why describe what you will inevitably judge for yourself?
Archives for the month of: October, 2009
Seasonal hibernation. Inertia. Lack of motivation. Procrastination. Check, check, check, and let me get back to you on that later…. When you find yourself intimidated by the rain and the cold, it becomes progressively easier not to leave home. Before you know it, you’re making mac-n-cheese with sour cream instead of milk, and eating instant noodles for breakfast because you have no desire to expose yourself to polite society awaiting you outside the doors of the grocery store all in the name of good christian kindness so they can collect money for boy scout chocolate covered caramel corn all the while promoting tooth decay in overweight Americans, and simultaneously denouncing homosexuality. Ummm, I’m sorry little guy was that too much information….Oh you want to know if you can put me down for the three flavor sampler, no thanks not until your organization loosens up on tolerance. Thanks K, bye. I dislike grocery shopping.
After a month of marking the home territory it seemed time to go out into the big bad world and rub elbows with other citizens playing hooky from work on a friday afternoon. We settled on the movies. Where the Wild Things Are and Law Abiding Citizen. I’ll give you a hint. I didn’t choose the second movie. It was a very guy movie. Far-fetched but packed with heavy explosives. As for Wild Things, I enjoyed it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for children, too much depth which translates to awesome boredom for a six to twelve year old. As for grown-ups, your enjoyment might be influenced by the amount of couch time you’ve submitted to during you life.
Saturday, our community kicked off it’s own bastardized version of Oktoberfest. Mostly this is an excuse to drink beer from a plastic cup in public, grill brats, and listen to polka music. I hoped for good draft German white beer, but what I found was imported bottled beer at a restaurant professing a beer garden in sub fifty temperatures. Uhm….Day two was better. The sun was shining, the beer was on tap, the polka band played on, and the brats were covered in sauerkraut and mustard. I’m pretty sure I saw grown men with short pants and fancy feathers in their elfin caps. And what Oktoberfest would be complete without a volkswagon car show…..just like the Germans.
At least they got the beer right.
I’m at age in which some women develop a twitchy obsession fueled by the echo of ticking clock in their brains. I can’t hear it. Maybe it’s beyond the spectrum of my hearing frequency, or maybe the white noise of life’s minor complications prevents me from recognizing the sound. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with that. Hearing or not hearing the sound.
My persona prevents me from attempting tasks, important tasks, I will completely and utterly suck at. Sure, I participate in book club, and inevitably miss a laundry list of pertinent points contingent to the plot because I get my head wrapped around some non-essential and typically ghost like element. Yet, I still participate, because I know I will learn from my failure at book club, I’m rather accustom to making an ass out of myself, but most importantly, my inability to grasp the existential crisis occurring on the pages will not impair the emotional development of another or cease them from expanding the skills necessary to interact in polite society. Raising a child, on the other hand, has too much contingent upon being reasonably competent.
I learned to be a low maintenance child. My Dad traveled on business, and Mother worked long hours. I was never neglected, but I did spend many hours around adults, and become emotionally self-sufficient as a result. It worked out well at the time. My parents needed me to be low maintenance, because it was time in which they needed to take care of themselves. I’m not bitter.
Anymore.
As I’ve gotten older I have better understood, if not empathized the changes people go through and the notion that for adults to make better families they need things reserved for themselves that on the surface might appear to be selfish but really provide a level of personal functionality and consequently making them better people, thus trickling down into family life making the experience more bearable for all involved.
Economy of emotion coupled with my inability to share my self, lead made me worry I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give a little person my undivided attention when it was needed, or that I would feel so drained from giving them so much of my self, there wouldn’t be any me left over for me. A partial commitment isn’t good enough. It’s a selfish attitude, but it’s also an honest acknowledgment of self.
When I see them, babies with their pudgy limbs, and flailing hands, and gassy smiles, I see parental pride, hidden potential, and the incomplete features of a being that will profess both love and hate to the parents for years to come, but I also see frailty that leaks all sorts of disgusting things from it’s orifices. While a relatively low percentage of babies have actually been broken by someone as oafish as me, I cannot tolerate pressure of new parents glaring at me while a try to adequately support the neck, and properly mirror their joy at seeing this living breathing extension of their union with endless potential and a nose like its grandfather. I’m happy for them. For their health, for the joys, and the new experiences to come. I just don’t want to hold it until they’ve torn the tag off and learned the with all that frailty is a remarkable durability. Cartilage is king.
The closest I come to hearing the clock, is visiting animal shelter, or when lady with the blue merle Australian shepherds passes with her dogs. It’s not the same, but it is closely linked to the desire to nurture, stimulate, and foster companionship. There is much to be said for the returned affection, the ease of communication, the relief of not navigating the complexity of adolescent relationships, or maintaining a level of zen calmness necessary in teaching a teenager to drive safely, but mostly for not scarring someone for life.
Driving up the mountain last night the sky was the color of blood orange, a strange combination of a low clouds and lights surrounding the concrete plant along the river front. Eerie, seductive and an omen for impending rain. This morning the clouds (fog?) was so thick I couldn’t see my neighbor’s house across the street. Visibility maybe a hundred feet.
I don’t like not being able to see what’s ahead.
So there is this relationship of the Better Half’s, a premarital relationship. I was brought in by proxy of my marriage, but I don’t regard it as any more significant than a polite acquaintanceship on my part. After a decade,I know them like one would know friends, but I don’t trust them as I trust my friends. There is a smearing, pettiness and provocation I do not wish to be associated with. The she of the pair is a skilled manipulator, not someone to trust. Ever.
I’ve continued this passive acquaintanceship for the benefit of my spouse. It was easier to be tolerant, when they (mostly she) remained non-confrontational. Things have shifted.
I’ve only been around them on three times in the last six months, and each time the female attempted to provoke me in a social setting. A viewing. A funeral. And a wedding. Last straw.
After the wedding incident, I told the Better Half he should continue his relationship as he saw fit, but my participation was over. I would not voluntarily subject myself to an antagonistic relationship. I offered to call and end it, but he promised he would handle it.
He didn’t. Avoidance. I can’t say I blame him. She will twist every detail into a knot and feign ignorance at every turn, as she will likely discuss it with his kids and his ex. Lose lose. I refuse to be held in a relationship when extortion is the only binding agent.
Now, she is calling. I refuse to answer the phone. As does he. She will not take a hint and give up, so I am left to wonder how this will end.
Exchange #1:
Mom: I’m going to let you wash the dishes for me.
self: ?
Seriously, ask me to wash the dishes or tell me to wash the dishes. But letting me, WTF? It isn’t a privilege, nor is it a pleasure. Absolving yourself of asking, or declaring doesn’t make you appear more polite, it demonstrates a lack of humility.
******
Exchange #2:
Better Half: (with attitude) You know if you feel like helping you could move these flaps…….
self: You know if you feel like asking, for help I’m over here.
Better Half: I did.
self: No, you did not. You made a declarative statement requiring no response on my part.
*******
Exchange #3:
FIL: A cup of coffee sure would be nice.
self: (unresponsive)
See Exchange #1, ask or tell. I am no fairy godmother wishes are wasted, and asking is not demeaning.
******
Why is it a faux pas to communicate directly and succinctly? Even the most basic exchanges are couched in innuendo. What is it about relationships that rob us of the ability, and right to speak our minds? Does it really make a relationship stronger to pretend like everyone farts rainbows, and it doesn’t grate on nerves when “X” happens?
Are these relationships actually better, or are we fooling ourselves into thinking that because none of us are willing to deal with the defensiveness that ensues from stating the obvious flaws. I don’t mean cruelty for the sake of cruelty, but directness for the sake of improvement.
When I was nine, I used to feed it to the family dog to watch her do this.
******
In high school there was a female student, the guys referred to as Peanut Butter, supposedly because her legs were easy to spread. Classy bunch, teenagers. In retrospect, I wonder if the rumor was even true, since no one tells the truth about sexual conquests at that age.
******
The small town I grew up in declared itself to be the Peanut Capital. If you look the web, there are plenty small communities that think so highly of themselves in Virginia, Mississippi, Georgia, and even Australia.
******
I knew a guy who ate peanut butter and tuna fish sandwiches. The salty sweet combination makes palate sense, but I’ve never liked tuna in a can. The smell is too strong. Fresh seared tuna? Save me a seat.
*****
Peanut Butter is useful for removing chewing gum from hair.
*****
It’s the only food item in the pantry I don’t offer guests. It isn’t based on a deep seated spiritual belief that peanut butter is the holiest foods from childhood. I never saw the image of the Virgin Mary in the shadowy scoops of creamy goodness. Mostly, it’s because I eat it straight out of the jar for breakfast on those mornings I don’t feel motivated enough to scramble eggs or cook oatmeal. I used to chase it with milk gulped directly from the carton….Yeah cliché. Not any more, though. So feel free to ask for a glass of milk. It’s safe. No cooties.
Rather than talk about why my hair resembles Lily Munster, how insufferably my cats are behaving, or how I will gnaw off my own foot if I am forced to eat quiche or smoked ribs before 2012, lets talk about how much I suck as a role model. But if my siblings didn’t allow me supervised visits with my nieces and nephews, then technically I couldn’t be a bad influence, so what we’re really discussing is how my siblings suck as parents.
Exhibit A:
My brother paid a visit to my Mom’s while I was there last week and he didn’t come alone. He came with his 13yo, the 13yo’s buddy (because they always travel in packs), and a bag of firecrackers. He also placed me in a supervisory position. Oh the pressure! I responded by cleaning out the refrigerator and filling aluminum cans with jello, and stuffing firecrackers into containers with brunswick stew. To my credit no one lost a digit, and the fridge isn’t the toxic landfill it was upon my arrival.
Exhibit B:
My sister brings her kids for a visit. Like typical kids bored by adult conversation, they go upstairs and amuse themselves by investigating closets, rifling through drawers and looking under beds for anything worthy of amusement. What they find is a collections of shirts I painted as a teenager.
Yet another indicator as to my loser status during secondary education. I painted my own shirts to wear at a public high school. No mystery as to why I was never elected prom queen. Anywho most of the shirts had images of other people’s ideas. Things like album covers, quintessential 80′s movies like, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, Less Than Zero, or Some King of Wonderful, or comic strip characters, basically 80′s based pop-culture
So my nephew runs in with a Where’s Waldo? t-shirt, complete with assorted characters, painted front and back. My mother starts exhibiting twitchy behavior associated with having seizures, or seven year olds who can’t sit still. I realize she is dropping not so subtle hints that I should follow the kids and pick out shirts for each of them. Okay dokey. Kid One with Waldo shirt, dilemma solved. Kid Two….hmmmm. Kid Two is eight and will not appreciate the finer points of an 80′s teenage angst movie, nor is it appropriate to send her into a room full of adults with an “I Really Need to get My Ship Together” shirt.
I opted for the Martika’s Kitchen shirt. I picked it because it was bright. i painted the album cover on the back of a man’s dress shirt. Kid One dropped a subtle hint that Kid Two would not be able to wear the shirt to school and I thought duh, of course not, she’s eight and the shirt length violates the dress code. I neglected to consider the bare breast, I mean, Hell I wore it to school when I was a teenager, and I didn’t get sent home. They’re breast, so what? It’s not like people don’t know what knockers are supposed to look like.
After the other adults freaked and laughed, we picked out another shirt, though I’m not sure why we bothered, Kid Two, like me, was completely unfazed.
