Over the last several months or year, I feel like I’ve been standing on the edge of a freeway. Cars are zooming into view, some are spinning out of control, and no matter how much I scream, “Slow down! Go a different direction! Steer IN to the skid!” no one can hear me. There’s nothing I can do to stop any of it. Nothing I can do to help. Nothing I can do but watch the cars collide and stack on top of one another.
Since I can’t prevent the accidents, I try to set up a triage station. I try to help the injured and guide them back to places where maybe they’ll feel better. But I think most of them just nod and walk away with wounds gaping. They will get back into their cars bruised and broken and maybe they will go out and get into a dozen more accidents.
It’s hard to watch. It makes me wonder if crashing is inevitable.
It makes me wonder if marriage is really just an out-of-control vehicle that’s destined to hit walls and hurt people. It makes me wonder if we’re keeping an institution on life support that should be allowed to pass away quietly. It makes me wonder if it is at all possible to stay on a safe, sturdy path and not flip upside-down if you choose to say “I do.”
Even the marriages that look healthy and happy on the outside raise questions. Maybe there are things we don’t see. Maybe someone is hiding something. I don’t know. I don’t know if people stay together because they’re afraid to be alone—or if being together really is gratifying.
My parents have a marriage I’d like to model fairly closely. I have no memories of big, terrible fights. Nobody ever called each other names or walked out on one another. Nobody questioned their feelings. Or maybe they did, and I just never knew.
It seems like there are steps you can take to avoid going off course and smacking into a line of trees. It seems like the accidents should be preventable. That if you truly, honestly, 100% respect each other, and you’re truly 100% passionate about each other, and you’re truly 100% certain of who you are as an individual, maybe just maybe you can forge a life together that works. But I just don’t know.
I don’t want to lose my faith in the idea of marriage. But typing that makes me think, is it really I who doesn’t want to lose faith, or has society conditioned me to think I should keep the faith. How much of what we all think and feel is based on antiquated notions of the way things should be?
As much as friends and family tell me how they can’t wait to see me engaged, I hear them make sarcastic remarks like, “this is what you have to look forward to,” and even, “you should just be smart and become a lesbian.”
Is it possible anymore to have a good marriage? Was it ever possible? Or does the majority of the population just not know what they’re missing? Do they stay in situations because they think they’re supposed to—or that what they have is as good as it gets, when really there might be something out there a million times better.
I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just know that it’s incredibly hard to watch the people around me keep crashing. It’s hard not to wonder if one day I’ll skid into the pile-up, too.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Thong Pox on My House
As if I don’t have enough else to keep me occupied, I’ve been dealing with a thong pox on my house. How do I know it’s a thong pox? Allow me to present the evidence.
Incident A: The laundry room
Several years ago, a dear friend of mine bought me a silky, black thong from Victoria’s Secret that says “Angel” in rhinestones across the front of it. Considering what a chaste and pious individual I am, I know you find that fitting. But I think it’s kind of trashy and funny.
About two weeks ago, I was doing laundry in our communal facility when I looked up and saw said thong folded on one of the shelves above the dryer. Couldn’t have been a nice, tame white cotton one. Nope, had to be my stripper underwear. And I’m sure it was the 79-year-old two doors down who found it hiding in the dryer. Very embarrassing.
Incident B: The bathroom
Shortly after finding the Angel thong out in the great wide open, my apartment became overrun with ants. They got into the cat food. They were coming out of the bathtub faucet. They were in my linen closet. And the day I left a heap of dirty clothes lying on my bathroom sink, I came home to find my thong covered in ants. SO freaking sick.
Incident C: The hallway
I wear flip-flops to work a lot. So much that I get teased about it. What can I say, I’m a California girl. Anyway, I was sporting my favorite black thongy thongs last week when I unknowingly bounced down the hallway and stepped in a pile of cat barf. Nothing better to come home to after a long day at the office. It was dark, I didn’t see it, and as I flipped on the bathroom light and hopped toward the tub to wash the shoe, I noticed the puke was covered in ANTS. Super fun. There is an ant man coming today to spray under my apartment.
Incident D: The kitchen
Sunday night after enjoying a lovely 2nd birthday celebration for my youngest niece, Mr. W and I stopped by my apartment to grab a couple things before heading back to his house. I was racing into the kitchen to get the frozen panna cotta (DELISH, I tell you) I bought at Trader Joe’s, when one of my favorite flip-flops from the story above came unhooked from its sole and flew off my foot. They were only $7 at H&M but I looove them and was very sad that they might not see another day.
Thankfully, I performed surgery on the broken shoe last night and was able to repair it. And I have made a mental note to triple check the washer and dryer when cleaning any undergarments. I’m hoping these activities will undo the pox. However, if they don’t work, I am prepared to consider switching to ballet flats and granny panties.
Incident A: The laundry room
Several years ago, a dear friend of mine bought me a silky, black thong from Victoria’s Secret that says “Angel” in rhinestones across the front of it. Considering what a chaste and pious individual I am, I know you find that fitting. But I think it’s kind of trashy and funny.
About two weeks ago, I was doing laundry in our communal facility when I looked up and saw said thong folded on one of the shelves above the dryer. Couldn’t have been a nice, tame white cotton one. Nope, had to be my stripper underwear. And I’m sure it was the 79-year-old two doors down who found it hiding in the dryer. Very embarrassing.
Incident B: The bathroom
Shortly after finding the Angel thong out in the great wide open, my apartment became overrun with ants. They got into the cat food. They were coming out of the bathtub faucet. They were in my linen closet. And the day I left a heap of dirty clothes lying on my bathroom sink, I came home to find my thong covered in ants. SO freaking sick.
Incident C: The hallway
I wear flip-flops to work a lot. So much that I get teased about it. What can I say, I’m a California girl. Anyway, I was sporting my favorite black thongy thongs last week when I unknowingly bounced down the hallway and stepped in a pile of cat barf. Nothing better to come home to after a long day at the office. It was dark, I didn’t see it, and as I flipped on the bathroom light and hopped toward the tub to wash the shoe, I noticed the puke was covered in ANTS. Super fun. There is an ant man coming today to spray under my apartment.
Incident D: The kitchen
Sunday night after enjoying a lovely 2nd birthday celebration for my youngest niece, Mr. W and I stopped by my apartment to grab a couple things before heading back to his house. I was racing into the kitchen to get the frozen panna cotta (DELISH, I tell you) I bought at Trader Joe’s, when one of my favorite flip-flops from the story above came unhooked from its sole and flew off my foot. They were only $7 at H&M but I looove them and was very sad that they might not see another day.
Thankfully, I performed surgery on the broken shoe last night and was able to repair it. And I have made a mental note to triple check the washer and dryer when cleaning any undergarments. I’m hoping these activities will undo the pox. However, if they don’t work, I am prepared to consider switching to ballet flats and granny panties.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
It All Started with a Toilet in the Backseat
This past weekend, Mr. W and I ventured to beautiful, exotic Fresno, California where he purchased a house to flip. Bright and early Saturday morning, we made the drive up the 5 freeway with a brand new toilet in the backseat of the Beemer. I wanted to sit on it, but Mr. W didn’t think I’d fit back there.
We made a quick stop at an outlet mall because, well, why wouldn’t we? And then it was over the train tracks to the new house. Ain’t it purdy?
It’s a foreclosure Mr. W bought for no money on auction. The people living in it totally trashed it and then signed it over to a colony of cockroaches. And this dried up frog that was in one of the bedroom closets.
Needless to say, I did a lot of squealing while we were working on it. And for the record: spraying Raid directly on a roach does not kill it on contact. I actually had a cockroach nightmare last night as a result of all the exposure…
The house is a great buy, though, and I know it’s going to look amazing when he’s done with it. Even just hanging a new door in the front made a difference.
The evening and next morning were spent at his dad and stepmom’s place, which was pretty much like agricultural Disneyland. In addition to the two miniature horses below, they have two dogs, three cats (one is a kitten that I wanted to sneak home in my purse), three rabbits, a chicken and a rooster.
They have 3 acres of land that feels a bit like a resort and a farm rolled in to one. It was a nice escape from Rancho Roacho.
I’m pleased to say that no one saw me in my underwear (well, except those intended to see me that way) and I got along swimmingly with stepmom, who I hadn’t met before. I’ll definitely post some progress pictures as the house comes along. But until then, I have about 4,587 other things to get caught up on in my life. And I have to go drink wine and eat chocolate tonight.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
What Gives?
The plates are spinning fast right now. I’ve been trying to keep them all balanced on their spires, but it seems like every day a new one topples to the ground.
When I was in college, I worked 2 jobs and did an internship my last semester of school. I don’t know how I did this. Between homework and commuting and maintaining a social life, it’s a wonder I found any time to sleep. But somehow back then, I was able to manage it all with a degree of ease I seem to have lost with age.
Now there are too many little saucers that jump in and take precedence over the dinner plates. Like Facebook and fall TV premiers. Even with Tivo, I keep letting those damn shows eat up my time—and I let things like exercise fall to the floor. Last night, instead of working out, I watched The Biggest Loser…ah the irony.
Work has been crazy, and I think that might have some sort of strange psychological effect that makes me rebelliously lazy when I actually get home. I know I should be checking in with friends, working on writing projects, completing travel scrapbooks, sweating off my summer muffin top and reading the magazines and books that have taken over my nightstand—but it seems like by the time I eat dinner, chat with Mr. W, watch some TV and do the dishes it’s bedtime.
This is also why my blogging has been sporadic. Every night, I mean to lay down some words. And every night, I get distracted by other things. My To Do List keeps getting recycled from one week to the next with names of friends I need to contact, short stories that need to be finished and overdue chores. I can’t seem to find the time to finish those, or write blog posts, or watch the Netflix copy of Cabaret that’s been in my cabinet for a month.
I probably need to reprioritize. Focus on the big stuff instead of the little. It worries me that if I don’t do it now, I’ll be a wreck if I ever have to run a household full of other people someday.
How do you all do it?
When I was in college, I worked 2 jobs and did an internship my last semester of school. I don’t know how I did this. Between homework and commuting and maintaining a social life, it’s a wonder I found any time to sleep. But somehow back then, I was able to manage it all with a degree of ease I seem to have lost with age.
Now there are too many little saucers that jump in and take precedence over the dinner plates. Like Facebook and fall TV premiers. Even with Tivo, I keep letting those damn shows eat up my time—and I let things like exercise fall to the floor. Last night, instead of working out, I watched The Biggest Loser…ah the irony.
Work has been crazy, and I think that might have some sort of strange psychological effect that makes me rebelliously lazy when I actually get home. I know I should be checking in with friends, working on writing projects, completing travel scrapbooks, sweating off my summer muffin top and reading the magazines and books that have taken over my nightstand—but it seems like by the time I eat dinner, chat with Mr. W, watch some TV and do the dishes it’s bedtime.
This is also why my blogging has been sporadic. Every night, I mean to lay down some words. And every night, I get distracted by other things. My To Do List keeps getting recycled from one week to the next with names of friends I need to contact, short stories that need to be finished and overdue chores. I can’t seem to find the time to finish those, or write blog posts, or watch the Netflix copy of Cabaret that’s been in my cabinet for a month.
I probably need to reprioritize. Focus on the big stuff instead of the little. It worries me that if I don’t do it now, I’ll be a wreck if I ever have to run a household full of other people someday.
How do you all do it?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Grade A Choices
Working in advertising, one learns pretty quickly that most people are afraid to make decisions. Taking risks and trying new things is great and can really move a brand forward, but if your target audience doesn’t like it, you could end up screwed. Both routes of choice seem scary. So options get weighed. Every little detail gets scrutinized. And usually the end result doesn’t really feel like a “decision” but a mish-mash of security blankets stitched together to allay everyone’s fears.
I understand the fear of making decisions. Before I bought my car, I talked about it for around a year. I researched at least a dozen different makes and models—analyzing cost of ownership and comfort and finances. And finally one day, sort of out of the blue, I decided to go look on a local lot. I bought the car on the spot, totally not intending to do so.
When it comes to most things, I’m snap decision maker. And even though I deliberated forever on the car, when it came down to it, I made a pretty snap decision. I would rather move ahead! cross it off the list! just do it! and deal with the consequences later, whatever they may be.
I wonder what the world would be like if we all did this more often. If everyone decided to decide. No more limbo or mish-mashes. Just hardcore decisions. This is just speculation, but I think we might all live much richer, more interesting lives.
I understand the fear of making decisions. Before I bought my car, I talked about it for around a year. I researched at least a dozen different makes and models—analyzing cost of ownership and comfort and finances. And finally one day, sort of out of the blue, I decided to go look on a local lot. I bought the car on the spot, totally not intending to do so.
When it comes to most things, I’m snap decision maker. And even though I deliberated forever on the car, when it came down to it, I made a pretty snap decision. I would rather move ahead! cross it off the list! just do it! and deal with the consequences later, whatever they may be.
I wonder what the world would be like if we all did this more often. If everyone decided to decide. No more limbo or mish-mashes. Just hardcore decisions. This is just speculation, but I think we might all live much richer, more interesting lives.
Friday, September 18, 2009
He’s Just That Into You
I watched He’s Just Not That into You last night and found myself thinking again how helpful it would have been to read that book when I was oh, about 12. So many glaring warning signs might have been acknowledged if I’d been able to apply HJNTIY to my assessment of various dating situations.
The funny thing about the movie vs. the book, though, is that it shows resolutions after turmoil. Guys who seem not to be into girls end up coming around. So it sort of contradicts or raises questions about the book…
It also got me to thinking about the ways you know he IS into you. Sometimes he doesn’t do the normal things he’s supposed to—but the things he does do make you feel in your heart of hearts that he’s all in.
He may say he’s not ready to be exclusive yet…but he’ll spend every weekend with only you. He may wait to call you his girlfriend for what feels like forever…but you’ll be the first person he tells when something exciting happens and the first person he invites when an event comes up. He may not say I love you right away…but he’ll show it in the way he kisses your cheeks and hands at random. He may not know what sort of future he wants with you…but he’ll take the initiative, on his own, to find a professional to help him figure it out.
His actions may not fit in the stereotypical what-he’s-supposed-to-do box. But he’ll show you in his own unique ways that he is in love. He’ll show you that he’s just that into you.
The funny thing about the movie vs. the book, though, is that it shows resolutions after turmoil. Guys who seem not to be into girls end up coming around. So it sort of contradicts or raises questions about the book…
It also got me to thinking about the ways you know he IS into you. Sometimes he doesn’t do the normal things he’s supposed to—but the things he does do make you feel in your heart of hearts that he’s all in.
He may say he’s not ready to be exclusive yet…but he’ll spend every weekend with only you. He may wait to call you his girlfriend for what feels like forever…but you’ll be the first person he tells when something exciting happens and the first person he invites when an event comes up. He may not say I love you right away…but he’ll show it in the way he kisses your cheeks and hands at random. He may not know what sort of future he wants with you…but he’ll take the initiative, on his own, to find a professional to help him figure it out.
His actions may not fit in the stereotypical what-he’s-supposed-to-do box. But he’ll show you in his own unique ways that he is in love. He’ll show you that he’s just that into you.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
In Appreciation of All That Is Good
As an opinionated and often snappy person, I don’t always stick to the age-old parental commandment, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Sometimes I just can’t help but let something snarly slip.
However, the older I get, the easier it is to bite my tongue. Who am I to judge? Why should I be spewing negativity into the universe? Don’t I have better things to do with my time?
Given this mindset, I find it amazing whenever I read comments that personally attack blog writers. Dooce has actually created an entire website filled with the nasty comments and hate mail she receives. When I saw her link to it, I couldn’t help but take a look—and I immediately found myself wondering, Who are these people? And why do they feel the need to be so mean? Honestly, I don’t get it. I don’t get how they think they are doing any good by expressing their vicious viewpoints.
I’ve been pretty fortunate with this little blog here. I have received comments that upset me before, but only one was downright mean. For the most part, I am graced with good advice and heartfelt understanding. And in some ways, this amazes me just as much as the awful-comment phenomenon does.
I mean, there are several of you who I’ve never met (or rarely see) and yet you take time out of your days to have dialogues with me about my life. Not just comment conversations either—but long, thoughtful email exchanges and detailed IM volleys. Seriously, how cool is that?
This week, in particular, I’ve had several great chats with some different folks and I just feel so lucky to have insight and caring coming from so many places. It makes me want to put more of it back into the world.
So thank you, readers. There may not be hundreds of you, but I’d take quality over quantity any day. Thank you for your time and your thoughtfulness. Thank you for making this blog a more positive place.
However, the older I get, the easier it is to bite my tongue. Who am I to judge? Why should I be spewing negativity into the universe? Don’t I have better things to do with my time?
Given this mindset, I find it amazing whenever I read comments that personally attack blog writers. Dooce has actually created an entire website filled with the nasty comments and hate mail she receives. When I saw her link to it, I couldn’t help but take a look—and I immediately found myself wondering, Who are these people? And why do they feel the need to be so mean? Honestly, I don’t get it. I don’t get how they think they are doing any good by expressing their vicious viewpoints.
I’ve been pretty fortunate with this little blog here. I have received comments that upset me before, but only one was downright mean. For the most part, I am graced with good advice and heartfelt understanding. And in some ways, this amazes me just as much as the awful-comment phenomenon does.
I mean, there are several of you who I’ve never met (or rarely see) and yet you take time out of your days to have dialogues with me about my life. Not just comment conversations either—but long, thoughtful email exchanges and detailed IM volleys. Seriously, how cool is that?
This week, in particular, I’ve had several great chats with some different folks and I just feel so lucky to have insight and caring coming from so many places. It makes me want to put more of it back into the world.
So thank you, readers. There may not be hundreds of you, but I’d take quality over quantity any day. Thank you for your time and your thoughtfulness. Thank you for making this blog a more positive place.
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