This Moment Is More Precious Than You Think

Over the last few days, I've been presented with a few reminders from the universe that life is short. That the days never stop coming. We are always moving forward, burying (sometimes literally) the scraps of our past.

The phrase, "live life to the fullest," is trite. I hate to use it. Mostly because I have seen more than one good person "live" themselves into an anxiety attack. There is this constant push to always be doing.

Join another community group, take on another project at work, mow the lawn, join a third book club, sign up for another committee at church, try to remember to have sex this month, mow the lawn, make sure the kids are signed up for that second day camp, paint the guest room, MOW THE EFFING LAWN!

I have never really been a joiner. I tried Young Life in high school. Didn't take. Key Club, FBLA, Student Counsel, none of these things appealed. According to my mother, it's because I just don't like people. Okay, in all fairness, what she said was just that I have never been "warm." Which is her way of saying I don't like people.

This isn't true. I like most people. There are people I don't like, but for the most part they're douchebags, so who gives a damn. There is only one person on the planet I don't like who everyone else I know seems to have zero problem with. And she happens to be a sterling example of the psychosis detailed above.

This woman just flat out gives me hives. She just must, must, MUST be in this or that club, or on a committee, or engaged in some kind of activity that reminds us all that we care less about poverty, or women's issues, or politics than she does.

She is the kind of person who will skip her 10-year-old son's soccer game to sit around discussing the issues facing women in wartime Iraq. Are those issues important? Hell, yes. But there are two things to consider: 1) Re-imagining gender roles in the Middle East amounts to little more than intellectual masturbation, especially when you are member of a women's group in northern Colorado and 2) Your son will never, EVER forget that Mommy's meetings are more important than he is. Really. He'll come leaping out of the closet when he's 18 in the hopes that you'll let him march in the gay pride parade with you and whatever committee you're affiliated with that day.

Hey, a gay son is the best possible accessory for a hip socially liberal mommy. Even better than that $200 Patagonia fleece and $300 Danskos you've got on.

Wait. I'm losing my train of thought. Oh, there it is.

My point is that I feel like, as a people, we are losing the ability to just be. To sit for two hours, drink a bottle of red wine with someone we love, and talk about the hypothetical future without constantly checking our cell phones for messages or looking at the clock. No, that kind of frivolity is not tolerated. If you're going to talk with a significant other, you better be arguing about money, or discussing the division of childcare duties. And put that wine away, slackers! How dare you linger over something as trivial as romance when there are meetings to attend!

All of us have some of this in us somewhere, and please don't think that the point of the post is to deride club membership. Joining groups and clubs is a great way to meet people with similar interests and keep our intellects in shape. We just need to also rediscover the beauty in everyday things. Things that don't require meeting attendance. Sitting on metal bleachers, watching 10-year-old boys playing soccer. The smell of blooming Russian Olive trees. The feel of familiar hands. The taste of our favorite foods. The sound of our favorite songs. Just being.

Because here's the thing. The next time you smell those flowers, taste that food, feel those hands, kiss those lips, could be the last time.

Because we are always moving into the future, and there are always things that can't keep up.

Honesty? Honestly.

Hey Chickens!

Are you ready to play a round of "Tell or Don't Tell?" The game where contestants try to decide what's important enough to tell their significant others and what's just irritating.

You can play along at home! The first ones are easy!

1. You backed over the cat with the car. (Tell)
2. You were unable to find the brand of frozen pizza that you had a coupon for, so you bought another brand, that while 25 cents more expensive, is one you've heard good things about. (Don't tell)
3. The ring you got her for Valentine's Day is a cubic zirconia. (Don't tell)
4. Your parents are coming to visit for a week and they think it would be easier for everyone if they just parked their RV on your front lawn. (Tell)
5. Crabs. (Tell)
6. The chicken you cooked for dinner expired in 2006. But it's been frozen the whole time. (Don't tell)
7. Your period was two weeks late, so you took a home preganacy test. It was negative. (Don't tell)
8. The blond chick that works in the cubicle next to you came over and sat on your desk this afternoon and her skirt rode waaaaaay up her thigh. It was hot. (Don't tell)
9. You left the take-home bag from dinner in the trunk of their car. Two days ago. (Tell)
10. An old friend calls and tells you that they are having a hard time supporting your relationship because they're crazy about you and super jealous of your SO. (?????)

So, chickens. What's the answer to 10? Do you tell, because the whole situation makes you uncomfortable (and a little angry) because someone you thought was your friend seems to get off on drama of their own creation and you really need to talk about it?

Or do you not tell, because you don't want your SO to feel threatened or feel like you're trying to make them jealous. Plus, on the off chance your friend can put their shit back together and actually wants to hang out with you again, you don't want things to be uncomfortable.

So, what do we tell the people we love from day to day? Do you share your every thought and every experience? Is that even possible? Is that something we truly want from a partner? At what point does "not telling" become "witholding," "shutting out," and even "lying?"

If the roles were reversed and the Gipester told me an old friend was in love with him, I'd lose my shit. I know I would. I've got what you could call a jealous streak. It's not the Wendy Testaberger "stay away from my man, bitch" jealous streak I had going on in college, but it's still there. I really wouldn't want him to see this person anymore. If G told me he didn't want me to talk to this friend again, I would comply. But that wouldn't happen. I'm in love with a man who was born without the jealousy portion of the brain. Or maybe he feels jealousy and just doesn't tell me. Which takes me back to the issue in the previous paragraph.

So, lots of questions. No answers. What do we tell? What do we hold back? And when does it make a difference?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

No Girlz Allowed

Don't get political. Don't get political. Don't get political.
Ah, damn.
I have to.

This morning, a video was posted on Digg from YouTube. It was a mash-up that compiled news footage from 1992-2008 of Hillary Clinton, basically pandering (and occasionally lying) her ass off. The point being, of course, that Hillary is a bad person and should in no way be allowed to become president. Obama 08. Whoooo. You get the picture.

I must make it clear that I have very little problem with politicians getting called on their shit. As a people, it's important that we hold our leaders accountable. We have slacked on that responsibility as of late and now we have power-mad sadists running the show. Not cool. Anyway, my bitch is not with the video itself, it is with the comments from Diggers about the video. The bile spewed in these comments is symptomatic of a much larger issue.

While there were many, many thoughtful responses to the video from all over the political spectrum, there were a few that stopped me cold.

There were comments on Hillary's looks:
"1992 Hillary was hot"
"16 years does a lot to your looks"

There were comments rife with righteous indignation:
"Got ya, bitch"
"Fuck you, bitch"

And then my personal favorite:
"I'm gong to masturbate to Hillary's concession speech, and if she cries, I'm going to record it for future masturbatory material."

*sigh*

There seems to be a general sexism that Clinton has encountered on the campaign trail that is readily accepted by the American people at large. In addition to the truly in-depth political analysis you can find on sites like Digg and Reddit, Air America's Randi Rhodes called her a "fucking whore" at a media function. Granted, she was also talking about Geraldine Ferraro, but, really. Fucking whore? You get paid for this, Randi? Oh, wait. They fired you. So I guess you don't.

Asshats like Rush Limbaugh ponder REALLY important issues like, "Do Americans want to watch a woman get old?"

When she cried during a speech on the campaign trail (I'm not going to take a stand on whether or not the tears were genuine) CNN's Glen Beck's initial comment was "It cries." Not she. IT! IT for Christ's sake! She has been criticised (by Beck) for lacking "femininity" and "humanity," but when she shows an actual emotion, she is greeted with nothing but snark.

Marc Rudov, author of such classics as The Man's No-Nonsense Guide To Women and Under the Clitoral Hood: How To Crank Her Engine Without Cash, Booze, or Jumper Cables said on a Fox News interview, "Men won't vote for Hillary Clinton because she reminds them of their nagging wives!" and "When Hillary talks [men] hear, 'Take out the garbage.'" Why exactly Marc "girls just love to expose themselves" Rudov is on Fox News talking about the presidential campaign is beyond me, but there he was.

Tucker Carlson and his bowtie pulled a Lorena Bobbitt reference out of nowhere when talking about Clinton. Apparently, the Hillary Clinton nutcracker wasn't enough. You have to find a more graphic way to let men know that having a woman in charge is the equivalent of having their boy parts removed.

Excellent.

Republican strategist Pete Snyder made a reference to taking her "behind the barn!"

Sweet limping Jesus!

Perhaps I should reiterate. These are examples of PAID PROFESSIONALS engaging in sexism that seems to not only be tolerated by my fellow Americans, but perhaps even supported.

So, I return now to the original focus of my feminist ire.

To the Diggers I quoted above: Y'all need to stop. Right effing now.
Be pissed that Clinton lies and panders to the voters. That is legit.
That anger makes you an American. The only reason we have a country is because we got tired of lies and bullshit.

Don't talk about jerking off to her tearful concession speech.

That makes you a dick.

God Bless America.

Do you have a pamphlet on that?

Oh look, light.

Today I am recovering from a migraine headache. I don't have them often and I don't handle them well. In addition to the face-melting pain, I can't deal with light, or high pitched noises, my eyes can't focus, and I usually am in a really FOUL mood until the whole thing is over. Oh, and I throw up. A lot. The good thing is that, today, I can open my eyes, focus, and speak in full sentences. The pain and the foul mood are still very much intact. Wheee!
The only reason I am back among the living is because the Gipester took me to see a chiropractor yesterday. She was fantastic, more therapist, really, than medical doc. She scolded me soundly for the huge knots of muscle in my neck and shoulders. "I get the feeling you're not loving yourself the way you should," she said as she tried valiantly to get me to relax. Since I was face down on her scary-looking chiropractic table I couldn't really see what she was doing... There was tapping and an industrial strength massager that sounded a little bit like a belt sander.

Anyway, when she gave me the bit about "loving myself," I really wanted to open my mouth and make a joke about how long it had been since I'd owned a decent vibrator, but I didn't really get the chance. I opened my mouth to make my stupid joke, and I started crying. Not three-year-old-choking-on-your-own-snot crying, just crying. I will be forever grateful that she didn't mention it, or even ask me what was wrong. Which is good. If she had asked me, I don't know that I'd even be able to tell her.

I didn't cry for long. I don't anymore. A minute or two at a time is really all I can sustain. In some warped way, I think I'm trying not to inconvenience those around me. I cry enough to make whatever issue I'm dealing with just small enough to shove back in its file drawer. I wonder where the migraines come from...

I would never pretend that the way I deal with stress is healthy. It's actually pretty insane. I keep my minor irritations and tiny hurt feelings locked up because I don't think they are valid. I don't think they are valid, because if they were, the person who is currently hurting or irritating me wouldn't be hurting or irritating me. But they are, so hurting me must be the right course of action, therefore, I have no right to complain or be upset. When I complain about hurt feelings, I am irritating to others and that must be avoided or no one will ever love me and I will die alone. That about covers it.

Whew.

I realize that there are myriad things wrong with this line of thinking. You have to realize that this is me at my most irrational. These are the thoughts that are birthed directly from the id, before the ego and the superego have their chance to talk some sense into them. Assuming people know that they are being irritating or hurtful is ridiculous, especially if you choose not to engage them in conversation about the situation. But our gut reactions, the ones untempered by logic and reason, tend to guide much of what we do, so I thought mine deserved a little stage time.

So, the doc was right, I have a little bit of a self-love issue (who doesn't?) But here's the thing about all of this "loving myself" bullshit. It's one of those things that people will tell you to do, but they never really tell you HOW. They tell you to spend money on self-help books, CD recordings of Wiccans chanting in the rainforest, organic diet granola, mineral spa treatments and other useless shit, but isn't the lesson there that money equals love? I have to buy myself tantric yoga classes so that my self will love me? How dysfunctional is that?

So, my goal for the next month or so is to make a conscious effort to love myself in a healthy way. I will express my hurts, frustrations, joys, and excitements. To not do so is as unfair to the people I love and who love me as it is to myself. I will express opinions that I have thus far held back for fear of expressing something as silly as the wrong movie or restaurant preference. I will stop feeling embarrassment about being divorced and almost 30.

And maybe I'll take a tantric yoga class.

Havin' trouble sleepin'

When I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the blades on the ceiling fan (one...two...three...four...five. Yup, still five. Same as last night), listening to the BF snore, and watching the clock as the night closes in around me, that's when I do all my deep thinking. Stuff like:
"Oh shit, I never took that orange out of my briefcase. It's been there for almost a month. Ewww. Take care of that tomorrow."

"Hmmm. I wonder if I should cook chicken tomorrow night? I'll have time to marinate it between work and my job interview, but I don't want to cook before I GO to the interview because I will 1. get chicken goo all over my interview clothes and 2. I don't want my stomach to make those weird Jabba-the-Hut digestive sounds while I sit in my interview."

"I wonder what happened to Michael? Actually, no. I don't really."

"How many calories are in a grape?"

"Argh. I left the sheets in the dryer. Fold those tomorrow."

"Will the fact that Hillary Clinton has done such a bad job running her campaign make it harder for qualified women to run for president in the future? Do Hillary's flaws undermine the feminist movement's desire for equality between the sexes by proving misogynistic toads correct about the inability of women to be organized, strong leaders? Or is she simply proving that male and female politicians can be dissembling bastards in equal measure, thereby bolstering the equality argument?"

"I love berry Lucky Charms. Love them. I could probably eat a whole box, a fistful at a time without thinking about it. Picking all of the marshmallows out and eating them in ROYGBIV order, of course."

"I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD? I wonder if I have OCD?" (Ha! I crack myself up.)

Anyway. I really do think all of this stuff. I think of these random products of my feeble brain as a fence that keeps the wolves at bay. I can hear them. In the dark, crying out with the voices I love the most. My mother, my father, my little brother, all cry to me of tragedies that might not ever come to pass. But might, all at the same time. They cry out with the voices of those who never loved me, and who number my sins and fears in perfect rhythm.

The wolves will howl, chickens. But they're quiet for now. So, I will return to my bed, curl up against the man I love, count the ceiling fan blades, and wait for the sun.

An open letter...

to the incredibly obnoxious woman who sat next to us at the movie last night,

You are a horrible person. Not like Hitler or Stalin awful. More like Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Paradise Hotel 2, awful.
I know I shouldn't judge. I should be a good progressive and try to figure out where you're coming from. There has to be a reason that a woman of your...impressive girth... looks at a pair of lycra leggings in Target and says, "Hell yes, I have to get a pair of those!"
Perhaps those leggings (which I'm pretty sure I heard weeping from the strain) cut off a huge part of the blood flow to your brain. Perhaps the part of your brain that is responsible for making good parenting decisions simply shut down to allow you to do things like walk, talk, feed yourself, and not soil yourself in mixed company.
Making fun of you is almost like making fun of the stupidest puppy in the litter. You know it's wrong to laugh, but there's something about the way the stupid little puppy periodically falls over on its side and seizes that is terribly, terribly giggle-worthy.
Seriously, though. What in the name of all that is holy (what is it that you worship, anyway, NASCAR perhaps? Nachos?) made you think that an R-rated horror movie was a good place for your two children? How old was the biggest one? Three? Maybe? Jesus wept, woman. Was Horton Hears a Who sold out, or are you just that goddamned selfish?
I have never believed that it does children any good to shield them from the pain and disappointment that comes from living in the everyday world. When a kid's goldfish dies, don't run out and buy a new fish, just to shield that child from pain. But really. What child needs to watch a woman cutting a flesh-eating vine out of her body and then, in a psychotic fit, stab her boyfriend in the chest? Fuck, woman! I had nightmares and I've seen damn near every slasher movie ever made.
Here's what I don't get. There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, actually, when I would have given anything. ANYTHING. to have a child of my own. Every day without a baby in my arms was an open wound on my heart. I couldn't watch movies with babies in them without crying. I would hold my infant niece in my arms, close my eyes and pretend with my whole soul that she was mine.
Apparently, it was a phase. A phase brought on by the intense loneliness caused by a bad relationship. You can throw whatever psychoanalytic bullshit at that you want. Still, the memory of that feeling is as fresh as if it were yesterday.
You have that. Two, really beautiful, little children. Be aware. Love them. And stop being a fucking idiot.
And don't talk during the movie. It pisses me off.

Aw, hell...

Very few of us are lucky enough to have the biggest mistakes
of our lives captured on film. The best part about this is that my
parents actually paid to have this picture (and several hundred
others) taken. Actually, that's kinda sad isn't it?
The point of today's entry, my little chickens, is not really my first (and at this point only) marriage. The point is that I have dealt with my divorce in a less than healthy way, and I have the wonderful, loving, and brilliant Gipester to thank for this realization. Damn him.
I have talked to him a great deal about his divorce and his relationship with his ex. The hardest thing for me to deal with was that he got stuck with a divorce he didn't want and that he *sigh* loved this woman very much. She's still in our (his) circle of friends and is impossible to avoid altogether. Anyway, this has been a source of discomfort for months and only today have I really figured out why. Okay, so there's not just ONE reason why, but there's only one I'm going to concentrate on today.
I never really mourned my marriage. Ever. I went from denial to anger and just... well... stayed there.
I never mourned the fact that I lost damn near my whole social network because we spent so much time with his family. My sisters-in-law were my friends, but when it came time to circle the wagons, guess who was left to fend for herself. That hurt, but it was so much easier to say some variation of, "Yeah, well, fuck off, I never liked you anyway," than to let it show.
Not one of them called me after we split. Not one. Of course, to be fair, I didn't call them either. So, because I've never said it before, and because I think it's important, I miss my sisters-in-law. All of them. I miss my nieces and nephew. All of them.
I miss my little house. I picked the carpet and all the paint colors. I painted my office the exact color I wanted. I cooked in the kitchen and pulled weeds in the garden. I was surrounded by my things. Now the Greeley ARC looks more like my home than my home actually does.
I miss my dog. When I made the choice to move in with G I had to give him up. My parents were willing to take him, so he's still in the family, but he was my dog. Now he's not.
I grieve the loss of these things, finally.
But I do not grieve the loss of the man that went with all of these things. We were bad to each other, again, and again, and again. We left spectacular scars on each other's lives and I weep for that fact.
Without mourning, we can never move on. And now I have a new life worth moving on for. So. This isn't the end of it. There's still a lot that needs to be drained from the wound (eww) but here is the beginning. I feel much better now.