* Just because YOU felt you were "taken off guard" does not mean that I "handled it badly." If you were doing what you were supposed to be doing instead of trying to go behind my back, you wouldn't have been "taken off guard." Remember that next time you argue with a direct order. And the next time I catch you trying to circumvent an order given for YOUR OWN SAFETY, you can think about it while you're on the beach for a couple of days.
* Your incompetency does not constitute an emergency for me. I'll un-fuck your situation when I have a moment to do so. If it even CAN be un-fucked. You are offered training for a reason and the rest of us can only assume that you're paying attention. If you didn't, well, shame on you and woe to whatever family is on the receiving end of your ignorance.
* Don't cut me off so severely that I have to actually "Tokyo Drift" (on a fucking motorcycle, no less) to get out of your way, and then pull up beside me to tell me I "look so hot on that bike" and expect any other reaction than the one you got, you brainless troll-faced menace.
* Please, please, PLEASE take a few moments to proofread before you bring me a report. Training issues are one thing, but misspelled words, missing words, poor grammar, and sentences with no discernable beginning or end are issues I can only assume a college graduate should be able to catch before submitting a report for review. If you just can't bring yourself to proofread, for God's sake don't look surprised and dismayed when I bring the fucking thing back to you for corrections.
* Move out the second you graduate if you want to, girlfriend, but remember that life is really fucking hard when you work part-time retail and don't have a driver's license or a pot to piss in. Yes, I know... you're "in love" and "nobody else understands" and you'll "find a way to make it work" because you're "supposed to be together." I'm sure I'm just overreacting again.
* Why on God's green Earth would I buy ANYTHING you're trying to sell me over the phone???? Do people ACTUALLY give you their credit card numbers and addresses in order to purchase an item sight unseen from a total stranger????? I can't figure out if the joke is on you or on me!!
* Hey, Disney Channel! Your programming is NOT APPROPRIATE for children! Fucking Sponge Bob is chock full of positive moral messages, but you can't seem to make a program that doesn't revolve around youngsters lyuing to their parents or trying to get away with something they shouldn't be doing or both at the same time!! Stop teaching our children to misbehave, and yes, it IS your responsibility!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Little Friday Meltdown
I hear the song and I’m back. Just like that, like time doesn’t march on, like pain doesn’t fade, like I’m just seeing him for the first time and feeling thunderstruck and terrified all at the same time.
Oh yes, I can name that tune in three notes or less, and the first note brings a thrill to my body, the second joyous tears to my eyes; and the third a moment of blissful tribute before the whole of it comes rushing back like a Mack Truck toward a squirrel sunbathing on the Highway of Life.
God, but I can smell him and taste his sweet saltiness just like his skin is warm again against mine. He’d sing along with that song, somewhat tunelessly and under his breath, the percussion of his breathy syllables assaulting my eardrums as his hands kept time elsewhere.
It’s always the same… I can’t reach the iPod fast enough to stop it before it transports me, but I can’t bring myself to remove the song from my playlist (and therefore from my consciousness) either. I am blindsided every time: my own fear of never knowing that feeling again prevents me from erasing the materialization of it along with the suitcase of pain that it carries.
It’s over now: 3 years of torrential emotion relived in 3 minutes, and my body is slumped in the chair from the force of it. Beautiful and tragic, symmetric and discordant, wondrous and appalling, my senses are fully awakened and my insides are twisted into knots of frustration, shame, and remorse.
Some people never learn.
Oh yes, I can name that tune in three notes or less, and the first note brings a thrill to my body, the second joyous tears to my eyes; and the third a moment of blissful tribute before the whole of it comes rushing back like a Mack Truck toward a squirrel sunbathing on the Highway of Life.
God, but I can smell him and taste his sweet saltiness just like his skin is warm again against mine. He’d sing along with that song, somewhat tunelessly and under his breath, the percussion of his breathy syllables assaulting my eardrums as his hands kept time elsewhere.
It’s always the same… I can’t reach the iPod fast enough to stop it before it transports me, but I can’t bring myself to remove the song from my playlist (and therefore from my consciousness) either. I am blindsided every time: my own fear of never knowing that feeling again prevents me from erasing the materialization of it along with the suitcase of pain that it carries.
It’s over now: 3 years of torrential emotion relived in 3 minutes, and my body is slumped in the chair from the force of it. Beautiful and tragic, symmetric and discordant, wondrous and appalling, my senses are fully awakened and my insides are twisted into knots of frustration, shame, and remorse.
Some people never learn.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Mother of the Year
Raw Thoughts recently posted about an incident that, he was certain, lost him the "Father of the Year" award. Oh, what memories were triggered by the story!
Here's a happy one! I had just made myself a cup of tea with boiling water from the kettle, and I set it on the coffee table to steep while I went to switch a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. Young Tamara, who had just started pulling herself up to a standing position days earlier, was sitting in the middle of the living room, playing with her activity blanket. As I tossed clean diapers into the dryer, an unearthly scream came from the living room... and suddenly I KNEW exactly what had happened. I dropped what was in my hands and ran full-tilt into the other room (a total of four steps), where I found the cup of tea overturned and Tamara, red-faced and shrieking, soaking wet with boiling hot tea. Already crying, I snatched her up and ran with her to the bathroom, chanting "Mommy's so stupid, Mommy's so sorry, Mommy's so STUPID!" I turned the cold water on and set her in the tub, splashing her and peeling the wet clothes off, terrified that skin was going to come off with them. As a semblance of awareness returned, I realized that Tamara's skin was fine - not burned at all, thank God! - and that Tamara herself had stopped crying long ago and was now having the time of her life watching Mommy lose it. Could it have been a LOT worse? Absolutely. Was I consumed by overwhelming bad-parent guilt. Oh yeah. Still am.
But the situation that came to mind when I read RT's post came much later, and is reminiscent because of the "frosty" reaction of MSU.
Isabeau was -and is - a physically gifted child. She was crawling at four months and walking at seven... we didn't get a lot of "baby" time with her. I was getting ready for work one morning in our bedroom, which at the time was a very large room. I stood at the long mirror in front of the counter than ran the length of the back wall, the little room with the toilet and shower on my left and the large walk-in closet on the right. Isabeau was sitting on the floor behind me, playing with a toy and babbling happily. About five feet to Isabeau's left was our good Akita Freya, who had positioned her entire body in front of the door as was her habit. Just outside the bedroom door and immediately left was the wide staircase of 16 stairs that led to the inside end of the marble-tiled entryway. I was finished with my hair and face and was ready to get dressed, so I checked Isabeau's location (still in the middle of the room), checked Freya's location (still completely occupying the doorway), and darted into the walk-in closet to grab the day's outfit, which was already staged and ready to go. The entire trip into the closet and out of the closet took approximately three seconds.
When I exited the closet, Mom-Vision saw two things at once: the baby was no longer in the room and neither was the dog. Already knowing what I was going to find, I sprinted out the door just in time to see Isabeau, on her hands and knees, reach her hand out for the first stair down, Freya standing at her side. And in the horrific slow-motion vision that only parents have, I dove to try to snatch her clothing only to watch her tumble, end over end, to the cold marble below. In excruciating detail, I saw each body part as it hit each stair: arm twisted on that one, face down on that one, legs bent at an unnatural angle on that one. And though I was right behind her the entire way, screaming (also in slow motion) "Nooooooooooooooo," I couldn't catch her or even get my body in front of her in time to avoid what I knew was coming next: the fatal wet smacking sound of her soft baby head splitting on the marble tile.
It was 10 years ago, but I'm crying now, again, with the memory. There is NOTHING worse than watching an event that you KNOW will kill your baby. Except watching an event that you know will kill your baby that's YOUR fault for being so fucking negligent.
But even-then physically gifted Isabeau didn't smack her head on the tile. And she didn't break any bones on the way down. And when she came to rest, she looked fearsome confused for about 10 seconds before she started crying tears of experience, not of pain. And stopped crying immediately upon Freya joyously licking her face as if to say, "Great stunt, girlfriend!! High Five!!"
Still hysterical, I called MSU (more out of sheer adrenaline and terror than anything else), and related what had happened. And he shouted at me. He told me I was an unfit mother. He asked me how I could possibly be so stupid as to leave her unattended even for a second. He said he was coming home to take her to the hospital, since I was obviously not going to provide the proper care (MSU and I are both EMTs, BTW - I have the exact same training and expertise that he does). And things were mighty "frosty" around my house for a little while. Until, as previously mentioned, karma stepped in.
Two days later, Isabeau fell down the stairs AGAIN - on Daddy's watch. And he reacted the exact same way that I did. The only difference was that this time, Isabeau didn't even cry. She just laughed and laughed as MSU, crying in a previously unheard voice and shaking like a leaf, picked her up off the tile and cradled her little body to his. He brought her back up the stairs and they both crawled back into bed with me... and he and I looked at each other and said at precisely the same time, "We can never take our eyes off her again. Not until she's 18."
Oh yes, there are more. LOTS more. But those two incidents are the ones that stick in my head, the ones that taught me the most about how much of a responsibility it is to be a parent. Tired, sick, pissed off, in pain, half dead... doesn't matter. There is no time - not three seconds, not four steps - once those babies are born that parenthood stops, no moment where one can wholly abdicate the obligation in order to get a little sleep, have some satisfying and unhurried sex, or take a shower. And there is no way to predict what's going to happen next!! Hot tea... willful dog who succumbed to the charms of cute, hell-bent-on-escaping baby and left her post... casualties of fingers in noses... it's a thrill ride, to be sure.
Here's a happy one! I had just made myself a cup of tea with boiling water from the kettle, and I set it on the coffee table to steep while I went to switch a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. Young Tamara, who had just started pulling herself up to a standing position days earlier, was sitting in the middle of the living room, playing with her activity blanket. As I tossed clean diapers into the dryer, an unearthly scream came from the living room... and suddenly I KNEW exactly what had happened. I dropped what was in my hands and ran full-tilt into the other room (a total of four steps), where I found the cup of tea overturned and Tamara, red-faced and shrieking, soaking wet with boiling hot tea. Already crying, I snatched her up and ran with her to the bathroom, chanting "Mommy's so stupid, Mommy's so sorry, Mommy's so STUPID!" I turned the cold water on and set her in the tub, splashing her and peeling the wet clothes off, terrified that skin was going to come off with them. As a semblance of awareness returned, I realized that Tamara's skin was fine - not burned at all, thank God! - and that Tamara herself had stopped crying long ago and was now having the time of her life watching Mommy lose it. Could it have been a LOT worse? Absolutely. Was I consumed by overwhelming bad-parent guilt. Oh yeah. Still am.
But the situation that came to mind when I read RT's post came much later, and is reminiscent because of the "frosty" reaction of MSU.
Isabeau was -and is - a physically gifted child. She was crawling at four months and walking at seven... we didn't get a lot of "baby" time with her. I was getting ready for work one morning in our bedroom, which at the time was a very large room. I stood at the long mirror in front of the counter than ran the length of the back wall, the little room with the toilet and shower on my left and the large walk-in closet on the right. Isabeau was sitting on the floor behind me, playing with a toy and babbling happily. About five feet to Isabeau's left was our good Akita Freya, who had positioned her entire body in front of the door as was her habit. Just outside the bedroom door and immediately left was the wide staircase of 16 stairs that led to the inside end of the marble-tiled entryway. I was finished with my hair and face and was ready to get dressed, so I checked Isabeau's location (still in the middle of the room), checked Freya's location (still completely occupying the doorway), and darted into the walk-in closet to grab the day's outfit, which was already staged and ready to go. The entire trip into the closet and out of the closet took approximately three seconds.
When I exited the closet, Mom-Vision saw two things at once: the baby was no longer in the room and neither was the dog. Already knowing what I was going to find, I sprinted out the door just in time to see Isabeau, on her hands and knees, reach her hand out for the first stair down, Freya standing at her side. And in the horrific slow-motion vision that only parents have, I dove to try to snatch her clothing only to watch her tumble, end over end, to the cold marble below. In excruciating detail, I saw each body part as it hit each stair: arm twisted on that one, face down on that one, legs bent at an unnatural angle on that one. And though I was right behind her the entire way, screaming (also in slow motion) "Nooooooooooooooo," I couldn't catch her or even get my body in front of her in time to avoid what I knew was coming next: the fatal wet smacking sound of her soft baby head splitting on the marble tile.
It was 10 years ago, but I'm crying now, again, with the memory. There is NOTHING worse than watching an event that you KNOW will kill your baby. Except watching an event that you know will kill your baby that's YOUR fault for being so fucking negligent.
But even-then physically gifted Isabeau didn't smack her head on the tile. And she didn't break any bones on the way down. And when she came to rest, she looked fearsome confused for about 10 seconds before she started crying tears of experience, not of pain. And stopped crying immediately upon Freya joyously licking her face as if to say, "Great stunt, girlfriend!! High Five!!"
Still hysterical, I called MSU (more out of sheer adrenaline and terror than anything else), and related what had happened. And he shouted at me. He told me I was an unfit mother. He asked me how I could possibly be so stupid as to leave her unattended even for a second. He said he was coming home to take her to the hospital, since I was obviously not going to provide the proper care (MSU and I are both EMTs, BTW - I have the exact same training and expertise that he does). And things were mighty "frosty" around my house for a little while. Until, as previously mentioned, karma stepped in.
Two days later, Isabeau fell down the stairs AGAIN - on Daddy's watch. And he reacted the exact same way that I did. The only difference was that this time, Isabeau didn't even cry. She just laughed and laughed as MSU, crying in a previously unheard voice and shaking like a leaf, picked her up off the tile and cradled her little body to his. He brought her back up the stairs and they both crawled back into bed with me... and he and I looked at each other and said at precisely the same time, "We can never take our eyes off her again. Not until she's 18."
Oh yes, there are more. LOTS more. But those two incidents are the ones that stick in my head, the ones that taught me the most about how much of a responsibility it is to be a parent. Tired, sick, pissed off, in pain, half dead... doesn't matter. There is no time - not three seconds, not four steps - once those babies are born that parenthood stops, no moment where one can wholly abdicate the obligation in order to get a little sleep, have some satisfying and unhurried sex, or take a shower. And there is no way to predict what's going to happen next!! Hot tea... willful dog who succumbed to the charms of cute, hell-bent-on-escaping baby and left her post... casualties of fingers in noses... it's a thrill ride, to be sure.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The Best One!
"Chuck Norris' dick is so big it has its own dick. And Chuck Norris' dick's dick is bigger than your dick."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Rejection...
...SUCKS.
Especially when it's after the fact.
Rejection at first glance is an easy thing to deal with: there are myriad reasons why such a judgment is being made, and most of them don't have anything to do with the rejectee. First-glance rejection doesn't necessarily mean being personally dismissed out-of-hand.
But after the fact? That can only mean one - or all! - of three things:
1. I did/said/sucked/handled something wrong.
2. I didn't do/say/suck/handle something right.
3. I'm fundamentally wrong. Or ugly. Or smelly. Or whatever. Insert self-deprecating assumption here.
All I can say is that folks would save me - and themselves - a whole lot of time and energy if they'd just take the time to decide prior to the judgment becoming personal. Because I'm too old for this shit. Seriously.
Especially when it's after the fact.
Rejection at first glance is an easy thing to deal with: there are myriad reasons why such a judgment is being made, and most of them don't have anything to do with the rejectee. First-glance rejection doesn't necessarily mean being personally dismissed out-of-hand.
But after the fact? That can only mean one - or all! - of three things:
1. I did/said/sucked/handled something wrong.
2. I didn't do/say/suck/handle something right.
3. I'm fundamentally wrong. Or ugly. Or smelly. Or whatever. Insert self-deprecating assumption here.
All I can say is that folks would save me - and themselves - a whole lot of time and energy if they'd just take the time to decide prior to the judgment becoming personal. Because I'm too old for this shit. Seriously.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Should Have Known, Part II
I think most people walk through their lives without ever knowing perfection. I think we have, as humans, resigned ourselves to the fact that our also-human companions are never going to be perfect and neither are we. No matter how compatible two people may be, there is always going to be something that doesn’t quite fit. There is always going to be some wavelength that isn’t matched. There is always going to be disagreement, there will always be annoying quirks, there will always be differences in timing, viewpoints, sexual preferences, and social issues. No one is a perfect fit. We find someone that is close and consider ourselves lucky to have that high degree of compatibility.
I honestly believe that no two people are completely compatible. But I do think that there are compatibilities that matter and compatibilities that don’t. And if two people can line up the majority of the compatibilities that matter, the differences won’t be as obvious, nor will they be enough to tear the relationship apart.
Sexual compatibility matters. Really matters. And it seems like almost everyone I’ve talked to lately has compatibility issues when it comes to sexual relations. I met two married people over the weekend who stated that the sexual incompatibility was too much to bear in their relationships and their respective significant others had agreed to quit having sex entirely and offered the other partner their sexual freedom in exchange. Hanging out with married people who spent the entire weekend openly looking to get laid with strangers was disconcerting, to say the least. These are people who obviously found a great measure of compatibility in every realm of their relationships but one – and instead of ditching their relationships entirely, chose to try to deal with the one level where they could not relate in a way that was acceptable to both. Of course, these folks are the extreme end of the spectrum, but most people I have spoken with on the subject seem to be incompatible sexually with their partners to one degree or another. I think most folks have decided that this is the status quo – no one can be on the same sexual page with another person all the time because sexual expression is just so dang personal.
I don’t know how many times I’ve said it aloud… I don’t know how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep thinking the thought over and over… I don’t know how many times I’ve typed it in this blog or written it on scraps of paper or scrawled it somewhere random, but I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know what it’s like to be perfectly sexually compatible with another person, to be perfectly synced, to be perfectly fit, to be perfectly pleasured, to be perfectly intimate. I wish I didn’t know that the true meaning of cunt-magic is the forging of a bond that transcends the physical, a connection that blends the psyches into one and erases the separation of consciousness. I wish I didn’t know that it’s possible to lose hours upon hours of time in sacred space, without being aware of the moments passing or of the shadows descending. I wish I didn’t know that once forged, that bond is a gilded chain, a jewel-encrusted shackle worn with pride. I wish I didn’t know that it’s a joy I’ll never, ever know again.
Mostly, I wish I didn’t know that it’s just not possible with any other person on the planet. I wish I didn’t know so I could be just like everyone else and believe it’s not possible at all.
I honestly believe that no two people are completely compatible. But I do think that there are compatibilities that matter and compatibilities that don’t. And if two people can line up the majority of the compatibilities that matter, the differences won’t be as obvious, nor will they be enough to tear the relationship apart.
Sexual compatibility matters. Really matters. And it seems like almost everyone I’ve talked to lately has compatibility issues when it comes to sexual relations. I met two married people over the weekend who stated that the sexual incompatibility was too much to bear in their relationships and their respective significant others had agreed to quit having sex entirely and offered the other partner their sexual freedom in exchange. Hanging out with married people who spent the entire weekend openly looking to get laid with strangers was disconcerting, to say the least. These are people who obviously found a great measure of compatibility in every realm of their relationships but one – and instead of ditching their relationships entirely, chose to try to deal with the one level where they could not relate in a way that was acceptable to both. Of course, these folks are the extreme end of the spectrum, but most people I have spoken with on the subject seem to be incompatible sexually with their partners to one degree or another. I think most folks have decided that this is the status quo – no one can be on the same sexual page with another person all the time because sexual expression is just so dang personal.
I don’t know how many times I’ve said it aloud… I don’t know how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep thinking the thought over and over… I don’t know how many times I’ve typed it in this blog or written it on scraps of paper or scrawled it somewhere random, but I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know what it’s like to be perfectly sexually compatible with another person, to be perfectly synced, to be perfectly fit, to be perfectly pleasured, to be perfectly intimate. I wish I didn’t know that the true meaning of cunt-magic is the forging of a bond that transcends the physical, a connection that blends the psyches into one and erases the separation of consciousness. I wish I didn’t know that it’s possible to lose hours upon hours of time in sacred space, without being aware of the moments passing or of the shadows descending. I wish I didn’t know that once forged, that bond is a gilded chain, a jewel-encrusted shackle worn with pride. I wish I didn’t know that it’s a joy I’ll never, ever know again.
Mostly, I wish I didn’t know that it’s just not possible with any other person on the planet. I wish I didn’t know so I could be just like everyone else and believe it’s not possible at all.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Should Have Known Better
Sometimes the past haunts the experience of the present and even of the future. I wish I didn't know... I wish I had known better... I wish perfect wasn't particular... and I wish I could say goodbye and really, REALLY mean it.
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