They tell me things most kids would not share, and lets be honest what they don't tell me I probably already know but figure it is best left unsaid.
My children are very smart. Most of them have decided or made life choices that limited their career or college choices. Instead they use their intellect to search out what they want to learn, and what makes them happy as people, and happy in the relationships they create.
I am not taking all the credit for this, they were given a lot of freedom to make messes. As toddlers they could play naked in mud for hours, as teens they broke rules and learned from their decisions. When I went through my own dark place my children were left alone mostly learning from each other. I was here physically but not mentally.
If you have such a busy life that you have no time to let your child learn how to tie their own shoe, you need to re evaluate some things. Yes it can be frustrating sitting on the floor watching them fuddle with their chubby fingers to make rabbit ears and cross them over (or however you teach the art of shoe tying), but it can also be amusing and a wonderful opportunity to encourage and let them know they can do it on their own. When they do finally get that shoe tied by themselves you will have given them the opportunity to be proud and excited at their own achievement.
As they grow you need to let go of what you feel their achievements should be, and follow their lead in support.
Keep Your sense of humor
Be patient
Pick your battles
Let them make mistakes
Love them
As a last note, when you want to have those uncomfortable talks and aren't ready to sit down at a table I find the car works best. Make sure you have at least a 30 minute ride that involves a highway. They wont jump out and are literally a captive audience. It also helps to let them have control of the radio stations.
Now she is in high school and she is in The Fine Arts Academy as a dance major. This high school is basically the equivalent to the high school of preforming arts in the movie FAME, sadly without spontaneous lunch songs.
I watch the children coming out of the doors, some have pink hair shaved on the sides and look very surly. Some are tossing a football looking very assure, some hold books appearing astute.
Today I saw a girl with a mullet wearing a KISS tee shirt and a leather cuff on her right wrist. We would have been friends.
The most astounding thing I saw was a parent yelling at their child to hurry up, this parent used all the cliche empty parental threats that were not at all threats.
"Hurry up! The world does not revolve around you!"
"I swear if you don't get in this car....we have to get your brother, why are you always thinking of yourself?"
I had to chuckle as I still sat and waited for my own child.
I have five children.
There was a time when I caught myself yelling at them to clean their messy rooms, I was tired of tripping over toys or worse getting a damn piece of Littlest Pet Shop stuck in my foot.
I lost it. I yelled, "YOU ALL ARE SO SPOILED ROTTEN, YOU ACT SO ENTITLED, YOU DON'T TAKE CARE OF ANYTHING, WHY DO YOU ONLY THINK OF YOURSELVES?!"
I stopped. I looked around at the mass of toys and realized my children did not buy them, I did. I looked at each child individually. Each child had a time where the world did in fact revolve around them and only them. Each child had a time where they were the only one.
I have often said to new parents that the very best advice I can give them is to not rescue their child at every turn. Let them forget their homework and not rush to school to bring it to them. Even if you are lucky enough to be a stay at home parent that is not part of your job. Get over the guilt. If you rescue them you will only be teaching them not to care for themselves.
If you think your child acts spoiled, ask yourself who spoiled them? Who bought all the toys? Who said yes at every whimper and whine?
If your child acts entitled who replaced their cell phone they lost or dropped in the pool? Of course they are entitled. you made them that way.
If your child is ungrateful who did not teach them proper manners or gratitude?
We tell our children to say thank you to grandparents or friends when they are given a gift, but do you teach your child to say thank you for dinner?
I am by far not a perfect parent. My children are not perfect people. What they are is happy. They like to be in my company and talk to me. They tell me things most kids would not share, and lets be honest what they don't tell me I probably already know but figure it is best left unsaid.
My children are very smart. Most of them have decided or made life choices that limited their career or college choices. Instead they use their intellect to search out what they want to learn, and what makes them happy as people, and happy in the relationships they create.
I am not taking all the credit for this, they were given a lot of freedom to make messes. As toddlers they could play naked in mud for hours, as teens they broke rules and learned from their decisions. When I went through my own dark place my children were left alone mostly learning from each other. I was here physically but not mentally.
If you have such a busy life that you have no time to let your child learn how to tie their own shoe, you need to re evaluate some things. Yes it can be frustrating sitting on the floor watching them fuddle with their chubby fingers to make rabbit ears and cross them over (or however you teach the art of shoe tying), but it can also be amusing and a wonderful opportunity to encourage and let them know they can do it on their own. When they do finally get that shoe tied by themselves you will have given them the opportunity to be proud and excited at their own achievement.
As they grow you need to let go of what you feel their achievements should be, and follow their lead in support.
Keep Your sense of humor
Be patient
Pick your battles
Let them make mistakes
Love them
As a last note, when you want to have those uncomfortable talks and aren't ready to sit down at a table I find the car works best. Make sure you have at least a 30 minute ride that involves a highway. They wont jump out and are literally a captive audience. It also helps to let them have control of the radio stations.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)