After years of avoiding those annoying little Netflix pop-ups, I had an impulsive moment... Now I have a Netflix Queue. Normally, I hate queues because of the association with waiting, but in the interest of growing up, I've decided that having one less hang-up wouldn't hurt.
So what I have I been watching? Lots of things. Surprising because I thought I was too impatient and too slender in the attention span to watch movies on my own. I've been a co-dependent movie watcher for most of my life and I have never seen a movie in a theater by myself.
No desire to sit in the dark and stare at big pictures; provides no comfort in illuminating my real big picture, cloaked in darkness and uncertainty. So once again, in the interest of the growing up (which I suspect is fundamental to my big picture) I'm finally sitting down to watch movies on my own. I'm not ready for the theater but my couch has transformed from lackluster enabler to eager co-therapist.
During my therapy, I've rediscovered several movies that I love. One of my favorites is "Chungking Express". Saw this movie several times one summer, about 10 years ago. Moody, and subdued, it's simultaneously agitating and soothing. It's like a lullaby that repeatedly wakes you up and then soothes you back to sleep. But that's enough with the movie reviewing. I'll share my random thoughts with you about Netflix (and it's tangential role in the growing up) but not my opinions about the obscure foreign movies that I watch via Netflix.
Some things are better left unshared anyway. You try to share something that you find wonderful, and enchanting, and you are often greeted with the equivalent of a disinterested shrug, verbally, non-verbally, sometimes in writing.
And perhaps that's what you deserve if you go around pushing your opinions on people. Not only is it boorish, but it's quite wasteful. Keep them to yourself! Jealously guard them. They are tiny little pieces of your picture, and shouldn't be shared freely, not like the contents of your Netflix queue.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Funnel Cake
If I'm not obsessing about something (often food) it's a bad sign. As a general rule, I eat when my feelings range from happy, to normal, to so-so, and bored, with my appetite atrophying as I approach sad or discouraged.
I was feeling elated the other night, was suffering from a over-abundance of manic energy. It was president's day, and I had gotten home in less than two hours, which in my world counts as a reason to celebrate. The first thing that came to mind was donuts. It was already after 8 pm, so that likelihood of finding fresh donuts was very unlikely. Then I started thinking about funnel cake. I remembered my friend had made fried Oreos...dipped in funnel cake batter that she had whipped up with some seemingly basic ingredients.
Funnel cake recipes are deceptively uneasy. That is perhaps why normal people don't make funnel cake at home. It's public food, usually shared, and there's something taboo about making for yourself at home on a Monday night. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I've long accepted I have no dignity when it comes to food. My search of online recipes yielded several promising options. The Food Network's Alton Brown had a recipe that deviate from the standard by almost a entire stick of butter. I doubted that funnel cake contained a pound of butter. This seemed to be the consensus of some disgruntled foodies that pointed out that the recipe was a Choux recipe (dough for eclairs, beignets etc) and NOT funnel cake. I also learned from these rants that funnel cake is essentially deep fried pancake batter.
How long did it take me to formulate the plan to deep fry pancake batter? Sadly not long enough.
Three minutes later I was heating up a gigantic pan of oil and transferring pancake batter into the bottle I would use to replicate the pouring of the funnel. But the oil wasn't hot enough. My heart sank along with the batter to the bottom of the pan before puffing and rising to the surface. No desire, or need to taste it to tell that the whole thing was a hot steaming oily mess. This fat bloated wretch of a funnel cake was quickly discarded; but I wasn't done yet, I was happy and determined so I improvised with funnel cake strips. Flavor and texture were good, but still way too oil; sick to your stomach oily. I had wolfed down two, making my digestive tract literally a slippery slope.
The deed was done, the mess was made, and my craving for funnel cake had been smothered in oil, fried up and quickly discarded. Despite the imperfect results, I'm still worried that I may become proficient at making funnel cake. All it would take is one good day to send me hurtling over that greasy edge.
I was feeling elated the other night, was suffering from a over-abundance of manic energy. It was president's day, and I had gotten home in less than two hours, which in my world counts as a reason to celebrate. The first thing that came to mind was donuts. It was already after 8 pm, so that likelihood of finding fresh donuts was very unlikely. Then I started thinking about funnel cake. I remembered my friend had made fried Oreos...dipped in funnel cake batter that she had whipped up with some seemingly basic ingredients.
Funnel cake recipes are deceptively uneasy. That is perhaps why normal people don't make funnel cake at home. It's public food, usually shared, and there's something taboo about making for yourself at home on a Monday night. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I've long accepted I have no dignity when it comes to food. My search of online recipes yielded several promising options. The Food Network's Alton Brown had a recipe that deviate from the standard by almost a entire stick of butter. I doubted that funnel cake contained a pound of butter. This seemed to be the consensus of some disgruntled foodies that pointed out that the recipe was a Choux recipe (dough for eclairs, beignets etc) and NOT funnel cake. I also learned from these rants that funnel cake is essentially deep fried pancake batter.
How long did it take me to formulate the plan to deep fry pancake batter? Sadly not long enough.
Three minutes later I was heating up a gigantic pan of oil and transferring pancake batter into the bottle I would use to replicate the pouring of the funnel. But the oil wasn't hot enough. My heart sank along with the batter to the bottom of the pan before puffing and rising to the surface. No desire, or need to taste it to tell that the whole thing was a hot steaming oily mess. This fat bloated wretch of a funnel cake was quickly discarded; but I wasn't done yet, I was happy and determined so I improvised with funnel cake strips. Flavor and texture were good, but still way too oil; sick to your stomach oily. I had wolfed down two, making my digestive tract literally a slippery slope.
The deed was done, the mess was made, and my craving for funnel cake had been smothered in oil, fried up and quickly discarded. Despite the imperfect results, I'm still worried that I may become proficient at making funnel cake. All it would take is one good day to send me hurtling over that greasy edge.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Telling Time
I spent a total of 6 hours commuting to and from work yesterday, in order to work a pathetic 6.5 hours. Frankly, a waste of time, all of it, the working and the commute.
On the bright side, my 4 hour odyssey home gave me an opportunity to think about some important things. For example: What is the DMV's snide equivalent of the term "Bridge and Tunnel"? Perhaps something to do with this anathematic Beltway I'm always hearing about. Which reminds me, witnessed a masterful piece of road rage last night, a stunning display of misplaced frustration. Kinda like when that Haitian guy beats up the hooker on YouTube (Do a search of Haitian vs. Hooker if you really must know).
It's becoming increasing difficult for me to distinguish time well spent from time spent foolishly. My labor was technically paid, but has long alienated and certainly not my own. While my 6 hours of commuting were unpaid but wholly my own time to think, to talk (not to myself but to my passenger).
This idea is contrary to my normal, rather anal conception of time. Very droll, and sand in the hourglassy, this concept of linear time. Every moment experienced is a moment instantly lost, or so I suspected but wasn't certain. Unfortunately, my research on the subject was stymied when the rules of thermodynamics came into play.
Thermodynamics: a confusing and ironically time consuming subject to learn via wikipedia.
On the bright side, my 4 hour odyssey home gave me an opportunity to think about some important things. For example: What is the DMV's snide equivalent of the term "Bridge and Tunnel"? Perhaps something to do with this anathematic Beltway I'm always hearing about. Which reminds me, witnessed a masterful piece of road rage last night, a stunning display of misplaced frustration. Kinda like when that Haitian guy beats up the hooker on YouTube (Do a search of Haitian vs. Hooker if you really must know).
It's becoming increasing difficult for me to distinguish time well spent from time spent foolishly. My labor was technically paid, but has long alienated and certainly not my own. While my 6 hours of commuting were unpaid but wholly my own time to think, to talk (not to myself but to my passenger).
This idea is contrary to my normal, rather anal conception of time. Very droll, and sand in the hourglassy, this concept of linear time. Every moment experienced is a moment instantly lost, or so I suspected but wasn't certain. Unfortunately, my research on the subject was stymied when the rules of thermodynamics came into play.
Thermodynamics: a confusing and ironically time consuming subject to learn via wikipedia.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Precarious
The founder and designer of the Alexander McQueen brand was found dead today, sadly his death an apparent suicide. The avant-garde genius is gone. Good or bad, all of our lives are ephemeral. Genius appears to be more so because it dances closer to the edge of the unknown. Often it falters and falls in.
For those of us firmly entrenched on the land, far from the precarious shores of fame and greatness, it's easier to pretend that we are more substantial.
My stepfather, the mortician with the morbid sense of humor, thought it was funny to pick me up from school in a hearse, slathering yet another layer of childhood trauma onto my delicate psyche. "What's the big deal? You're gonna die one day you know." This did nothing to alleviate my irrational fear of death. I now equate my fear of death with my fear of the dark... of the void, of the nothingness. No feeling, no light, no joys or pain. Couldn't live like that but of course I would be dead.
Used to have a bad habit of looking at my reflection compulsively in mirrors, in car windows etc. This was interpreted as evidence of a profound and offensive vanity; this interpretation was only partially true. Seemed more embarrassing to admit that I had not learned the concept of object permanence, had not learned that my physical being was not the sum of my insignificant existence. Mirror or no mirror, I was there. And here I am being a downer.
For those of us firmly entrenched on the land, far from the precarious shores of fame and greatness, it's easier to pretend that we are more substantial.
My stepfather, the mortician with the morbid sense of humor, thought it was funny to pick me up from school in a hearse, slathering yet another layer of childhood trauma onto my delicate psyche. "What's the big deal? You're gonna die one day you know." This did nothing to alleviate my irrational fear of death. I now equate my fear of death with my fear of the dark... of the void, of the nothingness. No feeling, no light, no joys or pain. Couldn't live like that but of course I would be dead.
Used to have a bad habit of looking at my reflection compulsively in mirrors, in car windows etc. This was interpreted as evidence of a profound and offensive vanity; this interpretation was only partially true. Seemed more embarrassing to admit that I had not learned the concept of object permanence, had not learned that my physical being was not the sum of my insignificant existence. Mirror or no mirror, I was there. And here I am being a downer.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sweetest Taboo
Downloaded Sade's Soldier of Love album yesterday, and I'm still picking my way through the songs. I seldom buy albums but I felt obligated to buy this one. Partly, because I have a raging non-homosexual girl crush on Sade Adu. I wish she were my mother so she could sing me to sleep. It's possible, after all, she and my mom are the same age. But my mother would never indulge me with singing. Her indulges are more of the material kind, and her baby girl has always been jonesing for the soul.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of illicitly watching Sade's "Sweetest Taboo" video while I was supposed to be sleeping. She wore red lipstick (a given) and stood in front of a huge glass window with tears softening the surreal beauty of her face, making her not just captivating but also amazingly real. Didn't understand what she was singing about but she became real to me.
I got in trouble for staying up late that night. I also got in trouble because I had been caught sleeping with my pillows over my face. I was a repeat offender. It seemed to me that my mother was unduly concerned with the possibility of my suffocating, about my mortality in general. What did she know? My pillow cocoons kept me safe from the dark. And the light which I gained (the light headed euphoria I experienced) was simply a bonus.
Ten years later, I was still surreptitiously building pillow cocoons while listening to my Mama Adu. By then I was in college, and the purpose of the cocoons had been inverted; created specifically to produce darkness, not to escape it. Back then I couldn't get enough of this darkness. Eventually I stopped. Then unexpectedly, as I approached my thirtieth birtday, I suddenly had a desire to once again taste darkness. My darkness?
For months I became consumed with the desire to spend my birthday on the couch with a pillow over my face. Of course, it didn't happen as I imagined. After 20 minutes, it felt pointless if not ridiculous. My cocoon felt neither protective nor insulating, just melodramatic and self-indulgent.
Yesterday morning, I was lying in bed and my son came in to check on me. He is of the morning; bright and sunny is his disposition. He inquired about Wilbur, the polar bear he had given me to sleep with.
"He's right here," I muttered, pulling it from the waves of rumpled bedding.
This seemed to please him. After a few minutes of snuggling and polite chatter, he was leaving me to build a zoo. Fine. He has his life, I have mine. Before he left, he adjusted my blanket and made me spoon Wilbur, who was now our shared substitute baby. He finished his doting ministrations by gently placing a pillow over my head. Strange because I try not to be overtly weird around the kid. Guess some things are inherently genetic. My son, my sun.
"Can you breathe?" He asked while wiggling his loose front tooth.
"Yes." I inhaled and indeed I felt the light.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of illicitly watching Sade's "Sweetest Taboo" video while I was supposed to be sleeping. She wore red lipstick (a given) and stood in front of a huge glass window with tears softening the surreal beauty of her face, making her not just captivating but also amazingly real. Didn't understand what she was singing about but she became real to me.
I got in trouble for staying up late that night. I also got in trouble because I had been caught sleeping with my pillows over my face. I was a repeat offender. It seemed to me that my mother was unduly concerned with the possibility of my suffocating, about my mortality in general. What did she know? My pillow cocoons kept me safe from the dark. And the light which I gained (the light headed euphoria I experienced) was simply a bonus.
Ten years later, I was still surreptitiously building pillow cocoons while listening to my Mama Adu. By then I was in college, and the purpose of the cocoons had been inverted; created specifically to produce darkness, not to escape it. Back then I couldn't get enough of this darkness. Eventually I stopped. Then unexpectedly, as I approached my thirtieth birtday, I suddenly had a desire to once again taste darkness. My darkness?
For months I became consumed with the desire to spend my birthday on the couch with a pillow over my face. Of course, it didn't happen as I imagined. After 20 minutes, it felt pointless if not ridiculous. My cocoon felt neither protective nor insulating, just melodramatic and self-indulgent.
Yesterday morning, I was lying in bed and my son came in to check on me. He is of the morning; bright and sunny is his disposition. He inquired about Wilbur, the polar bear he had given me to sleep with.
"He's right here," I muttered, pulling it from the waves of rumpled bedding.
This seemed to please him. After a few minutes of snuggling and polite chatter, he was leaving me to build a zoo. Fine. He has his life, I have mine. Before he left, he adjusted my blanket and made me spoon Wilbur, who was now our shared substitute baby. He finished his doting ministrations by gently placing a pillow over my head. Strange because I try not to be overtly weird around the kid. Guess some things are inherently genetic. My son, my sun.
"Can you breathe?" He asked while wiggling his loose front tooth.
"Yes." I inhaled and indeed I felt the light.
Monday, February 8, 2010
O ye of limited self-awareness
"Nobody will love you like I love you." Which I now realize is far from a selling point to a man. Makes sense. This strategy of loving has certainly never endeared anyone to me.
I'm starting to think that it's my fault that I'm single. I had lunch with my friend the other day. She's hilarious, charming and kind. Lets call her Grace. Her marriage is fascinating to me. They are happy. They are settled. They don't seem to be bored, or play acting. This is a rarity. I don't know many marriages that are held together by more than routine, unwholesome co-dependency or obligation (or perhaps that's my uncharitable take on it. I'm certainly not an expert).
While we talked at lunch, I had an epiphany. I've been single for the better part of three years. And I realized that if Grace's marriage were to end (heaven forbid) her "three years later" would look very different from mine. I doubt she would be single. But we aren't so different. We are both foreign born,and raised in the suburbs of Maryland, partied at the same hole-in-the-wall-pre-gentrification nightclubs of DC. Both have an unhealthy obsession with coffee, ice cream and cake. So what's the diff?
Oh ye of limited self-awareness. I've made this remark jokingly a thousand times, but it's not so funny when it applies to me. When I'm being whimsical, I like to blame Turgenev. Turgenev's novella "First Love" was my first real introduction to Russian literature, and those Russians do a magnificent unrequited love and suffering. Okay, fine. I will stop trying to divert you with Red Herrings.
I don't have an explanation or an apology ready. Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to be apologizing for. "Why are you single?" was once sweet and flattering but now it has a connotation of judgment. Perhaps I deserve to be judged. One of my male friends told me recently that I remind him of the title character "Summer" from "500 days of Summer". REally? I remind you of a fictitious, callous, flakey, emotionally unavailable woman-child? Sadly there is a tiny grain of truth there. Second epiphany: it's not a coincidence that I'm a magnet for emotinally unavailable men. Birds of a feather.
"But I had a very bad break up," I could whine, but I know it's not about anything external. That's just another Red Herring. I think the first line says it best. For what it's worth, I'm not callous or fictitious, just a flakey, emotional unavailable woman-child thank you very much. And that's all the explanation and apology you'll get.
I'm starting to think that it's my fault that I'm single. I had lunch with my friend the other day. She's hilarious, charming and kind. Lets call her Grace. Her marriage is fascinating to me. They are happy. They are settled. They don't seem to be bored, or play acting. This is a rarity. I don't know many marriages that are held together by more than routine, unwholesome co-dependency or obligation (or perhaps that's my uncharitable take on it. I'm certainly not an expert).
While we talked at lunch, I had an epiphany. I've been single for the better part of three years. And I realized that if Grace's marriage were to end (heaven forbid) her "three years later" would look very different from mine. I doubt she would be single. But we aren't so different. We are both foreign born,and raised in the suburbs of Maryland, partied at the same hole-in-the-wall-pre-gentrification nightclubs of DC. Both have an unhealthy obsession with coffee, ice cream and cake. So what's the diff?
Oh ye of limited self-awareness. I've made this remark jokingly a thousand times, but it's not so funny when it applies to me. When I'm being whimsical, I like to blame Turgenev. Turgenev's novella "First Love" was my first real introduction to Russian literature, and those Russians do a magnificent unrequited love and suffering. Okay, fine. I will stop trying to divert you with Red Herrings.
I don't have an explanation or an apology ready. Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to be apologizing for. "Why are you single?" was once sweet and flattering but now it has a connotation of judgment. Perhaps I deserve to be judged. One of my male friends told me recently that I remind him of the title character "Summer" from "500 days of Summer". REally? I remind you of a fictitious, callous, flakey, emotionally unavailable woman-child? Sadly there is a tiny grain of truth there. Second epiphany: it's not a coincidence that I'm a magnet for emotinally unavailable men. Birds of a feather.
"But I had a very bad break up," I could whine, but I know it's not about anything external. That's just another Red Herring. I think the first line says it best. For what it's worth, I'm not callous or fictitious, just a flakey, emotional unavailable woman-child thank you very much. And that's all the explanation and apology you'll get.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Loads and loads of it
An ad hoc snow removal committee gathered this afternoon on the frozen tundra that used to be our parking lot. I'm not a planner by design. Many of my actions are formed intuitively and snow removal seemed to fall under this same rubric. So after several minutes of complaining on the phone to my mother (her princess was after all in distress), I was at a complete loss of what to do.
The plow trucks had created a 5 foot tall impenetrable wall of snow around my car; essentially a snow cozy from hell had eaten my car. The president elect of the snow committee sauntered over to me, introduced himself and offered his condolences. Yes sir, it was a shame that they had plowed me in. And yes, I did have a lot of work to do. And yes, it would be much better if I had a shovel because my sponge mop was not quite getting the job done. A carpenter is only as good as his tools but it certainly wasn't the poor hapless mop's fault that I sucked at shoveling.
I guess Mr. President meant well; eventually, he produced a shovel, which meant it was time to start shoveling, which was of course bullshit. Shoveling bullshit. Loads and loads of it.
It was at this point that a neighbor kid offered to help me. And all he asked for in return was $50 dollars. I laughed openly at the ambitious little upstart. After all, he already had his parents' cars to dig out. I didn't commit to a specific dollar amount. I mean, who was this kid fooling? Plus, at this point I finally had a back up plan.
Screw you snow! So what if I didn't have a boyfriend to do my shoveling? My best friend has a boyfriend who is young, strong, and very eager to please. For the past two years, he had been competing with me for her love, but good naturedly. And since it made her happy, he helped me graciously.
Captain Boyfriend arrived just in time. I was just getting to know Neighbor Kid. He was hustling up money to pay for his Boost mobile phone. Sometimes it's best not to know too much about your neighbors but neighbor kid was a fascinating geyser of mannisms. He explained that he had been compelled to help me. It wasn't right that a woman should be shoveling snow by herself, and it was a shame that none of the other men had offered to help me. As he chattered on amiably, I laughed at his boyish audacity.
The snow committee was still standing (literally standing around) because apparently they needed a plan. Neighbor Kid and I scornfully agreed that they were wasting time. Just shovel it. Captain Boyfriend had transformed into a human snow plow, and had demolished at least one third of my snow cozy, while the committee (about 8 people) had accomplished nothing. To be honest, Neighbor kid and I were only shovelers in theory. We were easily distracted and took to throwing snow around and climbing on top of things.
Eventually, Neighbor Kid decided that it would be a good idea if I helped him dig out his mom's car. Again I laughed. Of course I would help the adorable little chauvinist. I am a woman, and a mother, and more importantly, I am bigger than the ambitious upstart.
Captain boyfriend finished digging me out, and didn't even have the decency to complain about it. He refused my offer of homemade cookies. When I took him to the gas station, he offered to pump my gas, and tried to pay for my gas with the money I was forcing him to take in payment.
I was starting to admire Neighbor Kid and his ulterior motives. The kid had me on the hook for cash, and chicken nuggets from McDonald's, and this was after I helped him dig out. Then Captain Boyfriend revealed that Neighbor Kid thought that I was pretty, and that he hadn't appreciated Captain Boyfriend's interfering. Now THAT disturbing, ulterior motive, I had not suspected.
When I returned to the parking lot, the committee had just started the actual digging. They were still talking about how dire my situation had been earlier, and throwing the hardening chunks of snow in the street. I heard Mr. President bragging to my neighbor (fake flower patio-garden lady to be exact) how he had loaned me the shovel. I shook my head. Mr. President was finally shoveling loads, and loads of bullshit.
The plow trucks had created a 5 foot tall impenetrable wall of snow around my car; essentially a snow cozy from hell had eaten my car. The president elect of the snow committee sauntered over to me, introduced himself and offered his condolences. Yes sir, it was a shame that they had plowed me in. And yes, I did have a lot of work to do. And yes, it would be much better if I had a shovel because my sponge mop was not quite getting the job done. A carpenter is only as good as his tools but it certainly wasn't the poor hapless mop's fault that I sucked at shoveling.
I guess Mr. President meant well; eventually, he produced a shovel, which meant it was time to start shoveling, which was of course bullshit. Shoveling bullshit. Loads and loads of it.
It was at this point that a neighbor kid offered to help me. And all he asked for in return was $50 dollars. I laughed openly at the ambitious little upstart. After all, he already had his parents' cars to dig out. I didn't commit to a specific dollar amount. I mean, who was this kid fooling? Plus, at this point I finally had a back up plan.
Screw you snow! So what if I didn't have a boyfriend to do my shoveling? My best friend has a boyfriend who is young, strong, and very eager to please. For the past two years, he had been competing with me for her love, but good naturedly. And since it made her happy, he helped me graciously.
Captain Boyfriend arrived just in time. I was just getting to know Neighbor Kid. He was hustling up money to pay for his Boost mobile phone. Sometimes it's best not to know too much about your neighbors but neighbor kid was a fascinating geyser of mannisms. He explained that he had been compelled to help me. It wasn't right that a woman should be shoveling snow by herself, and it was a shame that none of the other men had offered to help me. As he chattered on amiably, I laughed at his boyish audacity.
The snow committee was still standing (literally standing around) because apparently they needed a plan. Neighbor Kid and I scornfully agreed that they were wasting time. Just shovel it. Captain Boyfriend had transformed into a human snow plow, and had demolished at least one third of my snow cozy, while the committee (about 8 people) had accomplished nothing. To be honest, Neighbor kid and I were only shovelers in theory. We were easily distracted and took to throwing snow around and climbing on top of things.
Eventually, Neighbor Kid decided that it would be a good idea if I helped him dig out his mom's car. Again I laughed. Of course I would help the adorable little chauvinist. I am a woman, and a mother, and more importantly, I am bigger than the ambitious upstart.
Captain boyfriend finished digging me out, and didn't even have the decency to complain about it. He refused my offer of homemade cookies. When I took him to the gas station, he offered to pump my gas, and tried to pay for my gas with the money I was forcing him to take in payment.
I was starting to admire Neighbor Kid and his ulterior motives. The kid had me on the hook for cash, and chicken nuggets from McDonald's, and this was after I helped him dig out. Then Captain Boyfriend revealed that Neighbor Kid thought that I was pretty, and that he hadn't appreciated Captain Boyfriend's interfering. Now THAT disturbing, ulterior motive, I had not suspected.
When I returned to the parking lot, the committee had just started the actual digging. They were still talking about how dire my situation had been earlier, and throwing the hardening chunks of snow in the street. I heard Mr. President bragging to my neighbor (fake flower patio-garden lady to be exact) how he had loaned me the shovel. I shook my head. Mr. President was finally shoveling loads, and loads of bullshit.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Setting in
Everyone has setbacks. Some are no more than small minor irritations that collect like dust on the surface of our lifes. Others are like avalanches. They bury, they smother, they suffocate. The loss of a parent, the splintering of a seemingly airtight relationship. Doesn't matter what it is. We all have our problems to deal with.
I have been checking the mail anxiously for the last week. Been waiting on a check, the return of the downpayment on I house I almost owned. The house I almost got my hands on. Major setback, but I am not disappointed. Waiting for disappointment to set in and it hasn't. I tried my best. I did everything that I was supposed to do, and it didn't happen. Don't really understand why it didn't happen but I accept it.
And this acceptance bothers me. Never been one for denial and suppression of feelings. Always been a confrontational rile against the universe kind of girl. But this is different. This is a calm, ruthless kind of acceptance and I don't know what to do with. Perhaps I've finally ran out of ammunition. Perhaps the universe is finally sick of my tantrums, and my belly-aching about what I deserve. Lots of people deserve more than what they get. And I certainly don't deserve anything more than anyone else. Haiti comes to mind. Haiti with its innumerable sufferings.
Oh well, so this setback didn't give me the nasty little burn my inner masochist is craving... As I sit in my nice safe home (albeit rented), I don't feel disappointed, just grateful for everything else, and that is what is finally setting in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
