One item of unfinished business haunting me lately is having The Talk with Young Son. He'll be eleven soon and I know it's been coming for some time, but for some reason I just have not been able to nut up and get through it. I'm guessing it's because I'm not ready for him to (gulp) enter puberty, and maybe my inner magical thinker believes delaying The Talk will delay the process.
I wish.
I was thinking back to what I thought about sex as a child and concluded I didn't think much about it at all. Other than a few attempts at playing Doctor, which wasn't even connected with the word "sex", the first time I remember it coming up was when I was maybe eight or nine. A group of us -- probably Elaine, Ann, Michelle, Mary Helen, and Holly were playing Barbies on Holly's patio on a hot Indiana summer afternoon.
BTW, when was the last time you used the word "patio"?
Mary Helen, second eldest in the only Catholic family in the neighborhood, decided it was time to show us how babies were made. She stripped Barbie and Ken and stood them face to face, with full body contact.
The group fell silent.
"But where do they do it?" someone asked.
"At the hospital," Mary Helen stated with authority. "They go to a special room and take off all their clothes and stand right up against each other like this. Then they get dressed and go home. When it's time for the baby to come out, they go back to the hospital and the doctor cuts it out."
The cutting out the baby part didn't bother us too much, but we were fascinated and repelled imagining our parents doing that first thing. Especially Mary Helen's parents whom, by my eight-year-old criteria, were not particularly attractive people.
Ew.
No one had any better explanation, so it had to be the truth. Besides, Mary Helen had six kids in her family so she should know. What can I say? This was back in the late Sixties.
All together now: It was a much simpler time.
Thanks to the tsunami that is today's media and entertainment industry, I'm pretty sure that Young Son, almost 40 years my junior, has probably seen and heard more sexual innuendo than I had when I graduated high school. He's seen enough animals mating on TV and recently learned that humans also mate, so it probably will be no big deal to connect the dots for him. Piece o'cake!
Ummm yeah... I'm sure I'll get to it eventually.
Showing posts with label Memories.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories.... Show all posts
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Great Moments in History #91
Scene: Lunchroom at work, circa 1985 or so. Four co-workers are sharing a table and enjoying typical co-worker banter. Two of them -- Joe and Mr. B -- begin a discussion about some random yet apparently important topic.
The group falls silent for approximately two beats, whereupon Evil Twin and Liz burst into laughter.
Best part is, I'm not even making that up. And that's why we liked hanging out with Mr. B.
:)
Joe (frustrated, pushes back from the table): Dammit, you always do that! I can never be right! No matter what I say, you always correct me!
Mr. B (pauses, considers Joe's statement): Actually, Joe, that's not strictly true....
The group falls silent for approximately two beats, whereupon Evil Twin and Liz burst into laughter.
Best part is, I'm not even making that up. And that's why we liked hanging out with Mr. B.
:)
Friday, December 18, 2009
Halfway there
I was born in the last half of the last month of the Fifties. It doesn't take much math to figure out what that means. I am now officially old, and have the AARP application in hand to prove it.
Here's how old I am:
Physically, I feel fifty; no doubt about that. The betrayal that started at forty has picked up steam, and my body is now constantly finding new and creative ways to mess with me. None of the things I took for granted in decades past still hold.
Oh, and I now have my grandmother's body from the waist down. And not the skinny grandmother, either. Thanks, Dad.
But inside, although I am wa-a-ay more battle-scarred and weather-worn than ten years ago, I don't feel grown up yet. I feel I'm not qualified to be fifty. I swear too much and am not nearly serious enough. I am way too silly to be an adult.
Plus, I'm a newlywed! By definition, newlyweds aren't supposed to be old. They're supposed to be young and have way too much sex, which is another thing fifty-year-olds aren't supposed to do.
The only thing that is really bugging me about this major milestone is despite my bravado, I have to accept I'm already more than halfway 'there', wherever 'there' is. And that kind of blows.
While I await the inevitable, AARP has my back. Did you know AARP.org has an awesome Games section? You think I'm bullshitting? Check this out:
That's hours of amusement, folks. Mmrrroww!
Here's how old I am:
- I remember when JFK was shot. I was three.
- I remember getting our first color TV.
- I remember the first manned moon landing.
- When I was in sixth grade, we lobbied to be allowed to wear pants under our dresses in the winter. Indiana winters are cold, and most of us had to walk to school. Although it wasn't uphill both ways because there are no hills in central Indiana. We were eventually allowed to wear pantsuits. PANT SUITS! They only come in polyester, you know.
- In high school, my class was the first to be allowed to use calculators instead of being taught the slide rule.
- I bought into the disco craze. Sorry.
Physically, I feel fifty; no doubt about that. The betrayal that started at forty has picked up steam, and my body is now constantly finding new and creative ways to mess with me. None of the things I took for granted in decades past still hold.
Oh, and I now have my grandmother's body from the waist down. And not the skinny grandmother, either. Thanks, Dad.
But inside, although I am wa-a-ay more battle-scarred and weather-worn than ten years ago, I don't feel grown up yet. I feel I'm not qualified to be fifty. I swear too much and am not nearly serious enough. I am way too silly to be an adult.
Plus, I'm a newlywed! By definition, newlyweds aren't supposed to be old. They're supposed to be young and have way too much sex, which is another thing fifty-year-olds aren't supposed to do.
The only thing that is really bugging me about this major milestone is despite my bravado, I have to accept I'm already more than halfway 'there', wherever 'there' is. And that kind of blows.
While I await the inevitable, AARP has my back. Did you know AARP.org has an awesome Games section? You think I'm bullshitting? Check this out:
That's hours of amusement, folks. Mmrrroww!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Even Harder
I've found some more Daft-mania for your enjoyment. I know, I already posted my favorite "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" vids, but I just saw these and had to share. 'Cause I'm like that.
((Don't worry, these are both Safe For Work)
First, one for those who appreciate the male form:
Like? I think you should watch it a few more times to see if they made any mistakes.
There's even a version for those of us who have embraced the prime of life:
And this one is pretty awesome as well:
I don't know why, but I just love that damned song! I can't remember the last time I danced in public but this song almost makes me want to do it again.
Strange but true: You know what? Mr. B and I have never danced together. I do remember vaguely an event Back In The Day (perhaps my 26th birthday?) where Evil Twin, Mr. B and I may have been on a dance floor at the same time, but there was no actual 'together' involved.
((Don't worry, these are both Safe For Work)
First, one for those who appreciate the male form:
Like? I think you should watch it a few more times to see if they made any mistakes.
There's even a version for those of us who have embraced the prime of life:
And this one is pretty awesome as well:
I don't know why, but I just love that damned song! I can't remember the last time I danced in public but this song almost makes me want to do it again.
Strange but true: You know what? Mr. B and I have never danced together. I do remember vaguely an event Back In The Day (perhaps my 26th birthday?) where Evil Twin, Mr. B and I may have been on a dance floor at the same time, but there was no actual 'together' involved.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
You Want Me to Put What? Where?
I get a huge kick from some of the old, whack print ads that can be found in the intertubes. I especially enjoy the ones I actually remember seeing back in the day when we all thought they were completely normal and appropriate. The Tareyton ads always weirded me out, though; as a very young and extremely literal child, I couldn't make the connection between the black shoe polish under the eye and a real black eye.
There's one particular 'vintage' ad I just can't let it pass without comment, even though I am blessed not to have been exposed to it at an impressionable age. I know it's been blogged to death, but every time I see it, or one of its variations, I have to read it again. It holds a horrible fascination for me. Surely I misread it last time. They really can't be suggesting what I think they're suggesting.
You tell me.
I think we can all agree that this is wrong on every level, so I won't bother to expound. However, I would like to take this opportunity to point out to the youngsters out there that as fetching as the styles of the day were, overall it was not a good time to be a female. Consider that your PSA for the day.
Anyway, dysfunctional culture aside, the main reason this ad has a particularly horrific hold on my imagination is because I have an eye-watering, gut-wrenching, drool-producing aversion to the smell of Lysol. And I'm guessing that right about now you're bouncing in your seats, simply dying to know why.
When I was a teen, we moved into a four bedroom house. I immediately claimed a miniscule -- maybe 8' by 8' max? -- office in the corner of the partially-finished basement as my bedroom so I wouldn't have to share a room with any of my three younger siblings. I loved my little hole in the corner, even though it had sheets hanging where two doors should be and all I could fit in there was a cot, a chair, an armoire, and a TV tray to hold my turntable. What else could I possibly need?
We almost always had pets. At that point we had one (maybe even two) dogs and at least one cat. The dog(s) decided they preferred to do their business in the basement. Luckily, the few square feet of floor space I had was usually buried under at least a foot of clothing so my little slice of heaven was spared.
Well, my family of origin was/is full of, uh, colorful and strong-willed characters. It didn't take but no time at all for everyone to decide that it was not his/her job to pick up the fucking poop. Instead, someone would spray the newest pile of warm, fragrant, rust-covered soft-serve with Lysol and drape a paper towel over it. Because, obviously, a pile of shit that reeks of Lysol and is obscured by a paper towel is much less offensive than a plain pile of shit. And there would sit until the smell has dissipated and the mass had dessicated to where it could be handled with, theoretically, less grossitude.
And, because of this very important curing process, the atmosphere in my magical subterranean hideout of teen-aged angst was, at any given moment, positively redolent of aging canine feces and Lysol spray. Even though I only lived in that house for maybe five years, that odor became imprinted on my brain, and not in a good way. Even now, 35 years later, a whiff of Lysol can take me right back.
Mmmmm. Good times. Anyone have a mint?
Hey, if you too enjoy seeing how fucked up the early/mid-20th century was, check out these babies. Then tell me how much better things were in the Olden Tymes.
There's one particular 'vintage' ad I just can't let it pass without comment, even though I am blessed not to have been exposed to it at an impressionable age. I know it's been blogged to death, but every time I see it, or one of its variations, I have to read it again. It holds a horrible fascination for me. Surely I misread it last time. They really can't be suggesting what I think they're suggesting.
You tell me.
I think we can all agree that this is wrong on every level, so I won't bother to expound. However, I would like to take this opportunity to point out to the youngsters out there that as fetching as the styles of the day were, overall it was not a good time to be a female. Consider that your PSA for the day.
Anyway, dysfunctional culture aside, the main reason this ad has a particularly horrific hold on my imagination is because I have an eye-watering, gut-wrenching, drool-producing aversion to the smell of Lysol. And I'm guessing that right about now you're bouncing in your seats, simply dying to know why.
When I was a teen, we moved into a four bedroom house. I immediately claimed a miniscule -- maybe 8' by 8' max? -- office in the corner of the partially-finished basement as my bedroom so I wouldn't have to share a room with any of my three younger siblings. I loved my little hole in the corner, even though it had sheets hanging where two doors should be and all I could fit in there was a cot, a chair, an armoire, and a TV tray to hold my turntable. What else could I possibly need?
We almost always had pets. At that point we had one (maybe even two) dogs and at least one cat. The dog(s) decided they preferred to do their business in the basement. Luckily, the few square feet of floor space I had was usually buried under at least a foot of clothing so my little slice of heaven was spared.
Well, my family of origin was/is full of, uh, colorful and strong-willed characters. It didn't take but no time at all for everyone to decide that it was not his/her job to pick up the fucking poop. Instead, someone would spray the newest pile of warm, fragrant, rust-covered soft-serve with Lysol and drape a paper towel over it. Because, obviously, a pile of shit that reeks of Lysol and is obscured by a paper towel is much less offensive than a plain pile of shit. And there would sit until the smell has dissipated and the mass had dessicated to where it could be handled with, theoretically, less grossitude.
And, because of this very important curing process, the atmosphere in my magical subterranean hideout of teen-aged angst was, at any given moment, positively redolent of aging canine feces and Lysol spray. Even though I only lived in that house for maybe five years, that odor became imprinted on my brain, and not in a good way. Even now, 35 years later, a whiff of Lysol can take me right back.
Mmmmm. Good times. Anyone have a mint?
Hey, if you too enjoy seeing how fucked up the early/mid-20th century was, check out these babies. Then tell me how much better things were in the Olden Tymes.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Contender for the World Record!
At some point last week I am pretty sure I broke my all time record for continuous employment by a single employer.
The sad part? I've been here three years. The sadder part? I am fifty fucking years old.
Before this, the longest job I held was my second civil service job, which I left three months shy of three years. As any good civil servant knows, at three years you achieve Career status, which makes it possible to actually get another civil service job in the future. No career status? Good luck, sucker. That was probably the stupidest career decision I ever made, meaning I fucked myself at the ripe old age of 27 years old.
I suppose the only longer period of time was the five years when I was 'self-employed', but I'm not sure that counts since I wasn't really earning anything. And even then, in those five years I started three businesses and toyed around with a couple more. The good news is that I didn't have to wear grownup clothes for five years straight.
But enough hindsight already. In honor of this most humiliating of milestones, I will attempt to list every single job I've ever had, without access to the moldering box of resumes in the basement.
Here we go!
Now that I've achieved the pinnacle of my career, there's a very real chance that at some point my bosses are going to be looking to retire. They'll probably sell the company.
That means I'll have to find something else to do. Can you say 'disaster'?
Hey, anyone have a suggestion for a moderately interesting career I can get into that doesn't require years of school, will pay more than $15/hr, and will allow me to work from home?
... cue crickets ...
I thought not. I think I'm fucked. Let's just home I didn't burn my bridges with the WalMart, ahem, I mean 'Grocery store B'.
The sad part? I've been here three years. The sadder part? I am fifty fucking years old.
Before this, the longest job I held was my second civil service job, which I left three months shy of three years. As any good civil servant knows, at three years you achieve Career status, which makes it possible to actually get another civil service job in the future. No career status? Good luck, sucker. That was probably the stupidest career decision I ever made, meaning I fucked myself at the ripe old age of 27 years old.
I suppose the only longer period of time was the five years when I was 'self-employed', but I'm not sure that counts since I wasn't really earning anything. And even then, in those five years I started three businesses and toyed around with a couple more. The good news is that I didn't have to wear grownup clothes for five years straight.
But enough hindsight already. In honor of this most humiliating of milestones, I will attempt to list every single job I've ever had, without access to the moldering box of resumes in the basement.
Here we go!
1970sI may be missing a few (god, I certainly hope not!) but I think that's the bulk of it.
Indiana
- Dairy Queen: whatever
- An infamous portrait studio: phone sales
- Retail: cosmetics/jewelry sales
- Pizza place: waitress
Wisconsin
- Chain restaurant: waitress
- Machine shop: assembler
- Bank: teller
- Savings & Loan: mortgage clerk (only job I was ever fired from)
1980s
- Credit Union A: teller
Connecticut
- Credit Union B: new accounts
- Military exchange: cash cage
- Civil service (USN): clerk/typist
- Civil Service (USCG): clerk/typist
- Weekly ad newspaper: ad layout (part-time, concurrent w/above)
- Oceanographic surveying company: data processor
1990s
- Full-time student (concurrent w/below)
- Contractor A (USCG): programmer
Maine
- Furniture refinisher
- Yarn store: sales
- Contractor B (USN): programmer/analyst
Connecticut
- Contractor C (USCG): programmer/analyst
Washington State
- Temp agency: QA web tester (@ Microsoft!)
- Website design company: QA web tester
2000s
- Software company A: programmer
- Self-employed: handmade soap, knitting catalog, soapmaking supplies, web design/hosting
- Bakery: production
- Grocery store A: cake decorator
- Grocery store B: cake decorator
- Software company B: software tech support
Now that I've achieved the pinnacle of my career, there's a very real chance that at some point my bosses are going to be looking to retire. They'll probably sell the company.
That means I'll have to find something else to do. Can you say 'disaster'?
Hey, anyone have a suggestion for a moderately interesting career I can get into that doesn't require years of school, will pay more than $15/hr, and will allow me to work from home?
... cue crickets ...
I thought not. I think I'm fucked. Let's just home I didn't burn my bridges with the WalMart, ahem, I mean 'Grocery store B'.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Ten years ago today...
Ten years ago today, around 2:30 am, I half-roused from a deep sleep. I laid in bed for a few minutes, shifting around to find a comfortable position. Out of nowhere, I felt a POP from somewhere in the vicinity of my crotch. It was such a distinct POP that for a moment I thought I heard it.
My eyes few open and I clenched my knees together. I said "Pop." "Pop?" replied Hubby, whom I had thought was sound asleep."Yep," I said, as I rolled over onto my side and leapt out of bed with a speed and agility belying by 39 years and 205 pounds. I tiptoed the ten feet to the toilet, legs clamped firmly together, and dropped into place. A warm rush of fluid hit the water. I called out to Hubby "It's time!"
Hubby leapt from the bed and scurried down the hall. "It's time," I heard him holler downstairs to where 16 year old Lovely Daughter was sleeping. Surprisingly enough, she answered right away, which was a miracle in itself.
I called the labor deck at the hospital. Did I have time for a shower? I did, but was cautioned not to dawdle. I showered and dressed, walking around with a towel clamped between my thighs. We gathered our goods and headed out into the summer night, the sky lit only the full moon.
It was time.
So then some stuff happened, and some other stuff happened. At noon, he finally made his entrance. Lovely Daughter was there the whole time, which may explain why, at the age of 26, she has no desire to have babies quite yet.
But she was entranced by this little being, this baby brother whose appearance meant that she was no longer an only child. They spent a lot of time together in those early days.
Hubby was thrilled by his son. When Young Son wasn't physically attached to me, he could usually be found somewhere on Hubby's person. This continued for most of the first two years, as Young Son was a fussy baby who needed a lot on contact.
Hubby's a good dad, and was happy to have a chance to do it again. When Lovely Daughter was new, he was going out to sea for months at a time and missed quite a bit of the first few years. This time he would get the full experience.
The four-legged members of the household took to the little being right away. In the early days all three of them outweighed him by at least a factor of two. He seemed to like them well enough, too. As far as we could tell, anyway. He did develop allergies before he hit a year old, though, and we had to re-home all of the pets.
So there we were, in the 21st year of marriage, caring for a newborn. It was a very valuable learning experience. Probably the most important lesson I learned is that those things I used to feel badly about when Lovely Daughter was little -- all of those things I swore I'd do differently if I had it to do over again -- I didn't Sure, I was 16 years older and presumably a little wiser, but I found myself dealing with the same preferences, dislikes, and quirks I had in my twenties. In a way, it was kind of liberating.
The first year was incredibly rough. But time passed as it tends to do and it got a little easier, week by week.
Now, ten years later, we have this funny, quirky, gangly boy with these incredibly long arms and legs whom you can just tell is poised on the brink of puberty.
That's one consequence of having kids so far apart. I've already been down the road. I know what's ahead and I know how fast it happens. The joy of watching him grow has been coated in an extra layer of bittersweet. But better bittersweet than not having the joy at all.
Happy Double-Digit Day, Young Son!
My eyes few open and I clenched my knees together. I said "Pop." "Pop?" replied Hubby, whom I had thought was sound asleep."Yep," I said, as I rolled over onto my side and leapt out of bed with a speed and agility belying by 39 years and 205 pounds. I tiptoed the ten feet to the toilet, legs clamped firmly together, and dropped into place. A warm rush of fluid hit the water. I called out to Hubby "It's time!"
Hubby leapt from the bed and scurried down the hall. "It's time," I heard him holler downstairs to where 16 year old Lovely Daughter was sleeping. Surprisingly enough, she answered right away, which was a miracle in itself.
I called the labor deck at the hospital. Did I have time for a shower? I did, but was cautioned not to dawdle. I showered and dressed, walking around with a towel clamped between my thighs. We gathered our goods and headed out into the summer night, the sky lit only the full moon.
It was time.
So then some stuff happened, and some other stuff happened. At noon, he finally made his entrance. Lovely Daughter was there the whole time, which may explain why, at the age of 26, she has no desire to have babies quite yet.But she was entranced by this little being, this baby brother whose appearance meant that she was no longer an only child. They spent a lot of time together in those early days.
Hubby was thrilled by his son. When Young Son wasn't physically attached to me, he could usually be found somewhere on Hubby's person. This continued for most of the first two years, as Young Son was a fussy baby who needed a lot on contact.
Hubby's a good dad, and was happy to have a chance to do it again. When Lovely Daughter was new, he was going out to sea for months at a time and missed quite a bit of the first few years. This time he would get the full experience.
The four-legged members of the household took to the little being right away. In the early days all three of them outweighed him by at least a factor of two. He seemed to like them well enough, too. As far as we could tell, anyway. He did develop allergies before he hit a year old, though, and we had to re-home all of the pets.
So there we were, in the 21st year of marriage, caring for a newborn. It was a very valuable learning experience. Probably the most important lesson I learned is that those things I used to feel badly about when Lovely Daughter was little -- all of those things I swore I'd do differently if I had it to do over again -- I didn't Sure, I was 16 years older and presumably a little wiser, but I found myself dealing with the same preferences, dislikes, and quirks I had in my twenties. In a way, it was kind of liberating.
The first year was incredibly rough. But time passed as it tends to do and it got a little easier, week by week.Now, ten years later, we have this funny, quirky, gangly boy with these incredibly long arms and legs whom you can just tell is poised on the brink of puberty.
That's one consequence of having kids so far apart. I've already been down the road. I know what's ahead and I know how fast it happens. The joy of watching him grow has been coated in an extra layer of bittersweet. But better bittersweet than not having the joy at all.
Happy Double-Digit Day, Young Son!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Let's roll!
We were digging through boxes recently and found a few pix of Mr. B from Back In The Day, including a few from around the time we would have met. That got me thinking about the eighties, and when this song came on the radio this morning, I knew it was going to Rock my Friday just fine.
As cool as it was to see a photo of Mr. B the way I remembered him, back when he was a safe date for Evil Twin and my Girls' Nights Out, it's even cooler to look across the couch at him now and know he's mine.
Let the good times roll!
As cool as it was to see a photo of Mr. B the way I remembered him, back when he was a safe date for Evil Twin and my Girls' Nights Out, it's even cooler to look across the couch at him now and know he's mine.
Let the good times roll!
Friday, August 7, 2009
How did you celebrate it?
Damn, I can't believe I missed Coast Guard Day this past Tuesday.
I happen to have a particular fondness for the Coast Guard. I worked at the same CG facility in three different jobs over the course of 14 years. Evil Twin, Mr. B, and I met there, when I was about the same age Lovely Daughter is now and Mr. B was a shiny new LTJG.
In belated celebration, I think we'll do a little Friday ROFLMAO and enjoy some Coast Guard humor. Well, OK, maybe not all of you will enjoy it, but the two or three of you who know what the term 'non-rate' means will get a kick out of it.
The rest of you are dismissed to begin your weekend. Or you can watch, too. It's pretty cute. Really.
So here's an enthusiastic yet sloppy civilian salute to the USCG and the civilians who keep them running smooth. Thanks, and BZ!
I happen to have a particular fondness for the Coast Guard. I worked at the same CG facility in three different jobs over the course of 14 years. Evil Twin, Mr. B, and I met there, when I was about the same age Lovely Daughter is now and Mr. B was a shiny new LTJG.
In belated celebration, I think we'll do a little Friday ROFLMAO and enjoy some Coast Guard humor. Well, OK, maybe not all of you will enjoy it, but the two or three of you who know what the term 'non-rate' means will get a kick out of it.
The rest of you are dismissed to begin your weekend. Or you can watch, too. It's pretty cute. Really.
So here's an enthusiastic yet sloppy civilian salute to the USCG and the civilians who keep them running smooth. Thanks, and BZ!
Friday, July 31, 2009
Hot times
Ding dong, the heat is dead! After three days in the hubs of hell, we're looking at mid-80s today, max. I'm slowly rejoining the living and am ready for some serious Friday Rockin'!
This week's retro-pop-rock may cause some of my peers to experience serious whiplash, so take adequate precautions, please.
I had just started elementary school when this song came out, making this one of those long-term primal childhood tunes deeply embedded in what's left of my memory.
Hey, and it's Friday! Time for all you hot cats lookin' for a kitty to button up the Nehru jacket and have at it. Just be sure to look in every corner of the city.
This week's retro-pop-rock may cause some of my peers to experience serious whiplash, so take adequate precautions, please.
I had just started elementary school when this song came out, making this one of those long-term primal childhood tunes deeply embedded in what's left of my memory.
Hey, and it's Friday! Time for all you hot cats lookin' for a kitty to button up the Nehru jacket and have at it. Just be sure to look in every corner of the city.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Low life
A large percentage of my twelves of loyal readers know me personally and know that I've struggled with depression. Some may even know that I've been pestered by it since sometime in my teens. Problem was, I didn't know what the hell my problem was. There would just be these time when nothing was worth doing and there didn't seem to be any point to anything anyway so why bother? Laying on the couch was just fine, thanks. Everything was a h-u-g-e effort. Gravity was at least twice its normal strength. I was exhausted. Everyone around me was stupid and going out of their way to piss me off.
These periods would last for weeks, maybe a month or two, then very gradually things would seem to get better. Often the lows were followed by an extreme burst of Shiny, and a new project or hobby would become all-consuming. And I could do THIS, and also THIS, and wow! Does that look like fun!
It took a long, long while before I realized the pattern. No, my life didn't just go to hell all of a sudden, and I would recognize that THING again, and remember that it would probably pass eventually. That realization didn't make it go away but it did seem to help a bit, knowing that I (probably) wouldn't feel this way for the rest of my life. Because? Ugh. That would be really, really bad.
Oh, and being married and having a kid? Well, let's just say it wasn't easy on any of us, especially since we didn't know there was an IT, much less what it was. I just knew that there was something inadequate about me, that some significant portion of the time I was unable to do the things other people seemed to handle just fine.
Lovely Daughter tell the tale of one time when she was about 11. I was immobilized on the couch in the upstairs TV room, unable to reach the remote across the room. I actually hollered at her to come up from downstairs to bring it to me.
I know. What's sad is that at the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution.
So more things happened and then it was early 1999. I had just turned 39 and we had just found out I was p... pr... PREGNANT, for cripes' sake. And you know what? Once we wrapped our head around the knowledge that this was indeed happening, life got better. Things I used to have to literally force myself to do (matching socks, emptying the dishwasher, changing the roll of toilet paper) came so easily that I couldn't even remember why it was ever a problem. I felt... normal, or at least how I imagined normal people felt. Daily life was almost effortless in comparison. I got shit done!
I floated normally along, all normal-like, all the way through until Young Son was almost two. Then one day I was staring at laundry that was glaring back at me, and I felt IT again, like a nearly-palpable veil of 'fuck it' settling over me, sucking the very energy of life from my bones*. My heart sank. I hadn't even realized that I had been above water all that time until I felt it close in over me again.
But this time, thanks to the seemingly hundreds of commercials on the TV, I thought I knew what it might be. I went in to my doc and he told me right away what IT was. And guess what? As the commercials had promised, there were now a whole raft of medications to try. I picked up my prescription and within a week I felt my world level out. I was one lucky girl, to get a workable med on the first try.
So the lowest of the lows are gone**. Life isn't always puppies and diamonds, but most of the time it's within a standard deviation of normal. I still have dips and occasional episodes of stupidity, and I still hate to empty the dishwasher, but I can change the toilet paper roll without engaging in a contest of wills with myself. And I can fetch my own damned remote, most of the time.
Except in February. Don't expect much from me in February. Don't say I didn't warn you.
* Dramatic, much?
** Along with the highest of the highs, but I'll take that hit.
These periods would last for weeks, maybe a month or two, then very gradually things would seem to get better. Often the lows were followed by an extreme burst of Shiny, and a new project or hobby would become all-consuming. And I could do THIS, and also THIS, and wow! Does that look like fun!
It took a long, long while before I realized the pattern. No, my life didn't just go to hell all of a sudden, and I would recognize that THING again, and remember that it would probably pass eventually. That realization didn't make it go away but it did seem to help a bit, knowing that I (probably) wouldn't feel this way for the rest of my life. Because? Ugh. That would be really, really bad.
Oh, and being married and having a kid? Well, let's just say it wasn't easy on any of us, especially since we didn't know there was an IT, much less what it was. I just knew that there was something inadequate about me, that some significant portion of the time I was unable to do the things other people seemed to handle just fine.
Lovely Daughter tell the tale of one time when she was about 11. I was immobilized on the couch in the upstairs TV room, unable to reach the remote across the room. I actually hollered at her to come up from downstairs to bring it to me.
I know. What's sad is that at the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution.
So more things happened and then it was early 1999. I had just turned 39 and we had just found out I was p... pr... PREGNANT, for cripes' sake. And you know what? Once we wrapped our head around the knowledge that this was indeed happening, life got better. Things I used to have to literally force myself to do (matching socks, emptying the dishwasher, changing the roll of toilet paper) came so easily that I couldn't even remember why it was ever a problem. I felt... normal, or at least how I imagined normal people felt. Daily life was almost effortless in comparison. I got shit done!
I floated normally along, all normal-like, all the way through until Young Son was almost two. Then one day I was staring at laundry that was glaring back at me, and I felt IT again, like a nearly-palpable veil of 'fuck it' settling over me, sucking the very energy of life from my bones*. My heart sank. I hadn't even realized that I had been above water all that time until I felt it close in over me again.
But this time, thanks to the seemingly hundreds of commercials on the TV, I thought I knew what it might be. I went in to my doc and he told me right away what IT was. And guess what? As the commercials had promised, there were now a whole raft of medications to try. I picked up my prescription and within a week I felt my world level out. I was one lucky girl, to get a workable med on the first try.
So the lowest of the lows are gone**. Life isn't always puppies and diamonds, but most of the time it's within a standard deviation of normal. I still have dips and occasional episodes of stupidity, and I still hate to empty the dishwasher, but I can change the toilet paper roll without engaging in a contest of wills with myself. And I can fetch my own damned remote, most of the time.
Except in February. Don't expect much from me in February. Don't say I didn't warn you.
* Dramatic, much?
** Along with the highest of the highs, but I'll take that hit.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Dancing Machine
Yes, yes he was.
I'm sitting here in my office with tears in my eyes from watching this. I hope to hell no one walks by. I tell you, in 1974, it simply didn't get any better, badder, cooler than that. Especially for a 14 year old white girl in Indianapolis.
It still gives me chills. He was a fucking genius. And, like many geniuses, he paid for it by turning into a fucking wacko. It's all very sad.
Go watch more Jackson 5 stuff on YouTube. You will be shocked and awed.
I'm sitting here in my office with tears in my eyes from watching this. I hope to hell no one walks by. I tell you, in 1974, it simply didn't get any better, badder, cooler than that. Especially for a 14 year old white girl in Indianapolis.
It still gives me chills. He was a fucking genius. And, like many geniuses, he paid for it by turning into a fucking wacko. It's all very sad.
Go watch more Jackson 5 stuff on YouTube. You will be shocked and awed.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A moment
Just heard Michael Jackson died. He was just a wee bit older than me, so his music was an integral part of my childhood. Sister was a huge fan back in the day, when he was cute.
It's so sad, on many levels.
It's so sad, on many levels.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Extraordinary machine
Kind of a different vibe for this edition of Fridays Rock! I suppose this week we aren't so much Rockin' as we are gently swaying back and forth with gentle grins on our faces.
Hope that's OK.
I was a huge fan of Fiona Apple's first two CDs and finally got this one for Christmas. It didn't immediately grab me like the others, but recently Young Son and I have been playing it in the car at random intervals and it's growing on me, especially the first few songs.
This one we particularly enjoy. Maybe because it brings up old musical theater memories from high school? Or maybe simply because I am, indeed, an extraordinary machine.
Hope that's OK.
I was a huge fan of Fiona Apple's first two CDs and finally got this one for Christmas. It didn't immediately grab me like the others, but recently Young Son and I have been playing it in the car at random intervals and it's growing on me, especially the first few songs.
This one we particularly enjoy. Maybe because it brings up old musical theater memories from high school? Or maybe simply because I am, indeed, an extraordinary machine.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wanna do it again
This Friday, we're only going to Rock it back a little bit to the early '90s.
(OK, I know, he's kind of scary-looking. Ya think he coulda have passed a piss test?)
Lovely Daughter and I use to rock out to this when she was about Young Son's age. A mere 16 years later, Young Son and I are still feeling the groove. Now that's staying power.
I really wanted to find an embeddable version of the original, which rocks even harder, but no joy. It's The Man, keeping me down again. Bastages!
(OK, I know, he's kind of scary-looking. Ya think he coulda have passed a piss test?)
Lovely Daughter and I use to rock out to this when she was about Young Son's age. A mere 16 years later, Young Son and I are still feeling the groove. Now that's staying power.
I really wanted to find an embeddable version of the original, which rocks even harder, but no joy. It's The Man, keeping me down again. Bastages!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
What not to do
Things I have actually been paid to do:
Yeah, what can I say? It's been a full life.
I don't get paid to blog, but I get paid while blogging. Does that count?
- Count mosquito eggs
- Make parts for these
- Make things like this (This one's not mine)
- Count money (Again, not mine)
- Make these (Also, not mine)
- Telephone soliciting (I'm positive some of these are my fault. I'm sorry.)
Yeah, what can I say? It's been a full life.
I don't get paid to blog, but I get paid while blogging. Does that count?
Friday, April 3, 2009
Fly on
I've been Rockin' the Fridays pretty old-school lately and I feel no particular compulsion to stop. Get in, hang on, and shut up -- here we go!
Jimi Hendrix is another artist I missed the first time around. I was only 11 when this came out on his posthumously-released album. As a middle class white kid, the whole late-sixties thing scared the crap out of me so I missed a lot of the good stuff. But as I got older, I 'got' it, and I came to love Jimi Hendrix.
Even though I am glad I didn't have to go through adolescence in the early-mid sixties*, I am sad that I wasn't old enough to 'get' Hendrix the first time 'round.
But that's why the universe invented YouTube, right?
* Oh yeah, the mid-seventies were so much better!
Jimi Hendrix is another artist I missed the first time around. I was only 11 when this came out on his posthumously-released album. As a middle class white kid, the whole late-sixties thing scared the crap out of me so I missed a lot of the good stuff. But as I got older, I 'got' it, and I came to love Jimi Hendrix.
Even though I am glad I didn't have to go through adolescence in the early-mid sixties*, I am sad that I wasn't old enough to 'get' Hendrix the first time 'round.
But that's why the universe invented YouTube, right?
* Oh yeah, the mid-seventies were so much better!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Haha... fooled you... ha.
These days I feel left out of the whole April Fool's Day thing. I'm not much of a prankster, partially because I only have five coworkers and they're even older and crabbier than I am, and partially because I'm a pussy and I hate hurting people's feelings.
Although... it wasn't always this way.
Some ten years back, my coworkers and I got it in our heads that it would be really funny to take a screenshot of the supervisor's computer desktop, set it as his wallpaper, remove all of his desktop icons, and hide all the toolbars. So when he returned from lunch his desktop looked exactly as it did before except nothing was clickable -- it was all just an image.
We sat hunched over at our desks with our fists stuffed in our faces to keep from laughing as we heard him in his cubby, mousing and clicking and swearing. He fancied himself quite the sophisticated computer user and he was too damned stubborn to admit he couldn't figure out what in the hell was wrong.
After about half an hour (and at least two cold reboots) he called for help. We, being the helpful types, exploded into hysterical laughter.
As good as it was, unfortunately that prank is effective only once per office.
The Ex used to tell of an awesome prank from when he was teaching Submarine School* in the Navy, but I can't remember if he actually pulled it or has heard about it.
As the story goes, one guy was very proud of his desk by the window -- the only window in the shared space. His coworkers disassembled his desk and reassembled it exactly as it was, down to the last paper clip and coffee mug, on the rocky ledge right outside his precious window.
Remember that email making the rounds about office cubicle pranks? I found some of them on this site. Check it out -- there are some new ones! Even though I believe my pranking days are behind me, I do love the keyboard and mouse jello molds...
Maybe it's a good thing Evil Twin and I live on opposite coasts now.
* Yes, there is such a thing, I swear.
Although... it wasn't always this way.
Some ten years back, my coworkers and I got it in our heads that it would be really funny to take a screenshot of the supervisor's computer desktop, set it as his wallpaper, remove all of his desktop icons, and hide all the toolbars. So when he returned from lunch his desktop looked exactly as it did before except nothing was clickable -- it was all just an image.
We sat hunched over at our desks with our fists stuffed in our faces to keep from laughing as we heard him in his cubby, mousing and clicking and swearing. He fancied himself quite the sophisticated computer user and he was too damned stubborn to admit he couldn't figure out what in the hell was wrong.
After about half an hour (and at least two cold reboots) he called for help. We, being the helpful types, exploded into hysterical laughter.
As good as it was, unfortunately that prank is effective only once per office.
The Ex used to tell of an awesome prank from when he was teaching Submarine School* in the Navy, but I can't remember if he actually pulled it or has heard about it.
As the story goes, one guy was very proud of his desk by the window -- the only window in the shared space. His coworkers disassembled his desk and reassembled it exactly as it was, down to the last paper clip and coffee mug, on the rocky ledge right outside his precious window.
Remember that email making the rounds about office cubicle pranks? I found some of them on this site. Check it out -- there are some new ones! Even though I believe my pranking days are behind me, I do love the keyboard and mouse jello molds...
Maybe it's a good thing Evil Twin and I live on opposite coasts now.
* Yes, there is such a thing, I swear.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Is there anyone at home?
Fridays Rock! We all know this to be true. This week, I'm feeling the need to approach it from a slightly altered state of mind. Since I can't employ, ahem, chemical aids at work, I'll have to do it musically.
I was late to the Pink Floyd party, having gone straight from Top 40s pop into the whole disco thing. Finally, in the mid 80s I started coming to and listening to stuff in more rock-ish vein.
I remember hearing this one for the first time. It was in the mid eighties, although I can't remember the exact year. I was in the car, probably driving to work, and it completely blew me away. I was feeling pretty numb at that point in my life (and not in a good way) so it really struck home.
So here you go. Kick your feet up, grab your mood-altering substance of choice, and enjoy the tasty extended guitar solo at the end.
That's some good shit.
I was late to the Pink Floyd party, having gone straight from Top 40s pop into the whole disco thing. Finally, in the mid 80s I started coming to and listening to stuff in more rock-ish vein.
I remember hearing this one for the first time. It was in the mid eighties, although I can't remember the exact year. I was in the car, probably driving to work, and it completely blew me away. I was feeling pretty numb at that point in my life (and not in a good way) so it really struck home.
So here you go. Kick your feet up, grab your mood-altering substance of choice, and enjoy the tasty extended guitar solo at the end.
That's some good shit.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Luck o' th' Irish
As far as I know, my ancestors were primarily English, Scotch-Irish, and German. If I remember correctly, the Ex's ancestors were French-Canadian, Polish, Danish, and German. Since we're pretty much generic Americans, you'd think it would be a sure thing that we'd produce pretty much American kids with a standard Heinz 57 trans-European heritage, like a lot of other Americans. And we did.
Except for Lovely Daughter.
As a young teen, she latched on to the words "Irish" and "French" and decided that's what she was. I think the primary factor was that she looks Irish, and what young teen girl wouldn't want to be French? Très romantique!
It didn't matter that she is half as (Scotch-)Irish as I am and half as French(-Canadian) as her father. Nor did it matter that 'Scotch-Irish' refers to primarily Scottish and English folks who migrated to Ireland then to America, so there may be little to no actual Irish-ness involved.
She declared herself Irish, and it was so. And now, every March 17th I wonder how many green beers are bought for my wee Irish-ish lass.
Except for Lovely Daughter.
As a young teen, she latched on to the words "Irish" and "French" and decided that's what she was. I think the primary factor was that she looks Irish, and what young teen girl wouldn't want to be French? Très romantique!
It didn't matter that she is half as (Scotch-)Irish as I am and half as French(-Canadian) as her father. Nor did it matter that 'Scotch-Irish' refers to primarily Scottish and English folks who migrated to Ireland then to America, so there may be little to no actual Irish-ness involved.
She declared herself Irish, and it was so. And now, every March 17th I wonder how many green beers are bought for my wee Irish-ish lass.
Sláinte! Éirinn go Brách!
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