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Still An Adult
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Zen and the Art of Laundry
I've been trying to get all Zen about doing
the laundry. It has a repeatable series of steps and actions, and things that
are repetitive are calming, right? Here are my steps to doing laundry.
1)
Bring the laundry hamper from my sons room down the flight of stairs. Every time
I take that first step on my bad ankle, I have an image in my mind that THAT
will be the last time my ankle holds up to support weight on a step down, it
will fold over like a 2x4 with a crack in it, and the sole of my foot will
forever point sideways, facing my other calf where it's collapsed upon itself.
I work my way down the stairs gingerly. Counting each step, making sure my feet are secure before I tug the hamper behind me.
2)
Once I finish dragging the laundry hamper down the stairs, I plan my approach into the
laundry room, stepping over the pile of dirty clothes that my husband built at
the doorway to the laundry area. After all, it's not fair of me to expect
someone who makes 30% more in his full time job than I do in my full time job to
do something trivial like stretch his tired arm out and deposit the clothes he's
just removed from his body into one of three hampers a full TEN INCHES away. A
mans home is his castle, after all, and there's only so much menial labor any
self respecting king can do before the serfs riot and draw him down to the muck.
Serfs be damned, my clothes go on the FLOOR. It gives the little people a way to feel like they're helping their king.
3)
I sort the clothes from the bedroom hamper into the three hamper sorter. Colors
(which my mother always referred to as "coloreds", as in, "wash the coloreds", and I never associated with
anything other than the clothes that are not eligible for bleach, because they
are not white, and bleach will stain them. The first time I said "I'm going to
run a load of coloreds" to my husband, I thought he was going to fall over in a
seizure, his need to correct me was so strong.), whites for our bodies (socks,
shirts, etc) and towels/sheets/blankets.4) Then I tackle the pile of hubby's clothes. I know, gentle reader, I know. I am enabling him by picking his clothes up off he floor. I am enabling him by sorting the clothes and washing them. I am enabling him by folding them and stacking them neatly for him to put away. I know. And yet, I tackle the pile of clothes on the floor. I mutter to myself, and I start to fall into my fathers profanity cadence when faced with an unpleasant task, typically house or car repair related. He turns into a stuttering Popeye-like character, interjecting the same phrases with more frequency and vigor as the task gets under his skin. His mouth gets tight, you can't see his lips move, but this stream of profanity comes out of a tiny hole in the corner - like he'd just moved his corn cob pipe to the other side, just long enough to impart this wisdom. To quote the movie A Christmas Story, "My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium, and he was a master."
My
version goes something like this: "I will not pick up his pile of god-damn
clothes from the god-damn floor. I'm not a god-damn god-damn slave. His god-damn
arm's not god-damn broken. Either he puts his god-damn dirty clothes in the
god-damn laundry his god-damn self, or he can son-of-a-god-damn let them rot in
a son-of-a-pile on the god-damn floor. I'm not doing another
god-damn-son-of-a-god-damn load of laundry where I have to pick another stitch
of clothing from a son-of-a pile. He can just
shit-in-his-god-damn-son-of-a-no-good HAT if he thinks I'm doing it. Hrumph.
God-damn. Mumble. Son-of-a. Harrumph. Shit RIGHT IN HIS LAZY HAT AND PUT IT ON
HIS LAZY HEAD." (If my best friend is still capable of reading this through the tears of laughter in her eyes, she will confirm I am NOT exaggerating. I can't count the times she and I would have to stifle our giggles into pillows, as we would hear these tirades come pouring out of the bathroom, where my dads head was under the bathroom sink and only his feet were visible as he worked on a repair. Back me up, bestie. I am my fathers daughter, and that the profanity apple did not fall far from the god-damn, god-damn, son-of-a-god-damn tree.)
5) Now that a load is running in the washer, I remind myself, there is STILL an opportunity for some zen-like quiet time while folding. I could watch a TV show streaming on the iPad while I fold fresh smelling, clean laundry. I could broaden my horizons and compassion by listening to a TED talk. I could bring the iPhone speaker dock and sing, loudly, making a musical selection that brings me joy. I could fill the house with the sound of me, singing baritone tobarbershop arrangements. And then I look at the mountain and I feel defeated, put-upon, resentful and unappreciated. Grandmother Nadya told me it's my responsibility and my honor to be the rock that holds my family together, and I agree. It is an honor. But fuck the responsibility part. Two adults live in the house, two adults dirty laundry. Two adults can share the responsibility.
In this day and age, my skill at my profession is paid 70% of a man doing the same jobs salary. I don't work 30% less, it's "just how thins are". I do my job, I do it well, and I sometimes get on a soapbox about the inequality of it all. In my job as mother and wife, I get priceless compensation from my little boy (frequently) and husband (rarely). I'm on my soap box, because its fucking not equal. Every family has its own dynamic, and it's own division of labor and I am tired of this dynamic.
I
am not filled with Zen. I'm filled with a low grade state of pissed-off-ness
that I cook, I tidy, I pay the person who does the real cleaning, I lug clothes,
pick up lazy piles of clothes, wash clothes, fold clothes, put away clothes,
soothe in the night, snuggle in the morning, make breakfast, get the boy ready
for school every day, physically drive the car 3 days, keep the supplies
stocked, engage with my child while daddy's too busy catching up on twitter and
something awful to be bothered, read the bed time stories, organize the music
class, organize the soccer class, carry the family's parent participation hours
for daycare, make sure neither baby nor daddy nap too long on weekends, manage
the Social life, make sure sitters get scheduled and paid, keep the zoo and
aquarium memberships active and smile more than I frown. And for my friends who are saying "why do you keep enabling this behavior?", rest assured it is an active topic in weekly therapy, and I can't change everything at once. I have to choose both the order of my battles, and the battles themselves. Right now, we're locked in a battle of wills around vehicles. If we're going to be a two car family, both cars have to meet some minimum safety requirements and be viable, safe options for our son. (More on this, upcoming post: "Tom Celica Must Die").
Now that I'm done ranting, let's talk. What are some things that work for your family? Not just laundry, although I'm certainly open to suggestions there! How does the division of labor look for you, and where does it go off the rails?
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Joy
This weeks writing prompt is about Joy.
"Did you get laid or something? You seem more relaxed."
She laughed and said "I did the most amazing thing. I went to see a Siberian Shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony."
"A what?", I asked.
She started telling me about the experience, and when I got back to my desk, I did a little digging on my own. (From "Shamanic Soul Retrieval" website)
Grandmother Nadya (the Shaman) had exactly one appointment left before she returned to Siberia. It was on a night where my hubby had "guy plans" already. I called my sitter, and she was available that night, too. I figured 'what's the worst that can happen?' and I booked my soul retrieval time, as well as my sitter.
On my way to the appointment, I texted my best friend. "I'm going to see a siberian shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony. If I come out of this as a zombie, you are honor-bound to track her ass down in Siberia and get my soul back." She replied that she was up to the task, and wished me luck.
I was excited, I arrived early and was chatting with Jan, the facilitator and translator for Grandmother Nadya. Grandmother speaks only a few words of English, the drum ceremony would be sung in Ulchi, the native language of the village of Bulava in Southeastern Siberia. Jan told me how it would work - Grandmother would come down in about 30 minutes, she would ask a few question by way of translation, and then she would sing and drum her journey to find my travelling soul. Jan would be taking notes during the ceremony, and would translate the journey after it was over.
She told me not to be alarmed if Grandmother Nadya sounded harsh or angry, sometimes the spirits of the earth needed a stern talking-to. She also told me that near the end, Grandmother would put on a heavy belt of bells, to help her return from the spirit realm, and that she might come close to me and work on my body a bit. She asked me to sit comfortably, with my palms up and open, and both feet on the floor.
She told me that when it was time to go, Grandmother Nadya would take off the bells, and leave - with no words or farewells. That the ceremony was draining for her, and that she would need to go to her own rituals to recover and protect her spirit, and that I should not take it personally.
Once we'd covered the basics, Jan asked me about my life. I started telling her about my son. How smart he is, how loving, how he is my blessing and my greatest work. It was still early for the ceremony, but I heard shuffling on the stairs. A short older woman shuffled in, wearing house slippers, and she looked at Jan and asked a question in Ulchi.
Jan smiled, and replied. Then she told me "She asked what we were talking about. She said your joy filled the house and called her - that she couldn't stay away. I told her you are talking about your son."
I showed Grandmother Nadya and Jan a picture of my boy. Her response, translated "His soul is a bright light that fills your heart."
It is true, my boy has an infectious laugh, and a smile that lights up his eyes. He has never met a stranger, and the best part of my day is when he comes running, to throw himself in my arms, calling "MAMA! MAMA!" I feel like my heart is a pot of water on a stove top, at that point where you never know exactly when the boil will start to ripple up from the bottom, bursting bubbles of joy on the surface. When I think about him, when I talk about him, when his little hand is nestled up in mine, that's when I'm the most alive, when I'm the most capable of feeling joy.
Grandmother Nadya put on a leather headband, that had strips that covered her face, we started talking about me, how I feel, both in my body and in my mind. She would ask questions, Jan would translate, and then I would answer and Jan would translate the answer. After a few minutes of this back and forth, Grandmother grabbed her head and let loose a stream of exasperated, pained Ulchi. I waited for the translation.
Jan told me "Your worry is buzzing at her mind - like a hive of angry bees. She says you worry too much, you think too much. Where did your joy go?"
From a basic cultural standpoint, the drum ceremony was fascinating. She sang, she played the drum, periodically she would get up from her chair and do a little booty shaking while singing and playing the drum. The room was dark, lit only be a couple candles, and the smell of sage burning was strong. From body language and tone of voice, it sounded like questions, imploring, and sometimes scolding was going on.
Grandmother put her heavy belt on, and came to dance beside me, still singing, still playing the drum. She took her drum stick (which was really a hunk of wood, not shaped like a drum stick we would see played in a band) and she swept it down my arms - like she was brushing something nasty off of me.
"Unnnnnhhhhghhghghhhhh", she grunted.
She kept sweeping and grunting - brushing off my arms, my legs, the front of my body. Her singing was intense, the movement was deliberate. It felt like cold water was being trickled inside my skin as she worked on me.
Then, I shit you not, she took her drum stick and rapped me upside the head. Twice.
She took off the belt, looked at me, and said the only words she said in English the whole night. "Don't worry. TRUST." And she left.
As Jan told me about the journey that Grandmother had sung, it became clear to me that while I may be lonely, I am not alone. She sang to the spirits of the water, to the spirits of the earth, to the spirits of the mountain. She sang to my mother, who is taking care of the souls of the babies I've lost, she sang to my friend who took his own life, but who is still walking with my traveling soul. She said my soul is not lost - not gone. It's just been afraid. She sang to the light of my son, and asked his love and brightness to be a beacon to bring me back to wholeness. She told the dark spirits, the negativity, the worry, that they are not welcome. She brushed them off where they clung to my body. And then she gave me a couple licks to the head to hammer it all home, to shake the cobwebs loose, to reiterate the point.
I've never been a 'glass half empty' type, and as someone that battles chronic depression, I take my joy where I can find it. It's part of why I fight the medication-solution that western medicine wants to throw my way. I would rather find a way to deal with the lows than to never feel the highs, to never feel the joy. Telling me not to worry is like asking me not to breathe. I honestly don't know how to let it go. I'm working with a therapist who is trying to help me be brave enough to provide a safe haven for the wandering parts of my soul to come home. I revel in the joy my son brings (while muttering under my breath about the frustrations of raising a toddler), and I let his infectious laughter be my guide.
"Don't worry. TRUST."
"...Joy is probably the most difficult emotion to feel. It's hard to feel joy because we are so keenly aware that it's fleeing. When we lose our tolerance for vulnerability, we lose the courage to be joyful. Joy is a daring emotion! We are going to let ourselves stop in a moment that won't last forever, that can be taken away. we fell almost that 'you are a schmuck if you let yourself feel too deeply because the bad stuff is going to happen.'...'If I let myself feel this joy, pain will be all that much harder. If I let myself just really sink into the joy of my child, something is going to happen to him or her, and i will be devastated.' It comes back to the idea that it's easter to live disappointed than feel disappointed. And yet we are starving for joy. I have never met anyone who doesn't want more joy in their life."-Brené Brown.A few months ago, I had a unique experience that came to be rather serendipitously. We have a massage therapist that comes into work, and I was in for a chair massage. She seemed..... different. Happier. More centered. I asked what the secret was, by way of joking around it.
"Did you get laid or something? You seem more relaxed."
She laughed and said "I did the most amazing thing. I went to see a Siberian Shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony."
"A what?", I asked.
She started telling me about the experience, and when I got back to my desk, I did a little digging on my own. (From "Shamanic Soul Retrieval" website)
Emotional or physical trauma can cause a piece of our soul essence to break off, or fragment, in order to continue living — this is referred to as soul loss. Psychology calls this dissociation and it is considered a survival response. It happens for our protection by allowing the trauma to be experienced indirectly, or even to be forgotten.
"Soul retrieval is the definitive healing modality in spirit medicine because it affords a reunion of dissociated soul part(s) with the person’s life essence, thereby allowing individuals to have more of themselves available to live their lives in the present moment." - Hank Wesselman, Ph.D. & Jill Kuykendall, RPT, Spirit Medicine (2004)It intrigued me. I've been so lonely these past few years, it made me think, maybe I was just missing part of my soul that was wandering around out there, hiding from the day-to-day, hiding from the things I've blocked out. So I made a phone call.
Grandmother Nadya (the Shaman) had exactly one appointment left before she returned to Siberia. It was on a night where my hubby had "guy plans" already. I called my sitter, and she was available that night, too. I figured 'what's the worst that can happen?' and I booked my soul retrieval time, as well as my sitter.
On my way to the appointment, I texted my best friend. "I'm going to see a siberian shaman for a soul retrieval ceremony. If I come out of this as a zombie, you are honor-bound to track her ass down in Siberia and get my soul back." She replied that she was up to the task, and wished me luck.
I was excited, I arrived early and was chatting with Jan, the facilitator and translator for Grandmother Nadya. Grandmother speaks only a few words of English, the drum ceremony would be sung in Ulchi, the native language of the village of Bulava in Southeastern Siberia. Jan told me how it would work - Grandmother would come down in about 30 minutes, she would ask a few question by way of translation, and then she would sing and drum her journey to find my travelling soul. Jan would be taking notes during the ceremony, and would translate the journey after it was over.
She told me not to be alarmed if Grandmother Nadya sounded harsh or angry, sometimes the spirits of the earth needed a stern talking-to. She also told me that near the end, Grandmother would put on a heavy belt of bells, to help her return from the spirit realm, and that she might come close to me and work on my body a bit. She asked me to sit comfortably, with my palms up and open, and both feet on the floor.
She told me that when it was time to go, Grandmother Nadya would take off the bells, and leave - with no words or farewells. That the ceremony was draining for her, and that she would need to go to her own rituals to recover and protect her spirit, and that I should not take it personally.
Once we'd covered the basics, Jan asked me about my life. I started telling her about my son. How smart he is, how loving, how he is my blessing and my greatest work. It was still early for the ceremony, but I heard shuffling on the stairs. A short older woman shuffled in, wearing house slippers, and she looked at Jan and asked a question in Ulchi.
Jan smiled, and replied. Then she told me "She asked what we were talking about. She said your joy filled the house and called her - that she couldn't stay away. I told her you are talking about your son."
 |
| Chortling cue ball, at 6 months |
I showed Grandmother Nadya and Jan a picture of my boy. Her response, translated "His soul is a bright light that fills your heart."
 |
| My teacher |
It is true, my boy has an infectious laugh, and a smile that lights up his eyes. He has never met a stranger, and the best part of my day is when he comes running, to throw himself in my arms, calling "MAMA! MAMA!" I feel like my heart is a pot of water on a stove top, at that point where you never know exactly when the boil will start to ripple up from the bottom, bursting bubbles of joy on the surface. When I think about him, when I talk about him, when his little hand is nestled up in mine, that's when I'm the most alive, when I'm the most capable of feeling joy.
Grandmother Nadya put on a leather headband, that had strips that covered her face, we started talking about me, how I feel, both in my body and in my mind. She would ask questions, Jan would translate, and then I would answer and Jan would translate the answer. After a few minutes of this back and forth, Grandmother grabbed her head and let loose a stream of exasperated, pained Ulchi. I waited for the translation.
Jan told me "Your worry is buzzing at her mind - like a hive of angry bees. She says you worry too much, you think too much. Where did your joy go?"
From a basic cultural standpoint, the drum ceremony was fascinating. She sang, she played the drum, periodically she would get up from her chair and do a little booty shaking while singing and playing the drum. The room was dark, lit only be a couple candles, and the smell of sage burning was strong. From body language and tone of voice, it sounded like questions, imploring, and sometimes scolding was going on.
Grandmother put her heavy belt on, and came to dance beside me, still singing, still playing the drum. She took her drum stick (which was really a hunk of wood, not shaped like a drum stick we would see played in a band) and she swept it down my arms - like she was brushing something nasty off of me.
"Unnnnnhhhhghhghghhhhh", she grunted.
She kept sweeping and grunting - brushing off my arms, my legs, the front of my body. Her singing was intense, the movement was deliberate. It felt like cold water was being trickled inside my skin as she worked on me.
Then, I shit you not, she took her drum stick and rapped me upside the head. Twice.
She took off the belt, looked at me, and said the only words she said in English the whole night. "Don't worry. TRUST." And she left.
As Jan told me about the journey that Grandmother had sung, it became clear to me that while I may be lonely, I am not alone. She sang to the spirits of the water, to the spirits of the earth, to the spirits of the mountain. She sang to my mother, who is taking care of the souls of the babies I've lost, she sang to my friend who took his own life, but who is still walking with my traveling soul. She said my soul is not lost - not gone. It's just been afraid. She sang to the light of my son, and asked his love and brightness to be a beacon to bring me back to wholeness. She told the dark spirits, the negativity, the worry, that they are not welcome. She brushed them off where they clung to my body. And then she gave me a couple licks to the head to hammer it all home, to shake the cobwebs loose, to reiterate the point.
I've never been a 'glass half empty' type, and as someone that battles chronic depression, I take my joy where I can find it. It's part of why I fight the medication-solution that western medicine wants to throw my way. I would rather find a way to deal with the lows than to never feel the highs, to never feel the joy. Telling me not to worry is like asking me not to breathe. I honestly don't know how to let it go. I'm working with a therapist who is trying to help me be brave enough to provide a safe haven for the wandering parts of my soul to come home. I revel in the joy my son brings (while muttering under my breath about the frustrations of raising a toddler), and I let his infectious laughter be my guide.
"Don't worry. TRUST."
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I'm not that person any more.
I really like the way that facebook lets me have a peripheral peek into the lives of people that are no longer a part of my day-to-day existence. With that said, it's also an avenue that brings a fair amount of outrage, indignation, and the occasional face palm to my days.
The political season was rough. I unfriended more than one person that habitually posted their brand of vitriol about the candidates - and this went for ALL the candidates. ObamaCare has been rough, particularly around women's health issues. Gun control, I'm not even sure I have the words to say how much it bugs me to see the anti-gun-control posts and pictures.
My heart is still broken for the families in Newtown, CT and I can't make sense of people advocating that things remain "status quo" The easy access to modifications that make it possible to fire a large number of rounds in a short amount of time is not protected by the Constitution. Armor piercing bullets are not protected by the Constitution. These things exists for one reason, and that reason is to kill people. I don't discount the roles that mental health care has played in the massacres of the recent years, but I also don't think it can all be pinned to the failure of our nations ability to help people with problems.
One particular face-palmy event happened on Christmas Eve. My niece posted a picture of her 8 year old son, holding a gun, with the caption "Christmas present from Papa"
Part of the beauty of an "anonymous blog" is that I control who has knowledge of these posts, and I know that we are primarily a like minded community. So, I can say this.
He looks like a little thug! And what sort of an idiot gives an eight year old a gun? What the fuck are you thinking?!?!? I try to put myself in the headspace where I would think such a gift was a good idea, where I would take a picture of it, and where I would put it on the Internet. I can't get to that place. I'm not that person any more.
Here's an interesting back story. I was raised a Southern Baptist, gun-totting, God-fearing Republican. I was my great-nephews age when my dad taught me to hold a gun for the first time - we started with .22 caliber rifle. We went hunting once, and I did not like the way it made me feel to see blood coming out of the bird I had managed to hit, so we focused on target shooting (pistol and rifle) and skeet shooting (shotgun). Throughout high school, my Dad and I would go to the rod and gun club and shoot on a very regular basis - it was the only way we managed to relate to each other. I applied for and received a concealed carry permit, and carried a pistol in bag TO WORK every day in my early twenties. I knew about gun safety, I had a gun safe, I knew how to load, unload, disassemble, clean and reassemble a variety of firearms. I honestly believed I could hold a gun in my hands and defend myself from risk to life, limb and physical property.
I am not that person any more.
While talking with my Dad on Christmas Eve, I asked him if he had bought the gun for my great-nephew. He said no, that was my sisters (the boys grandma) boyfriends gift to him. I asked if it was a BB gun, he said no, it's a small gauge 2 shot shotgun.
I got silent. I had been consoling myself that it was "just a BB gun", in the time-honored tradition of Ralphie, in the movie "A Christmas Story". With intent (or ignorance), and at short range, a BB gun can do serious damage, but, in my mind, at least it wasn't a "real gun"
My Dad kept talking.
"It's not like they're going to let him use it unsupervised. That fella, Aaron, he knows how to hunt, and he's going to teach AJ. But he won't be running around with a gun all the time."
Knowing my sister: and the chaotic shambles that best defines her life, and knowing my niece: a kid with three kids of her own, I am highly skeptical that they have any security measures in place to keep this 8 year old boy from running around with a gun all the time. I'd put money that there is no gun safe. I'm just hoping they have the sense to keep the gun unloaded, and to store the ammunition in a separate, inaccessible location. But I have my doubts.
I interrupted my dad's rambling about how it was perfectly ok, normal, and right for his great grandson to be armed at the ripe old age of 8.
"Dad, I gotta tell you. If you ever decide you want to get my son a gun of any kind - ANY KIND - you need to talk to me first. Because the answer is going to be no."
He made an excuse. "Well, it's not like you didn't have guns at that age. You just teach a kid to use a gun right."
"No guns, Dad. I'm not that person any more."
The political season was rough. I unfriended more than one person that habitually posted their brand of vitriol about the candidates - and this went for ALL the candidates. ObamaCare has been rough, particularly around women's health issues. Gun control, I'm not even sure I have the words to say how much it bugs me to see the anti-gun-control posts and pictures.
My heart is still broken for the families in Newtown, CT and I can't make sense of people advocating that things remain "status quo" The easy access to modifications that make it possible to fire a large number of rounds in a short amount of time is not protected by the Constitution. Armor piercing bullets are not protected by the Constitution. These things exists for one reason, and that reason is to kill people. I don't discount the roles that mental health care has played in the massacres of the recent years, but I also don't think it can all be pinned to the failure of our nations ability to help people with problems.
One particular face-palmy event happened on Christmas Eve. My niece posted a picture of her 8 year old son, holding a gun, with the caption "Christmas present from Papa"
Part of the beauty of an "anonymous blog" is that I control who has knowledge of these posts, and I know that we are primarily a like minded community. So, I can say this.
He looks like a little thug! And what sort of an idiot gives an eight year old a gun? What the fuck are you thinking?!?!? I try to put myself in the headspace where I would think such a gift was a good idea, where I would take a picture of it, and where I would put it on the Internet. I can't get to that place. I'm not that person any more.
Here's an interesting back story. I was raised a Southern Baptist, gun-totting, God-fearing Republican. I was my great-nephews age when my dad taught me to hold a gun for the first time - we started with .22 caliber rifle. We went hunting once, and I did not like the way it made me feel to see blood coming out of the bird I had managed to hit, so we focused on target shooting (pistol and rifle) and skeet shooting (shotgun). Throughout high school, my Dad and I would go to the rod and gun club and shoot on a very regular basis - it was the only way we managed to relate to each other. I applied for and received a concealed carry permit, and carried a pistol in bag TO WORK every day in my early twenties. I knew about gun safety, I had a gun safe, I knew how to load, unload, disassemble, clean and reassemble a variety of firearms. I honestly believed I could hold a gun in my hands and defend myself from risk to life, limb and physical property.
I am not that person any more.
While talking with my Dad on Christmas Eve, I asked him if he had bought the gun for my great-nephew. He said no, that was my sisters (the boys grandma) boyfriends gift to him. I asked if it was a BB gun, he said no, it's a small gauge 2 shot shotgun.
I got silent. I had been consoling myself that it was "just a BB gun", in the time-honored tradition of Ralphie, in the movie "A Christmas Story". With intent (or ignorance), and at short range, a BB gun can do serious damage, but, in my mind, at least it wasn't a "real gun"
 |
| "You'll shoot your eye out" |
My Dad kept talking.
"It's not like they're going to let him use it unsupervised. That fella, Aaron, he knows how to hunt, and he's going to teach AJ. But he won't be running around with a gun all the time."
Knowing my sister: and the chaotic shambles that best defines her life, and knowing my niece: a kid with three kids of her own, I am highly skeptical that they have any security measures in place to keep this 8 year old boy from running around with a gun all the time. I'd put money that there is no gun safe. I'm just hoping they have the sense to keep the gun unloaded, and to store the ammunition in a separate, inaccessible location. But I have my doubts.
I interrupted my dad's rambling about how it was perfectly ok, normal, and right for his great grandson to be armed at the ripe old age of 8.
"Dad, I gotta tell you. If you ever decide you want to get my son a gun of any kind - ANY KIND - you need to talk to me first. Because the answer is going to be no."
He made an excuse. "Well, it's not like you didn't have guns at that age. You just teach a kid to use a gun right."
"No guns, Dad. I'm not that person any more."
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Video killed the Radio Star
When you think about the revolutions and evolutions in pretty much every aspect of every day life that have occured in our lifetimes, it's pretty amazing. I was born in 1971. I carry a smart phone IN MY POCKET that has more computing power than the computers used to launch the Gemini and Apollo series of manned space flight in the late sixties and seventies. Landline phones are dead. There is an internet. Music videos came and went. Vinyl, 8-tracks, cassette tapes, and CD's have all been rendered near-obsolete by digital file downloads. The list goes on and on.
One of the saddest things fo rme is the death of the daily diary. 140 characters, one or two lines of a social network update have taken the place of a journal entry, or even a livejournal blog post.
When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was "Harriet the Spy" (I actually just re-read it a few weeks ago). I wanted to be like Harriet - I wanted to see everything, and write it all down.
I poured my heart and soul into my diary, my disappointments, my successes, my fears, my anger, and the details of my elementary school crush, Matt Hoffman.
I even had the perfect hiding place. There was a loose corner of carpet in my bedroom, and I could stash my diary (a black velvet covered journal, with a silver unicorn embossed on the front) under the loose carpet, then I would set the speaker for my garage-sale turn-table stereo on top of the small lump that the diary made. A few knick-knacks on top of the speaker, and I believed it was camaflouged beyond any possibility of being found.
My mother was a master-sleuth. She found that my brother had been pulling the covers off his sports illustrated magazines and using them to cover individual copies of Playboy magazine. What I thought was a multi-year, multi-issue dedication to all things sports was really a porn stash that would make the local convenience store blush. When mom uncovered his porn stash, she waited until he got home, made him carry all the magazines into the back yard, and then she threw them all into a garbage can, doused it with lighter fluid, and set it ablaze - masturbation fodder, gone in a puff of black smoke into the clear blue desert afternoon sky.
Despite my clever hiding place, my mom found my diary, read my diary, and then WROTE ME A NOTE inside my diary, telling me that she was ashamed of me and the things I had written down. That a good Christian girl would not have impure thoughts and be so mean spirited, and that she hoped I would spend some time praying to the Good Lord to make my heart and mind clean so I could be the kind of daughter she would be proud of.
Imagine being 10 years old, opening your diary to write the days information, and finding a note like that from your mom. I was mortified. But more than mortified, I was ANGRY. So, I wrote her a note back. I don't remember it word for word, but paraphrased, I wrote that I didn't think GOD would be proud of her snooping and reading my private diary. That it said PRIVATE all over the inside cover, and that is was rude to read something personal, and if snooping around meant being a christian, then maybe I didn't WANT to be a Christian.
Then I ripped out all the pages of my diary that she had read, leaving just her note and my response, and I tucked it back into the hiding place. I ripped up my private thoughts, tore them into little pieces, and ate them, one at a time.
A couple weeks later, my brother showed up to pick me up at school.
"I don't know what you did to mom, but you should avoid her for a while," he warned. "She's really pissed." I felt the dread come over me - from my head down, hot and cold at the same time. Like my hair was trying to get away from my scalp and my scalp was trying to get away from my skull simultaneously. Mom was slamming things around the kitchen and muttering to herself, while I practiced my art of making myself invisible for the next few days.
Long story short, it blew over. But I still have a hard time writing in a journal. I trick myself into thinking 'THIS TIME I will stick to it, THIS TIME, I will write' by buying journals with beautiful covers, or thematic topics. I have pens that glide over the paper, like the enchanted quick quill Rita Skeeter possessed in the Harry Potter books, and still I can't bring myself to sit down and put pen to paper.
I've been laid up, post-operatively, these past two weeks. I've spent a lot of time in a vicodin induced haze, watching old television shows on my iPad while laying in bed. One of my guilty pleasures is a wild fantasy life that involves me and Neil Patrick Harris, happily raising children together in a picture-perfect life, somewhere in New Mexico. To indulge this fantasy, I re-watched a fair amount of Doogie Howser, MD on Hulu. The original blogger, young Dr. Howser - how I envy his easy practice of sitting down to write at the close of each day. Just Doogie and his Macintosh, friendly glowing green cursor, waiting to capture his wisdom and the lessons he's learned.
I've had an off-again, on-again relationship with blogging, starting with the password encrypted journal files on early PC systems, moving into LiveJournal, Multiply, Facebook, and most recently in this incarnation on blogger.
During the LiveJournal years, I achieved a mild notoriety (Which is to say, a small readership, and a troll or two) - one of the community managers for the massively multiplayer online game I was working on leaked the addresses of developers personal blogs on the fan forum. A fan-boy picked up a post I had written, at the conclusion of a punishing bike ride and shortly after my mother passed away, and reposted it in the forum, making fun of my "incessant whining about missing my mommy" and said the team should "spend more time working on the game and less time out riding bicycles." I went on the warpath. The community-adored community manager got fired, and I had my own little "hate-club" of people, complaining that I shouldn't write if I couldn't take commentary when I was read. I stopped writing (again).
It's so easy to tap out the latest bed-time update on my smart phone - using words that express my frustration (sigh, ugh), indifference (meh, whatever), or joy (wheeee!, HA!). The ubiquitous "like" button is right there, allowing me to give friends posts a virtual thumbs up with next-to-no effort on my part, but without any real engagement, either. I long to have a conversation, I want to feel like I have a voice, and yet I struggle to write it down. Sometimes I make the excuse that no one is reading, other times I use the excuse of writers block, or physical exhaustion, but it all boils down to just excuses.
Have Facebook and Twitter killed the personal journal? Do "Like" and "Retweet" replace the possibility of conversation that can come out of a (read) blog? Or is that just another excuse for not writing? Can I make the time to put thoughts to paper (virtual or physical) and stop making excuses?
It's a new year, time for a new year's resoultion. More writing, less excuses. The form may have evolved from a black velvet covered unicorn journal to a shiny MacBook Pro keyboard, but it's time to rediscover that satisfied feeling, so well-portrayed by NPH, of hitting save, committing to memory and completing a days writing.
One of the saddest things fo rme is the death of the daily diary. 140 characters, one or two lines of a social network update have taken the place of a journal entry, or even a livejournal blog post.When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was "Harriet the Spy" (I actually just re-read it a few weeks ago). I wanted to be like Harriet - I wanted to see everything, and write it all down.
I poured my heart and soul into my diary, my disappointments, my successes, my fears, my anger, and the details of my elementary school crush, Matt Hoffman.
I even had the perfect hiding place. There was a loose corner of carpet in my bedroom, and I could stash my diary (a black velvet covered journal, with a silver unicorn embossed on the front) under the loose carpet, then I would set the speaker for my garage-sale turn-table stereo on top of the small lump that the diary made. A few knick-knacks on top of the speaker, and I believed it was camaflouged beyond any possibility of being found.
My mother was a master-sleuth. She found that my brother had been pulling the covers off his sports illustrated magazines and using them to cover individual copies of Playboy magazine. What I thought was a multi-year, multi-issue dedication to all things sports was really a porn stash that would make the local convenience store blush. When mom uncovered his porn stash, she waited until he got home, made him carry all the magazines into the back yard, and then she threw them all into a garbage can, doused it with lighter fluid, and set it ablaze - masturbation fodder, gone in a puff of black smoke into the clear blue desert afternoon sky.
Despite my clever hiding place, my mom found my diary, read my diary, and then WROTE ME A NOTE inside my diary, telling me that she was ashamed of me and the things I had written down. That a good Christian girl would not have impure thoughts and be so mean spirited, and that she hoped I would spend some time praying to the Good Lord to make my heart and mind clean so I could be the kind of daughter she would be proud of.
Imagine being 10 years old, opening your diary to write the days information, and finding a note like that from your mom. I was mortified. But more than mortified, I was ANGRY. So, I wrote her a note back. I don't remember it word for word, but paraphrased, I wrote that I didn't think GOD would be proud of her snooping and reading my private diary. That it said PRIVATE all over the inside cover, and that is was rude to read something personal, and if snooping around meant being a christian, then maybe I didn't WANT to be a Christian.
Then I ripped out all the pages of my diary that she had read, leaving just her note and my response, and I tucked it back into the hiding place. I ripped up my private thoughts, tore them into little pieces, and ate them, one at a time.
A couple weeks later, my brother showed up to pick me up at school.
"I don't know what you did to mom, but you should avoid her for a while," he warned. "She's really pissed." I felt the dread come over me - from my head down, hot and cold at the same time. Like my hair was trying to get away from my scalp and my scalp was trying to get away from my skull simultaneously. Mom was slamming things around the kitchen and muttering to herself, while I practiced my art of making myself invisible for the next few days.
 |
| Just a small sampling of some uncracked journals |
I've been laid up, post-operatively, these past two weeks. I've spent a lot of time in a vicodin induced haze, watching old television shows on my iPad while laying in bed. One of my guilty pleasures is a wild fantasy life that involves me and Neil Patrick Harris, happily raising children together in a picture-perfect life, somewhere in New Mexico. To indulge this fantasy, I re-watched a fair amount of Doogie Howser, MD on Hulu. The original blogger, young Dr. Howser - how I envy his easy practice of sitting down to write at the close of each day. Just Doogie and his Macintosh, friendly glowing green cursor, waiting to capture his wisdom and the lessons he's learned.
I've had an off-again, on-again relationship with blogging, starting with the password encrypted journal files on early PC systems, moving into LiveJournal, Multiply, Facebook, and most recently in this incarnation on blogger.
During the LiveJournal years, I achieved a mild notoriety (Which is to say, a small readership, and a troll or two) - one of the community managers for the massively multiplayer online game I was working on leaked the addresses of developers personal blogs on the fan forum. A fan-boy picked up a post I had written, at the conclusion of a punishing bike ride and shortly after my mother passed away, and reposted it in the forum, making fun of my "incessant whining about missing my mommy" and said the team should "spend more time working on the game and less time out riding bicycles." I went on the warpath. The community-adored community manager got fired, and I had my own little "hate-club" of people, complaining that I shouldn't write if I couldn't take commentary when I was read. I stopped writing (again).
It's so easy to tap out the latest bed-time update on my smart phone - using words that express my frustration (sigh, ugh), indifference (meh, whatever), or joy (wheeee!, HA!). The ubiquitous "like" button is right there, allowing me to give friends posts a virtual thumbs up with next-to-no effort on my part, but without any real engagement, either. I long to have a conversation, I want to feel like I have a voice, and yet I struggle to write it down. Sometimes I make the excuse that no one is reading, other times I use the excuse of writers block, or physical exhaustion, but it all boils down to just excuses.
Have Facebook and Twitter killed the personal journal? Do "Like" and "Retweet" replace the possibility of conversation that can come out of a (read) blog? Or is that just another excuse for not writing? Can I make the time to put thoughts to paper (virtual or physical) and stop making excuses?
It's a new year, time for a new year's resoultion. More writing, less excuses. The form may have evolved from a black velvet covered unicorn journal to a shiny MacBook Pro keyboard, but it's time to rediscover that satisfied feeling, so well-portrayed by NPH, of hitting save, committing to memory and completing a days writing.
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