How do we DO this?! How do we stay sober?!
Big exam in Psych Statistics tonight, the kind where I pull out my hair while working my pencil, and end up getting an A. Killing myself, because that is what I do. (Let's remember, I did not get A's in college the first time around. I was into blackouts, cracked ribs, stealing cigarettes. And there was a tail-gate party that, as good drunks, we didn't party out of the trunk of the car; we rented a U-Haul cube to hold the kegs. I got mud in my braids, puked all over, and had to ride home in the back of the cube, which was scary and made me even pukier.) These days, why do it unless you do it right, which means full throttle, pull-your-hair-out-late-night-statistics.
There is an Indian dandy who comes in late when he comes to class, which is almost never. Wild hair and gorgeous black eyes, and a smell you'd imagine comes from his car, gassy and smokey and boozy. His skin should be lovely, too, but it's not, it's yellow, and there are bits of tobacco-like things in his hair. He chooses to sit by me, probably because it's the easiest seat to take when late and leave when early. (Some of you might say a higher power put him there, but I believe it's just a matter of logistics.) He takes off his coat and his smell comes to me, lets me know what he's been up to. On lecture nights, he raises his hand and asks questions that no one but the professor can understand, and she dismisses him because his questions will be answered two chapters down the line. The kid is in overdrive on some crazy Jim Beam-and-speed math ride, and the teacher can't keep up. Tonight is exam night, and he's drunk again, swaying again, and getting an A...again. How does he DO it?
And why couldn't I? That's what still can piss us right off. Why can't we be like "other" people? Why can't we drink like normal, and act normal, and have normal relationships with normal expectations and disppointments? Have a drink at Friday happy hour, toast the bride and groom at a wedding, have a few beers from the trunk in the Giants' parking lot? Well, we can't. We just can't. We've proven it over and over. We don't know more than we know, and we know we cannot drink at all if we are to live like "other" people.
Besides, the sotten Indian is not one of the "other" people, he is like me. He just doesn't know it yet.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I'm Sorry, I Don't Think We've Met
When I was 16 I had the most beautiful boyfriend in the world. Really. He looked like Jim Morrison, without a shirt, a strand of love beads over his hairless chest. Maybe that's why I loved him, because God knows I loved Jim, and to make the deal sweeter, this gorgeous blonde kid with big curls at his neck even wrote poetry like Jim's, so, there.
He could draw, too, my Adonis, and at the time I thought he was the greatest artist ever to sketch with a pencil in a book. (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.) Serious and sly, he would draw anything anywhere...except me. He never drew me. Not my face, my mouth, my eye. After years and reams of paper, I asked him why. "You wouldn't like it," he said, "I'd draw you as you are, and not how you want me to see you." He thought I wouldn't recognize myself.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and I know now what he meant. Because I never can recognize myself. Sometimes, in my mind, I see myself as a sexy siren, a feminine fox with a great walk and a nice mouth. The with-it girl that guys want. The woman that you can't guess her age, you'd guess a bit low. A passionate lover who can't wait to be unbuttoned. Other times, I see an ogre. A fat, ugly, pockmarked lump. A crazy-ass chick that only a crazy-ass ogre would want. An aging beast that makes a solid friend, but you wouldn't want to see her naked. You wouldn't dare touch her, please her, love her. Even if she'd let you, but she probably won't.
Today when I checked the mirror, I didn't see either of those. I could see a bit of my grandmother's face, a shine my dark eye, a too-broad nose, set on a rounding body. Nice shoulders, though. Maybe my old sweetheart should have just drawn my shoulder, my line to my clavicle, a few dark freckles and lots of light ones. That, I might recognize. That part of me doesn't seem to change.
And who wants to love that? Fucking shoulder...Is it enough to rip the clothes off a woman, throw her down, kiss her round belly? Is it enough to make a man want to bite that shoulder just to get a part of me in him? To say my name, to beg my name?
Nope. But, it's all I've got, all I can rely on right now. It's a start. So, a drawing of me might be something I would like. I wouldn't be able to wonder, and waver. I'd learn to recognize myself, maybe. And maybe learn to like that pencil-sketched girl, too. I bet she's kind of pretty.
He could draw, too, my Adonis, and at the time I thought he was the greatest artist ever to sketch with a pencil in a book. (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.) Serious and sly, he would draw anything anywhere...except me. He never drew me. Not my face, my mouth, my eye. After years and reams of paper, I asked him why. "You wouldn't like it," he said, "I'd draw you as you are, and not how you want me to see you." He thought I wouldn't recognize myself.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and I know now what he meant. Because I never can recognize myself. Sometimes, in my mind, I see myself as a sexy siren, a feminine fox with a great walk and a nice mouth. The with-it girl that guys want. The woman that you can't guess her age, you'd guess a bit low. A passionate lover who can't wait to be unbuttoned. Other times, I see an ogre. A fat, ugly, pockmarked lump. A crazy-ass chick that only a crazy-ass ogre would want. An aging beast that makes a solid friend, but you wouldn't want to see her naked. You wouldn't dare touch her, please her, love her. Even if she'd let you, but she probably won't.
Today when I checked the mirror, I didn't see either of those. I could see a bit of my grandmother's face, a shine my dark eye, a too-broad nose, set on a rounding body. Nice shoulders, though. Maybe my old sweetheart should have just drawn my shoulder, my line to my clavicle, a few dark freckles and lots of light ones. That, I might recognize. That part of me doesn't seem to change.
And who wants to love that? Fucking shoulder...Is it enough to rip the clothes off a woman, throw her down, kiss her round belly? Is it enough to make a man want to bite that shoulder just to get a part of me in him? To say my name, to beg my name?
Nope. But, it's all I've got, all I can rely on right now. It's a start. So, a drawing of me might be something I would like. I wouldn't be able to wonder, and waver. I'd learn to recognize myself, maybe. And maybe learn to like that pencil-sketched girl, too. I bet she's kind of pretty.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Merci Beaucoup!
Did you know I went on a health clinic mission to Haiti? Guess I didn't hit you up for money to help pay my way, then. Anyway, I went. I missioned. I had the best experiences, and some of the worst, of my life, sometimes within the same afternoon. Reflecting, I get to look at what was really cool and grows daily in meaning, and what wasn't as important as I thought it was when I was in that particular moment. For instance, at the time I learned that FOUR other team members out of nine were alcoholics recovering through the 12 steps of A.A., I was blown away. I fired off e-mails to my A.A. gang at home, hoping to translate my breathless surprise and joy through typed language. Really, I was fired up. Nine days later, not so hot about it, more warmly appreciative. (Of course half the gang was in recovery; drunks and junkies do it UP when it's time to give back! No simple local food bank for us, we go to fuckin' HAITI cross fuckin' MOUNTAINS and save some LIVES, mothafuckers!) Looking back on what meant the most, my most defining experience could have happened in my own back yard, but I'm like Dorothy and need to travel around some and end up beat and vulnerable in a strange land before I can learn my lesson.
My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.
I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.
Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.
The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.
My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.
I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.
Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.
The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
Oh, the past two weeks! A visit from my mom, and she brought a wonderful guest. Seems "Aunt" Ellen is the same good old friend she used to be, as she has grown into her age like a perfect Golden Girl; sassy, generous, and tattooed. Both Mom and Aunt were three days in and out, though, and now it's over and all really good. Except...
My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.
I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.
All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.
After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.
My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.
I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.
All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.
After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
My Orange Sweater
There has to be a way.
There has to be a way I can fit in to my life.
I am so uncomfortable, like a girl in an itchy orange sweater
In July.
Lightening starts in the clouds
It starts in the clouds and heads straight for the earth
I cannot connect, my white blaze runs parallel across
tall dry grass.
I can light little fires on what I barely touch and eventually
they'll all burn themselves out
or drown themselves out
or be smothered.
There has to be a way I can fit in to my life.
I am so uncomfortable, like a girl in an itchy orange sweater
In July.
Lightening starts in the clouds
It starts in the clouds and heads straight for the earth
I cannot connect, my white blaze runs parallel across
tall dry grass.
I can light little fires on what I barely touch and eventually
they'll all burn themselves out
or drown themselves out
or be smothered.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Just Because You Work for Fox Doesn't Mean You Are One
Crazy busy days. Good, great, gigantic things happening. Not a "baby-steps" kind of week, this one goes down in history as the best that sober life brings. To see the Dalai Lama would be enough, certainly, but it wasn't, not by a long shot.
My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.
The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!
Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.
I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.
My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.
The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!
Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.
I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.
Monday, May 17, 2010
To be continued, or not.
There had been no fiery Armageddon; the family had just stopped breathing. It had not existed so long that anyone passing through would really notice it was gone. The house remained standing on a manicured lawn, the curtains pressed, meals made and eaten, windows put up at night and pushed down securely in the morning. But the family was no longer. The house seemed to maintain itself just fine.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Hijacked hijacker.
My new favorite word. Lately, I can use hijack for any situation, as in:
My project at work got hijacked by a short woman with a big ego and a european accent. You can't fight that bitch, gotta let the project go. I picked my battles; actually, I picked no battles, and guess it all worked out in the end. The kids seeded flower pots for Earth day, which was my original plan, so everybody won.
Also as in:
My oldest child is living a life for which she patiently waited more than 2 years. She is about to graduate with a degree she wasn't sure she should want or could earn. She's rented a 2nd floor walkup over a bagel deli/Domino's pizza, and her new home is filled with light and scented candles and owl paintings. (Also in this new flat is a nice guy who is rather cute and very much in love with her, but maybe too old for her, but maybe not, it's not for me to say.) She helped out a friend in need a few days ago, and now her life has been hijacked by an angry drug addicted lesbian who has been tossed out of rehab due to her "problems with authority". My child came home to lie on her old bedroom floor, pet her left-behind cat, and cry. I used to love the angry drug addicted oppositionally defiant lesbian; I guess I still do. I'm just really disgusted with the bad-behavior-in-rehab spiel. Look, kid, this is your third go round doing 28 days. Swallow that shit that comes out of your mouth so you can get help, or move along so someone who deserves your bed can have it. You're like a punk holding a knife to a bus driver's neck. Get arrested, already, would you? Yes, life is hard, I get it. No, no one understands you, I get it. Get locked up, you may finally be the one who gets it.
Today I:
Hijacked my diet with a trip out to the Stewart's root beer and hot dog joint in Denville. I didn't order fries, but you know I ate 10 or 12 of Steven's. Feeding the ends of my chili dog rolls to the dog does not count as discounting the caloric content of the meal; I am only kidding myself.
My final example:
I am a recovering hijacker. I hijacked the expectations for a somewhat normal life not only from the above child, but her two sisters as well. I did hijack the idea of unconditional love from their dad. I hijacked my father's pride in a daughter who could rise above bad luck and poor timing. I've hijacked hundreds of people's plans to have a nice day. I have hijacked conversations, good intentions, and interventions. I took over that plane at gunpoint and turned it toward Mexico more than once, let me tell you, and I am more like the angry lesbian than I am my own kid. That is, I was like her. Now, I am more like my own child. I can hand over the controls and say, that's ok, I guess this flight will just take a little longer than I had planned. Does anyone have extra peanuts?
My project at work got hijacked by a short woman with a big ego and a european accent. You can't fight that bitch, gotta let the project go. I picked my battles; actually, I picked no battles, and guess it all worked out in the end. The kids seeded flower pots for Earth day, which was my original plan, so everybody won.
Also as in:
My oldest child is living a life for which she patiently waited more than 2 years. She is about to graduate with a degree she wasn't sure she should want or could earn. She's rented a 2nd floor walkup over a bagel deli/Domino's pizza, and her new home is filled with light and scented candles and owl paintings. (Also in this new flat is a nice guy who is rather cute and very much in love with her, but maybe too old for her, but maybe not, it's not for me to say.) She helped out a friend in need a few days ago, and now her life has been hijacked by an angry drug addicted lesbian who has been tossed out of rehab due to her "problems with authority". My child came home to lie on her old bedroom floor, pet her left-behind cat, and cry. I used to love the angry drug addicted oppositionally defiant lesbian; I guess I still do. I'm just really disgusted with the bad-behavior-in-rehab spiel. Look, kid, this is your third go round doing 28 days. Swallow that shit that comes out of your mouth so you can get help, or move along so someone who deserves your bed can have it. You're like a punk holding a knife to a bus driver's neck. Get arrested, already, would you? Yes, life is hard, I get it. No, no one understands you, I get it. Get locked up, you may finally be the one who gets it.
Today I:
Hijacked my diet with a trip out to the Stewart's root beer and hot dog joint in Denville. I didn't order fries, but you know I ate 10 or 12 of Steven's. Feeding the ends of my chili dog rolls to the dog does not count as discounting the caloric content of the meal; I am only kidding myself.
My final example:
I am a recovering hijacker. I hijacked the expectations for a somewhat normal life not only from the above child, but her two sisters as well. I did hijack the idea of unconditional love from their dad. I hijacked my father's pride in a daughter who could rise above bad luck and poor timing. I've hijacked hundreds of people's plans to have a nice day. I have hijacked conversations, good intentions, and interventions. I took over that plane at gunpoint and turned it toward Mexico more than once, let me tell you, and I am more like the angry lesbian than I am my own kid. That is, I was like her. Now, I am more like my own child. I can hand over the controls and say, that's ok, I guess this flight will just take a little longer than I had planned. Does anyone have extra peanuts?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Priority Number...9???
I have a lot of important things to do, like write critical papers on Socrates, and take on-line exams about ethics of psychologists, and get my car inspected. I have to press my embroidered fingertip towels, and bleach the grout in both bathrooms, and walk the dog. Instead, I am doing what I am the absolute best at doing: Procrastinating.
I'm wrapped in my old familiar worn out blanket of fear, frustration, and denial. Ah, it's warmth! That smell, that scratchy edging, that impossibly heavy weight that keeps me still, paralyzed. Forget that I have so much to do...It's so much easier to do nothing!
This is bad behavior, I know. I occasionally jump up to put out small fires, and this eases my guilt (somewhat) that is my constant companion when I return under my big old blanket. A few days of this, however, and I am in deep shit, my friends, and my blankie is starting to stink. I tell myself, I will get going as soon as I order dahlias online/finish my pudding/spot the first robin of spring. I blame others for my laze, like if I didn't have to sit on the couch and watch that bad movie my boyfriend's been bugging me about, I could write that 3 page analysis of Descartes' Meditations. Each moment that I think about what I should be doing instead of what I am doing gets me sicker and sicker, and when I get sick enough, I do really stupid things. So, it's time to throw this old smelly blanket off my shoulders, and get going! Prioritize! Make lists! First things First! Feel the fear and do it anyway!
Ok. I'll do it! As soon as I trim my bangs, and change the status on my dog's Facebook profile.
I'm wrapped in my old familiar worn out blanket of fear, frustration, and denial. Ah, it's warmth! That smell, that scratchy edging, that impossibly heavy weight that keeps me still, paralyzed. Forget that I have so much to do...It's so much easier to do nothing!
This is bad behavior, I know. I occasionally jump up to put out small fires, and this eases my guilt (somewhat) that is my constant companion when I return under my big old blanket. A few days of this, however, and I am in deep shit, my friends, and my blankie is starting to stink. I tell myself, I will get going as soon as I order dahlias online/finish my pudding/spot the first robin of spring. I blame others for my laze, like if I didn't have to sit on the couch and watch that bad movie my boyfriend's been bugging me about, I could write that 3 page analysis of Descartes' Meditations. Each moment that I think about what I should be doing instead of what I am doing gets me sicker and sicker, and when I get sick enough, I do really stupid things. So, it's time to throw this old smelly blanket off my shoulders, and get going! Prioritize! Make lists! First things First! Feel the fear and do it anyway!
Ok. I'll do it! As soon as I trim my bangs, and change the status on my dog's Facebook profile.
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