Gully washer

This makes the second weekend I've gone out to run and gotten soaked through in the rain. Last week was brutally cold; this week was manageable through most.

Because of a shindig at Shelby Farms, I made my way out to the Greenway. It was still very nice out with sun shining through the trees. The clouds were a ways off and I hoped they'd dissipate or skirt the area.

As I went along, I had to slog through several semi-ponds that left my shoes soaked and squelching. It wasn't too bad, though. It's better than getting all muddy I guess. And the place was decked out in flowers and green. I wasn't about to let a few puddles ruin my day.

After warming up a bit, I got down to business plodding along at a slow pace. Then I somehow managed to be somewhere else entirely where wisteria lazily hung from outstretched tree branches and dogwood blossoms filled the air with their gentle scent. I've never breathed so deeply while running.

It reminded me of a scene out of "A Wrinkle in Time" where the travelers are taken up into the thin atmosphere of another planet. They stayed alive by breathing in the delicate scent of strange flowers given to them.

But I digress ...

I started scouting for areas with lots of flowers so I could inhale the smell, forget I was running and coast as long as possible.

Then the clouds gathered.

On my way back, it started to rain. There was no lightning and no wind at that point. I thought the storm must be pushing its way northwest instead of my direction. But as I kept going, I saw I was wrong.

At one point, the wind blew so hard it nearly knocked me down. I had to remind myself it'd be a quicker trip back to the car if I kept running. Get small and outlast the gusts. Wow, this is hard. Come on, legs, let's keep pushing. Rain stings when it's blown into you this hard.

It must have been the area. Back under the trees, it was much calmer and I could keep going. I had planned on going for a run, not a swim. In a moment of commiseration, I said as much to a runner headed the other direction.

He laughed. Then he recognized my shirt.

"Is that for Texas A&M?" he asked. I met an old Ag on the trail. He went there back when it was all military and no women attended. He lived in the same dorm as I. Crazy world.

Gig 'Em.

Groovy

Yep, I'm up at 3 in the morning and I'm talkin' about music that randomly found me. I don't try to find music, it just tickles my ears every once in a while and I sift through a bit at a time.

Well, so far, the only good thing I can say about the show "Damages" is the music. Whoever they have behind the editing board cutting that tape and fitting music ... has fantastic taste in tune-age.

The first episode had a great piece by Phontaine entitled "Feels Like Home" that sent me on a search for more by Phontaine. I've found a few more I like quite a bit and I'm hoping to pick up the album sometime soon.

Tonight's viewing sent me on a search for Shawn Lee and his Ping Pong Orchestra. I heard "Kiss the Sky" and fell in lurve. Right now, I'm listening to his album and thinking about my childhood filled with Peter Sellers "Pink Panther" movies, alliterations to Austin Powers, watching re-runs of "Hawaii Five-O" while making myself sick on cookie dough with my sister and hearing all about the silliness of the '60s and '70s from my mother.

His album from 2007 called "Voices and Choices" is pretty funky, kids. You've got to be in a mood to experience something akin to what your first acid trip must feel like -- very out of your element, a little scared and too curious not to keep going deeper into the wild. (No, I've never tried drugs, but I figure that's sort of what the first hallucination is like.)

A few tracks reminded me of Dave Brubeck. If you haven't heard "Take Five" then I can only assume that you live under a rock. Christ! Educate yourself now!

The track "Changing Times" rips off the Mission: Impossible theme, but has a little fun doing it. Rambling "dum dum dum" singing makes me think of an imaginative neighbor (a la Peter Sellers) rather than a real agent.

If anything, I'll keep watching "Damages" just to expand my music repertoire. Really, it has no plot. No lawyer, no matter how cutthroat, will ever dirty double-cross themselves just to get a favorable verdict. For one, it'd require omniscience. For two, lawyers aren't necessarily the most patient bunch no matter how cold and calculating.

Glenn Close can keep her "Fatal Attraction"-era intense stare to herself. I'll take the tunes.

They're groovy, baby.

loo-KAY-see

For a while I'd been looking for an excuse to break out my cowgirl boots. (Right, like that excuse I "needed" to eat that third cupcake last night. Bleh ... that was stupid.)

Anyway, I'll be heading back to Texas in four days to see family and I'm really looking forward to it.

I spent a lunch a few days ago talking to a fellow Texas A&M grad I recently met at my apartment complex of all places (WHOOP!) about how different Tennessee is from Texas. They're really not too far apart on normal everyday life. There's just something about Texas that makes people from there feel like they've got something in common when out of the great Lone Star state.

We're arrogant cusses. What can I say? Our state rocks and yours sucks balls. Facts are facts.

Oh, and people around here don't have a goddamned clue about TexMex. Dry rub and fried foods, they've got down. A decent enchilada ... nope.

But back to the point, I'm wearing my freakin awesome Lucchese boots today so don't mess.

It's stupid to say shoes put me in a good mood. It wasn't slipping them on and not flinching even a bit when Crystal Method started playing on my computer. It was just the thought of getting to go back home. Texas will always be home and I will always want to spend time there even if I never take up residence there again.

Gawd dayum.

Just for kicks

My new running shoes came today. My current pair hasn't given out yet, but it will soon. As goofy as it is to lament the passing of a pair of shoes, I'm going to be a little sad when my last pair of Ozweegos is no longer my running pair.

Adidas stopped making Ozweego a few years ago, but I still managed to buy a couple of pairs over that time as stock was sold off. I've worn them for more than 8 years. It's been 4 pairs, two of which took me from running just a block until I was out of breath up to near-10k territory. (Yeah, yeah, I'm slow.)

The pair on the far right was the first. They're worn and the soles are coming apart, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them. They're still good shoes.

The pair in the middle was the pair that I used when I first started running. One of the shoes squeaks a little, but I still wear them.

I guess it's "time for a change" just about everywhere.

Sesa-mmm good

I love sesame. It's one of my favorite flavors. It's light, but somehow almost nutty. It goes along with meat and vegetables alike. I don't care if it's sesame butter, sesame oil or sesame seeds, my mouth is watering. (Sesame Street, not so much)

So tonight, I finally gave an idea a shot.

I took some sesame oil I had and sprinkled it over some pieces of chicken along with a few splashes of balsamic vinegar and a little bit of honey. I was thinking of the flavors you find in Chinese food, but without following a recipe.

Then, I coated the chicken in a mixture of flour, seasoned bread crumbs and sesame seeds. This time, I fried it in a pan. Next time, I think I'll bake it.

Oh, did it turn out delicious. The chicken was incredibly moist. There was just a hint of the sesame oil and none of the vinegar. I couldn't have planned that better. The flour mixture I used to coat the chicken didn't stick as well as I would have liked, but I hardly mind. It was damn tasty.

If I can find a way to make the flour mixture stick better, I will. Maybe adding a little egg would help. Either way, I think baking will keep the fat level down and still produce some mighty tasty chicken. It would go great with some seasoned wild rice or even some white rice and soy sauce.

It was a little weird when I cleaned up. Washing the pan I fried the chicken in smelled a little like coffee. I guess roasted seeds tend toward the same scent. Either way, it made me think the chicken would go great with a cup of strong black coffee.

I'd make this dish again. It was damn good for winging it.

It's all about me

As I ran today out at the Wolf River Greenway, I heard the obnoxious voice of a girl who had to be somewhere in her tweens. She was on a bike exclaiming "there's a hill! WHEEE!" as she rode along.

My first thought was that her enthusiasm came from an attempt to encourage a younger child. I was wrong.

She was with her mother and a man I assume was her father. Neither female addressed him and he spoke only to the friendly golden retriever running alongside him, but he was in the same path as the two bike riders.

The tween I'll call Princess-in-training, or PIT for short.

There's a little explanation behind the "Princess" moniker:

One day as I was running out at Shelby Farms with headphones in, I ran past a couple enjoying the outdoors by Patriot Lake. They were kind enough to take up the entire path and moved at a pace no faster than a saunter.
The feminine half of the couple was an unnatural dark orange hue. Her skin wasn't leathery, but it was certainly tanned. On top of that, I imagine she had to have used some sort of self-tanner because there was a very noticeable orange tint that doesn't come from simple sun-worship or from tanning bed use.
As I passed by this couple, the woman (a.k.a Princess) explained to her companion, "She is white," in reference to my light pigment. What a keeper.
Note: You're not deaf when you wear headphones.

Anyway, PIT will soon find herself on the road to becoming just like Princess, I'm sure. It's all about Princess, and the rest of humanity is inferior.

PIT made comments about everything. These comments, in summary, were about as vacuous as I've ever heard.

Here are the highlights:
- "Oh look, mama, this path leads down to the turtles. Can we go look?"
She ventured down the path to what is an ornamental set of four sculptured turtles on a piece of metal. They aren't alive.
- "Did you see the turtles, mama? There are, like, 20 of them. They're so big. Did you see them?"
- "It's called Turtle Marsh."
Written in several places, it's Turtle Bayou. No, no one cares, but the statement was illustrative of my point.
- "Look, there's another one of those things."
It's called a 'bench,' PIT.

On and on, the child droned and exclaimed. Every little thing was worthy of a loud and stupid statement. As she continued to pedal along the path, she made sure to voice her enjoyment in a series of "whee!" statements.

My bet? Only child.

Run for it

I tell you, it's really goofy how much random crap you're given for doing something healthy. You give blood and you get all kinds of stuff. Lifeblood offered a chance for donors to get free Baskin Robbins ice cream through August.

I ran the Chick-fil-A 5k with a good friend on Labor Day. I had just gotten to the point where 3 miles wasn't an incredible mountain to climb, and the 5k was a way to gauge just how well I was running it. I finished in less than 30 minutes.

Anyway, I came away with all this free stuff for no reason. Some of it is junk. I don't ever use coozies (or however it's spelled) and the binoculars say "Viagra" on the top of them.

Since Pfizer was a sponsor, there are pads of paper for prescription drugs including Zoloft. It's too bad exercise produces endorphins or the majority of race participants might be interested. Other than that, it's mints, a free Chick-fil-A sandwich and pens. It might not be fancy crap, but it was still all free.

So, let this be a lesson. Should you want a random assortment of stuff for doing something beneficial for your health, run races or give blood. No, I kid. Don't do it for the swag, do it because you want to. It's still fun to get stuff. Congratulations, it didn't kill you! Here's a pen.

Raining bitches and douchebags

It's raining like hell today. Roads are flooding and accidents are keeping people locked in traffic. Against my better judgment, I head over to the local mall to look for some things for my apartment. I have yet to find curtains I like and I'm still searching for nice pillows for my couch.

I go to Pottery Barn and don't find what I set out for but find something worthwhile all the same. After finally getting the attention of a store rep while the rest remain firmly entrenched in setting up the new Halloween offerings (jeez, people, it's still August), I buy my selection.

My debit card has an image of the college I attended.

Clerk: "Did you graduate from that school?"
Me: "Yes, I did."
(one point awarded for observation skills not entirely lacking)
Clerk: "And you didn't stay there?"
Me: *eyebrow raise* "No, I decided to branch out a little."

What the hell? Stay there? Uh, yeah ... whatever.

Scratching my head, I make my way over to Macy's to look at curtains. As I wander through the housewares, I manage to make my way into the most tomblike and somber area of the store. There's furniture and home furnishings all around but nary a soul to be seen.

I pass a service desk where two women are posted. For the sake of brevity, I'll call them Bitch 1 and Bitch 2.

Bitch 1: "May I help you?"
Me: "Yes, I'm looking for curtains." I point over to where I think there are some curtains hanging.
Bitch 1: "We don't have curtains."
Macy's. No curtains? Is she kidding? Even if the online selection is wider than the store, they have curtains. Maybe they're not in this area, but somewhere they have curtains.
Me: "Really? OK, thanks."
Bitch 2: "Have you tried J C Penney? They have some nice curtains."
Me: "Been there." Forgive me, O great ones, for trespassing on thine hallowed ground of outdated and cheap veneer furniture.
Bitch 2: "What about Pottery Barn? They have some nice curtains there, too."
Me: *holding up Pottery Barn bag* "I looked there, too."

All this time, Bitch 1 has been staring at me as though I'm going to try to sneak a dining table into my bag and run off.

Good Lord! I know I look a sight having come in out of the rain, but I don't look like trouble. Fine, Macy's, if you don't want my money I'm not going to make an effort.

I'm a little bugged about that brush-off, so I make my way to Victoria's Secret. What can I say? A chance to regain a little sauciness helps.

I look around, disappointed I hit the store in between seasons when there's very little selection. While I'm perusing some undies, three guys walk up to a store employee nearby.

Dude: "Where can I get an application?"

Alright, dude, I know from how you're dressed you're not looking for a stockroom job. I also know you brought your buddies with you to prove you have the balls to ask for the application. My best guess is he likes the thought of an employee discount to keep his womens in lacy drawz. Good luck, douchebag.

Whatever is falling from the sky is making people weird.

Let me eat cake

I took my first shot at making Bavarian cream not too long ago. The recipe made me drool with anticipation, so I had to try it. Raspberry Bavarian, dark chocolate cake and chocolate sauce in a layer cake is no joke.

It was time-consuming. Had I not skipped making the chocolate cake myself in favor of using a mix, I might have spent the entire day on this project.

One big headache about Bavarian cream is using unflavored gelatin. Jell-o is easy since the sugars in it keep the granules separated and easy to manage. With unflavored gelatin, as soon as it hits liquid it globs up. I had a hell of a time trying to get it to dissolve.

Then I worried it wouldn't be solid enough. All reports said the raspberry Bavarian was very good, but I want to try again.

The worst part was the guilt. Here's this delicious cake sitting in the refrigerator mocking me every time I opened the door. "Eat me," it begged. But you're so fattening!

Meanie.

Jerks

There's nothing like seeing a dead dog in the middle of the road when I drive home to fuel my misanthropy.

It was a German Shepherd and most likely a puppy judging by its size.

*sigh*

Like bunnies?

There are too effing many of these around my apartment complex. They're nasty little jerks, too. I bet they're mostly male. Ha!

These geese stick around through all kinds of weather. I would have thought they'd migrate based on the seasons, but this mass seems content right here through the whole damn year. There are at least 2 dozen more that didn't fit into the frame.

Hmm, I've never tried foie gras ... *picks up meat cleaver*

Whole grain badness

There is a lot of pasta in my pantry. I like the stuff and it's great for refueling after my vain attempts at running. It goes well with lots of things and it's cheap.

Then I saw boxes of whole grain pasta. I had heard that some aren't so great, but the nutritive elements outweigh the semi-bland taste. Whole grain foods can help keep your heart healthy and provide more vitamins than their more homogenized counterparts.

So I thought I'd give it a shot. Whole grain pasta can't be all that bad since it's not 100% whole grain, right?

Wrong.

Whole grain pasta sucks and I tried my hardest to like it.

The first time I tried it, I had it covered in generous amounts of sun-dried tomato pesto. The pesto was fantastic; the pasta was cardboard.

I thought maybe I undercooked it and that it would be fine if I added a little salt the next time.

Still wrong.

This last time I tried to eat the stuff, I did my best to make it tasty. I thinned some alfredo sauce with a little milk and added a few things. I threw in sautéed mushrooms, Italian seasoning, garlic salt and black olives. I even cooked the pasta a little longer to see if that would help.

It didn't.

So, for dinner at work, I had very nicely dressed cardboard. (Excuse the lovely plating, but I was dashing off to my night shift.) Sure, the sauce would have been better with grilled chicken and fresh basil leaves added, but it still wouldn't have saved the pasta.

The texture is mealy and unpleasant. The taste is like stale Cheerios, but then again it doesn't taste like anything. It's just ... there. It's this blah stuff in your mouth that you know tastes the way it does because it's good for you.

That's the worst part right there. You know you're doing yourself a favor by eating it, but it's such a damn chore to eat that you don't care.

Bleh.

A giving mood

Today, after several urgings from a good friend, I donated blood. It was the first time I had ever done so, and I was pretty scared.

But there was no reason not to do it. This is the best my health has ever been and I have no medical issues that would make my donation unusable. Still, for years I couldn't bring myself to sit down, be stuck with a large needle and give some fluids that would potentially save someone's life.

What finally tipped the balance was reflecting on what would happen if ever I was seriously injured or in need of surgery. I'd have to be given blood. I couldn't expect someone to do for me the same thing I wouldn't do in return.

So there I sat with my feet propped up in a special chair and a thick needle in my arm opening the path for me to give up a fraction of something I take for granted.

I hate needles. They're so small and invasive. In the blink of an eye, they slide right through every layer of skin. But since we're technologically more advanced than medicine's bloodletting days, the only way this would happen was with a needle stick.

It ended up as no big deal thanks in part to the marvelous skill of Karen the phlebotomist in finding and penetrating the vein. She was masterfully quick with an almost imperceptible touch.

The buildup was a little frightening with Karen telling me the needle is larger than what is used to take blood samples as she placed a towel across my shirt. "Sometimes there's a little spray." When she told me I should expect to feel "a bit of a prick," I looked away expecting something much more gruesome than the pinch and drop of blood on my arm.

Stress ball in hand, I squeezed every 5 seconds to keep blood flowing through the long tube and down into the bag. For whatever reason, it took a little longer and the machine collecting my fluids complained when the flow slowed.

Maybe I was a little dehydrated, Karen said. It could also be that my vein is about the same size as the tube leading from the needle to the collection bag.

Feeling inadequate, I squeezed the ball a little harder and wriggled my toes inside my shoes. It must have helped because the bag was filled not long after that. Then Karen sprang back into action, filling a few vials to test for any unknown nasties floating around in my system.

The needle shifted ever so slightly and I clenched my jaw, reminding myself not to be such a sissy.

My feet no longer propped up, I had to take a minute to drink some water and make the room stop spinning. I have never fainted and I didn't want to start now. Not long from that point, I was back in the car with a bright pink merit badge wrapped around my arm and a free t-shirt in my hand.

They say I can donate again at the end of August.

Thanks, Lifeblood.

Adding chocolate

There's a family cookie recipe my mother would make every Christmas called "thumbprint cookies". These little cookies were a slice of heaven the way the simple sugar dough would combine with the tartness of red plum jam and just melt in your mouth. They're killer cookies.

When I was little, my mother modified them to a peanut-buttery dough and strawberry jam. They were the cookie of choice for any little kid -- especially one like me who never had her fill of peanut butter and jelly.


I've now modified them again. This time, I took the simple dough of butter, sugar, flour and vanilla extract and added some cocoa and chopped up chocolate chips. The dough was a little less stiff than normal, but I had to play with the cocoa amounts until I got the right chocolate flavor. The raspberry jam provided a much smoother flavor than red plum or strawberry.

In all, I'd say these cookies were a success. Now I need to get them out of my sight so I stop eating them all the time.

Shifting gears

So, several conversations, several days lacking news posts and several bouts of frustration later, I've decided to take this blog in a new direction.

This was mainly started as a bit of an experiment -- a way to get used to the informality and conversational style of blogging. I feel I've failed miserably at both and that it would be best to take this post up from the bottom-dwelling subject that is my own personal thoughts and feelings to a level less self-absorbed and boring.

I also became disenchanted with the idea of discussion through blogging. From what I can see, there is very little actual conversing and even less that is edifying. An atmosphere in which outrageous insults are thrown for merely expressing an opinion (however uneducated or naive it might be) is not a sphere in which I would like to call myself a member.

Without further ado, in the next few weeks, I'll begin posting about one of my hobbies. I like to cook.

It has always bothered me how there will be left-over ingredients from some recipe in amounts not usable for another round of whatever dish called for them in the first place. So, from time to time, I take such ingredients and try to come up with something new to do with them. Sometimes it's a surprising success, other times it's a complete wash.

Before I go much further I should say that I am wholly amateur in this cooking endeavor. I have no formal training save for the instruction provided by my mother. It's simply an enjoyment of mine to take an assortment of "castoffs" and make something entirely unexpected and tasty from them.

As this develops, I hope shortcuts and cheats will expose themselves so I can further my ability to ad lib in the kitchen. Take notes at your own risk.

Self-fulfilling prophecy

I wish those were by-and-large positive things where we said "I'm going to be more successful by the end of the year," and then it happened. But no, self-fulfilling prophecies are always these stupid little things we say that make us blog at 3 in the morning because we haven't been able to fall asleep before 5 in the morning for the past few nights.

I read about that time right around oh, the age I'm at where people go a little insane. Things aren't like we thought they'd be. This has already happened numerous times in all our lives, but this age seems to carry some sort of finality that leaves us wondering if we missed the bus.

For one, we're adults. There's no one there to cook your food, buy your clothes and pay your bills except you. And after spending the greater part of your life up to this point in school making sure you came out the other side happy and successful ... something is a bit lacking.

And all the eye-rolling clichés about the grass being greener over there, the future being brighter than the past and hindsight being 20/20 are apt but taste like corn flakes when you wanted Honey Bunches of Oats. They don't quite make it.

Anyway, I was reading the confessions of people experiencing this phenomenon known as "Saturn returning." Sadly, this was my first experience with such terminology, but it didn't seem all too unfamiliar and I'm slightly more than pissed off about it.

You see, I was under the impression that I would get to this point and I'd feel a certain amount of satisfaction about how things have gone thus far. I worked hard to get here. I paid for it in a number of ways, but I'd like to think I learned a lot along the way. And ... I do ... feel ... some satisfaction ... I think?

I mean, I haven't died yet. I'm on my own and doing fair to middling. I read the confessions and thought, "Well the problem is they're focusing on their lives like everything would be accomplished at this point."

And I get that. That's what's pissing me off. You mean we're not done? You mean I have to keep doing this and doing this over and over again for the rest of my life? I don't get to take a break and say "OK, I'm moving on to something else."

It's too expensive and too time consuming to go a different way. I'd set myself back even further from any goals I might possibly have were I to switch paths. I'm stuck. Whether or not I feel good about the decisions that got me here, I can't change those now.

The inexorable pull of anything is enough to make me rock back and forth muttering to myself incoherently while hugging my knees and scratching until I bleed. Having it in my everyday life because it's my everyday life makes me want to scream. I can't do anything. I can't make decisions. The ones I had made got me here in the first place.

I get up, go to work, come home just to get ready to do it again. There are different details every day, but it's more or less the same. It makes me feel like I'm not my own person since everything I do is driven back to "because I do." There's no point to the cyclical nature of it.

I know I'm ranting like a lunatic about how life isn't anything other than ... well, life. But this is what leaves me awake at 3 in the morning doing random crap around my apartment. I just mixed up some ingredients in a bowl. I'm about to go clean the bathroom. It's not that I don't have any other time to do these things ... I just don't have any other option.

Do the things that need doing. Do them again. And again.

I don't know. I don't exist for the purpose of existing, do I? Then again, I don't think life is about "living to the fullest" or whatever that bullshit saying is supposed to mean.

I went from "saturn returning" to the meaning of life. That's quite a leap. But if I can't figure out what my own life is about, how am I going to get any closer to figuring out what all life is about?

I'll revisit this another night ... after I do all my anal retentive stuff.

Duty calls.

Subcutaneous

I give myself nerdgasms for remembering biology terms. It's the little things ...

Anyway, it should be apparent right now that plenty of things get under my skin in a hot hurry. That skin is far thinner than it should be. I know. I'm working on it. But I don't think I'm very aware of just how thin other people's skins might be.

Here's the enigmatic punchline for all but one: I don't care if you agree with me or not. It's your life anyway and I'm certainly no one to tell you I know better. However, I know I was the conductor of my own little emotion-filled philharmonic who used all the same tactics to get back where I thought I wanted to be. So, at least in my case, finality was a must.

I hate to be the situational jerk since I do think there are absolutes in life, but we all want to think we've got the answer. I'm right and you're wrong. It's not that simple when you're talking about society and I tend to forget that a lot.

I want there to be something absolute to stick to because I get tired of the same things happening over and over. I get tired of people being how we all know people can be while forgetting that I haven't changed a bit. And maybe that's the crux of the problem. I'm frustrated that I can't figure out how to fix these interpersonal clusterfucks, but maybe I'm just frustrated I can't even figure out my own problems most of the time.

We don't need fixing. Ultimately, we need the bitch who won't realize she doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. We need the doormat. We need the sniveling little prick who stabs us in the back. We need the insecure, quiet one with the nervous laugh and we need the swaggering asshole who doesn't even realize how condescending he sounds.

To be frank, I hate when I feel like a problem is all about striking a balance. It's that nasty little running theme to my life that bores me to tears. Why couldn't it be something exciting like learning how to tap my inner strength or learning how to express compassion? Instead, it's got to be how to figure out how the hell not to go off the deep end all the damn time. It's far more interesting to launch myself toward one end of the spectrum and watch the fireworks than try to figure out where to stand so I can keep the least amount of sparks from flying.

I'm fascinated by the Pucks who wreak havoc, turn the tables and upset everything in their path. I would much rather be the fire than the salve and I hate not getting to.

Steady, girl ...

Parentology

I really need to pick Theogeo's brain about her nifty little add-on that shows her how people found her blog. I want to know if anyone searches on Google for "parentology" and ends up in my La La Land.

My mother came to visit me last week. She's gone now, and thankfully doesn't read this blog.

Parents are infuriating, aren't they? To them, you're this kid who never really grew out of that awkward phase in between adoring them and hating them. I think that's what they're most comfortable with, really. That's the point where they're ok with the jerk because they know you're human. It's also the point where you still think they're amazing for all that parental stuff.

At one point during my mother's visit, she looked at me and said one thing she'd really like to experience in her life is "seeing that twinkle back" in my eye.

Yeah, I'll get right on that ...

Her significant other is an intensely perceptive man, God bless him. He picked up right away on that slight eyebrow raise I ardently tried to suppress. "Well, she just got contacts, so you can't see it." I of course voiced my agreement right away. "Yeah, I really do think the slight blue tint cuts down on the glare ..."

Mom didn't bite. "No, I just want to see you be your happy self again."

Alright, back the truck up a second. This whole weekend, they've been drinking at least a bottle of wine between them at each dinner. That's not much for the boyfriend, but my mother is as much a lightweight as I. Also, not two hours earlier, she had been standing in my living room in my apartment while I was in my kitchen preparing their damn food deciding where I should put the couch that she just thought was the greatest and best and bought for me without asking. I would like to think it was just the wine talking like when I became increasingly emotive this time.

That whole week with my mother around left me scratching my head. Is it just a parent thing?

Maybe I should change the name of this blog to "I don't get it" because that seems to be a running theme. But really, I don't understand the parental mind. It's a completely different value set from mine. Different issues take on different significance for parents and the gravity of these issues grows exponentially. This whole "just be happy" thing is making me crazy at how ludicrous it is and the only conclusion I can get to is one I already knew: I don't ever want to be a parent.

My mother spent half the trip trying to act like her relationship with Mr. Perceptive was all daisies and demure conversation when I was around. She even messed up a bed she didn't sleep in so I wouldn't guess (well duh) that they weren't in separate rooms.

*Side note: There are 2 points to pulling this off that she completely missed.
1) If you always make the bed, then just make it look like you made the bed. I'm going to know you're trying to make it look like something if you always do the exact opposite.
2) If you do leave the sheets mussed, at least leave a head dent in the pillow. No one leaves the bed unmade but still fluffs the pillows.
I had to mention these because, well, it's kind of funny.

The only reason I mention that is because it's so goofy and ridiculous that I can't help but attribute it to this parental sense of responsibility for the delicate psyche of ones children. She's trying to make sure she doesn't shock me with normal human behavior because I see her as my mother, not some random chick on a getaway vacation with her boyfriend.

I could take issue with her and say it's really stupid posturing since she brought me up to observe what's really going on, stick to the truth and all that good parenting stuff. I could point out that she taught me to grow up and be a productive member of society. But none of that conversation would accomplish anything. No matter how parents hope and plan for the best with their children, it still seems they're not willing to admit that baby started drifting away as soon as he or she started walking in the first place.

I don't get how that could be sad to a parent since ... I wouldn't want to deal with dirty diapers and "spit up" in the first place let alone forever.

How could you not be happy or at least relieved that all your planning and training grew up to be self-sufficient and generally functional in a grim and messed up world?

I'm not really getting at the point I'm trying to make and I guess that's just as well.

Now where'd I leave my paci???

This is certainly an incomplete thought, but ...

I was trolling along through one of my favorite blogs. I'm too chicken to tell you which blog it was, but she's very witty, ballzy as hell and funny. It led me to a blog post by someone of the opposite sex ruminating over part of what the former had said.

I'm still pondering, but they both have me sitting here thinking I understand where they're both coming from, but it seems like neither of them can move past the limitations of their positions.

The first blogger is very candid about her personal life. She talks about just how she'd wipe the stupid grin off some guy's face and make sure he never forgot how badly she handed him his ass. The second blogger was saying he sympathized with wanting to do that, but he edits himself constantly for fear that desire to dominate be misconstrued as something sinister.

Something about the whole thing is bothering me and I can't put my finger on it.

These two people who seem to be travelling completely different paths and philosophies of life are essentially stuck on the same problem from opposing sides. The woman senses she can't actually do the very thing she wants to do. She'd have to go through too much trouble and manipulation to set it all up. She can't be that dishonest to finally reveal the truth in the end.

The man seems convinced being too real and being too much what he wants to be is offensive. He can't shed the façade that makes everyone else comfortable no matter how much he'd like to challenge and disprove other people's impressions.

And I don't believe either of them.

I've read through blogs where the woman pretended to be something other than the vixen she is and I'm quite confident the man has misjudged his inner strength. Maybe I judge them too harshly, but it seems highly probable that both are operating under skewed self-perceptions.

I have a theory that every time a person tries to honestly evaluate themselves on a psychological level, it's wrong and they're not being honest at all. People don't want to look at the real motivators. People believe they're generally good, right? Why would they ruin that ability to cope with everyday life by being honest about who they are deep down inside?

This woman could be as maniacally conniving as she wanted and she'd have every guy within a 50 mile radius under her thumb inside of 2 weeks. She would love it and she'd probably hold onto the position of authority for quite a while, but she's telling herself "no, that's not me."

This man more than likely simply wishes he had the guts to seize some control, some power. He wants it and he thinks he could have it all. He's telling himself "that's me, but I can't show anyone."

What's worse is I can sympathize with both. There are myriad instances where I've wanted to lash out and show people that I'm not going to be pushed around. In fact, I'm going to kick ass and take names. I end up checking myself saying "no, you don't charge in with both barrels blazing. You're too worried about the consequences." And I am. There are other times that I think "if he wasn't married I would do so many things to him ..." No I wouldn't. Who am I kidding?

What are these? These warped perceptions that plague us from both sides. Are we who we really think we are? Are we at this point on the cycle or this one? Are the proud among us fooling themselves? Are the humble being too harsh in judging their own actions?

I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to define this person that is me ... this person who can despise a character trait and defend it in the next breath.

Mirror mirror on the wall, tell me who I am. Tell people who they are. I don't think we're up to the task.

some-odd things

So, I'm completely ganking theogeo on this list thingy here. She has two lists, the most recent of which is here.

I'm not going to number mine, though. I don't know if I'll make it to 100 or not. I might go past, I'm not sure. Anyway, this is MY blog which means I can make you suffer through all things ME including my vanity. Shuttup and read, damnit. *

• I have a hard time believing people since I think most are too self-absorbed to tell the truth.
• If you chew on pens, I think you're kinda stupid. If you chew on my pen, I lose all respect for you.
• I don't like eating in front of other people.
• I spill stuff on myself.
• I accidentally just deleted two of these I wrote ... and now I can't remember what they said.
• That was stupid of me.
• Without pizza, I would starve through many meals.
• I wash my hands many times a day, but it's not ritualized. I don't count how many times I scrub and I don't have to wash several times in a row.
• It's not OCD, it's germaphobia.
• I'm erratically anal retentive. I will be overwhelmingly fastidious about one thing for a time until it's pushed out by something else.
• I'm a very visual learner. It's bad enough I can't close my eyes and listen to someone talk.
• In a battle of wits, if you win, I love you and want to have a thousand of your babies.
• But I won't ever tell you.
  
• I'm frustrated by my own incongruities.
  
• I like not having a TV.
• I hate not having a desk.
• I bought one yesterday.
• Imitation coconut and imitation cinnamon are two of the most revolting smells to me. I'd rather smell body odor.
• If you put your feet on my pillow or even threaten to, I will exact my revenge.
• Feet belong on the floor just as shoes belong on feet and on the floor.
• I still paint my toenails ... and then wash my hands after.
• I tend to cry when I'm stressed or angry.
• I hate that I tend to be overdramatic, too.
• I don't remember my dreams most of the time - if I even have them - yet I'm part of a dream blog. Hopefully I'll have something to post this year.
• I'm a cheap drunk and mildly proud of that.
• Whenever I have somewhere to be, I'm always early. I have to force myself to be on time.
• I still have days when I'm late, though. It's usually because I became engrossed in something utterly meaningless and embarrassing.
  
• I'm the only person in my family whose handwriting sucks.
• I love cars ... especially if I get to drive them fast.
• Deep down, I still want to go back to school and become a lab rat running tests at a hospital.
• My pizza is almost done, so I'm going to stop and go eat.

MORE!

• I think most people in high school and college thought I was shy, but I was really too vain to wear my glasses. I couldn't see faces clearly enough to recognize them.
• Even now that I have contacts, I still tend to walk with my head down.
• I once got free coffee because the barista thought I looked like I had been having a bad day. I wasn't, I just tend to look mad.
• I was bitten by a copperhead because I picked it up.
• The ending to that story sucks because there was no venom in the bite.
• When I was younger, I had an extensive stamp collection. I wonder if any of it is remotely valuable.
• I don't have a favorite song.
• When I was little, I wore a dress every single day.
• If I couldn't, I wore a tutu.
• Now I almost never wear dresses.
• I once had an argument with my dad about what direction to turn the twist tie that closes the loaf of bread. He said counterclockwise. I said I shouldn't be yelled at for how I turn a twist tie.
• He said years later that I was the one yelling about how to twist the damn thing.
• I made that comment about pizza and now I haven't had pizza in a couple weeks.
• I miss Texas.
• I don't plan to move back for a while, though.
• Several times in my life I've been told I look like someone's cousin Rachel or someone they knew named Rachel. One person even insisted I was some runaway from their hometown.
• Whoever this Rachel chick is ... I sorta hope I'm the evil twin.
• I tend to be fearless only when other people are scared.
  
• I'm afraid to wear flip flops in public not because I don't like feet but because I'm afraid that one day I wear them will turn out to be the one day I need to run for my life.
  

Thanks for reading.


*In some ways, this is a disclaimer to the people who know me in real life. Ha!