Saturday, June 8, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
Decoder Ring
This was prompted by a Facebook post about not doing something permanently stupid because you are temporarily angry, stressed, scared, tired or hungry. I "shared" it. I thought it was good advice. And then I thought....Wait a damn second, this is something I taught my children in their toddler years...
I don't have a magic decoder ring. Honestly, no one is so interesting that their every word and action should need interpretation. If you have something to say, for the love of bacon, SPIT IT OUT.
I have the reputation for being a bit of a bitch. I tend to be very direct, how that translates to bitchy, I'm not sure. However, if I ask if something is wrong and you say "no", I think you mean "no". I don't want to go hmm, they said no, but it IS Tuesday and the wind is blowing from the East-Northeast, so therefore...... If at some later time you hit me with "Remember that Tuesday when the wind was blowing and you asked if something was wrong?" I will simply have to tell you that even if I remember, I no longer care.
Due to this cloak of bitchiness I wear, people tend to think I have powers. Clearly my feelings are bulletproof. And since I am not the first to scream and cry and tear my hair out and rend my clothes, I apparently do not fall into the "Sensitive" category.
Let me just go ahead and call bullshit on that. How about this: I am a human and you should treat me like one, if not for my sake, how about because it is the right thing to do....
I don't think it's okay to say mean, hurtful things and then try to in some way mitigate them by saying you were mad, hurt, scared, insecure, etc. I If don't do it myself and I don't let my kids or husband or any of my loved ones do it why would I accept it from anyone else.
Here's the moral of the story. I believe you.
I don't have a magic decoder ring. Honestly, no one is so interesting that their every word and action should need interpretation. If you have something to say, for the love of bacon, SPIT IT OUT.
I have the reputation for being a bit of a bitch. I tend to be very direct, how that translates to bitchy, I'm not sure. However, if I ask if something is wrong and you say "no", I think you mean "no". I don't want to go hmm, they said no, but it IS Tuesday and the wind is blowing from the East-Northeast, so therefore...... If at some later time you hit me with "Remember that Tuesday when the wind was blowing and you asked if something was wrong?" I will simply have to tell you that even if I remember, I no longer care.
Due to this cloak of bitchiness I wear, people tend to think I have powers. Clearly my feelings are bulletproof. And since I am not the first to scream and cry and tear my hair out and rend my clothes, I apparently do not fall into the "Sensitive" category.
Let me just go ahead and call bullshit on that. How about this: I am a human and you should treat me like one, if not for my sake, how about because it is the right thing to do....
I don't think it's okay to say mean, hurtful things and then try to in some way mitigate them by saying you were mad, hurt, scared, insecure, etc. I If don't do it myself and I don't let my kids or husband or any of my loved ones do it why would I accept it from anyone else.
Here's the moral of the story. I believe you.
Thin
It's odd how the mind, or rather, my mind works.
I was feeling rather rushed the other week while running errands. (Yes, this was toilet day.) I was taking my oldest daughter, Enya, to an appointment in New Haven and, true to form, we were behind schedule.
Following route 69 from Waterbury to New Haven is usually a pretty easy ride. On this day, however, I got behind someone driving a sedan from the early 90's or maybe late 80's going just UNDER the speed limit. I was irked.
And then, it hit me: the age of the car, the speed, I was driving behind some elderly driver. I was immediately reminded of the drive I took, on this very road, with Uncle George to get a confirmation from Yale that he was, in fact, dying from leukemia. I was instantaneously transported back to that day.
It never really gets any easier. Uncle George was a close to a father as I will ever have. Everyone tries to cheer me up with the "He lived a nice long life" speech. And he did, but he just didn't live long enough for me. Purely selfish, I know, but I feel robbed in so, so many ways.
The veil between the living and the dead must be really thin about now. (I always did like that image). Enya wore an old hat of Uncle George's that we keep in my mom's hallway at Christmas. Gone was the pretty dress and the barrette, instead she was in nothing but a diaper and a pair of red tights, swipes of blue and green marker on her face and chest, and Uncle George's hat. She was just so cute; laughing her deep laugh. We all laughed too and in that moment, I looked up to see my sister laughing and crying only to realize that I was crying too. His absence was so palpable in that moment, it was physically painful.
One friend always remembers to ask after the holidays how Thanksgiving was. She remembers that it was Uncle George's favorite holiday and that he died less than a week before Thanksgiving as well. It makes me really appreciate her, just knowing that someone else remembers to ask after my feelings.
Lots of things remind me of Uncle George, but more so lately. I often try to think what his advice would be when a situation is most troubling. Or what he'd say about my siblings' latest antics. Or how he'd love Enya's laugh. Or how proud he'd be of the boys.
My rough exterior is feeling thin, my seemingly thick skin is getting thin, my patience are wearing thin. My sister would say that I need a good cry, but that's not it. It doesn't make me feel any better. Times like this, I just want to lay bare all of my feelings, rail at those who have hurt me, shout at those who damn well need shouting at, say all of the unkind things I've left unsaid to spare other people's feelings. That won't work either. I'll just feel like a rotten person afterward.
So what brings this all up today of all days? I made lasagna for dinner, and as I was putting dishes in the dishwasher, I was thinking of an email I was going to compose but I really felt that I could use his advice.
See? Strange how my mind works
I was feeling rather rushed the other week while running errands. (Yes, this was toilet day.) I was taking my oldest daughter, Enya, to an appointment in New Haven and, true to form, we were behind schedule.
Following route 69 from Waterbury to New Haven is usually a pretty easy ride. On this day, however, I got behind someone driving a sedan from the early 90's or maybe late 80's going just UNDER the speed limit. I was irked.
And then, it hit me: the age of the car, the speed, I was driving behind some elderly driver. I was immediately reminded of the drive I took, on this very road, with Uncle George to get a confirmation from Yale that he was, in fact, dying from leukemia. I was instantaneously transported back to that day.
It never really gets any easier. Uncle George was a close to a father as I will ever have. Everyone tries to cheer me up with the "He lived a nice long life" speech. And he did, but he just didn't live long enough for me. Purely selfish, I know, but I feel robbed in so, so many ways.
The veil between the living and the dead must be really thin about now. (I always did like that image). Enya wore an old hat of Uncle George's that we keep in my mom's hallway at Christmas. Gone was the pretty dress and the barrette, instead she was in nothing but a diaper and a pair of red tights, swipes of blue and green marker on her face and chest, and Uncle George's hat. She was just so cute; laughing her deep laugh. We all laughed too and in that moment, I looked up to see my sister laughing and crying only to realize that I was crying too. His absence was so palpable in that moment, it was physically painful.
One friend always remembers to ask after the holidays how Thanksgiving was. She remembers that it was Uncle George's favorite holiday and that he died less than a week before Thanksgiving as well. It makes me really appreciate her, just knowing that someone else remembers to ask after my feelings.
Lots of things remind me of Uncle George, but more so lately. I often try to think what his advice would be when a situation is most troubling. Or what he'd say about my siblings' latest antics. Or how he'd love Enya's laugh. Or how proud he'd be of the boys.
My rough exterior is feeling thin, my seemingly thick skin is getting thin, my patience are wearing thin. My sister would say that I need a good cry, but that's not it. It doesn't make me feel any better. Times like this, I just want to lay bare all of my feelings, rail at those who have hurt me, shout at those who damn well need shouting at, say all of the unkind things I've left unsaid to spare other people's feelings. That won't work either. I'll just feel like a rotten person afterward.
So what brings this all up today of all days? I made lasagna for dinner, and as I was putting dishes in the dishwasher, I was thinking of an email I was going to compose but I really felt that I could use his advice.
See? Strange how my mind works
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
One of THOSE days
While getting ready to run my 3rd or 4th errand of the day on day last week, I decided that I needed to freshen up a little. I realized that not only did I feel like a crazy woman, I looked like one too.
I ran into the bathroom to pee and freshen up. I accomplished the first and moved on to brushing my teeth when I thought I heard the toilet running.
Evidently, someone in my house flushes the toilet as though they are slamming down a gavel while pronouncing sentence on the most horrid offender. To that point that from time to time the toilet handle cowers and refuses to recover without gentle coaxing.
I decided that I didn't have time for my toilet's histrionics so I ignored it, for about 10 more seconds. Then I peeked, just kind of sliding my eyes in it's general direction and sure enough, the handle hadn't popped back up. I let out the "I don't have time for this crap sigh", you know, sigh number 713 in the Busy Mom Handbook, and maybe not so gently lifted the handle.
Any other day, the toilet would have stopped running right then and there but clearly, it did not appreciate my attitude of the use of sigh 713. It continued to run! I decided to leave it running. Then I thought really, other than an astronomical water bill and the collapse of the delicate ecosystem, what could be the harm? I looked at it, I was going to have to move the shelves, lift the lid and peer into the tank as if I knew what I was doing.
I invoked sigh number 713 again along with a smattering of sigh 39, you know, the quiet desperation but I'm not gonna cry sigh. And the most amazing thing happened...it stopped. Just stopped. and I found myself saying, outloud, "Thank you, toilet."
Yup. That summed up my day: "Thank you, toilet."
I ran into the bathroom to pee and freshen up. I accomplished the first and moved on to brushing my teeth when I thought I heard the toilet running.
Evidently, someone in my house flushes the toilet as though they are slamming down a gavel while pronouncing sentence on the most horrid offender. To that point that from time to time the toilet handle cowers and refuses to recover without gentle coaxing.
I decided that I didn't have time for my toilet's histrionics so I ignored it, for about 10 more seconds. Then I peeked, just kind of sliding my eyes in it's general direction and sure enough, the handle hadn't popped back up. I let out the "I don't have time for this crap sigh", you know, sigh number 713 in the Busy Mom Handbook, and maybe not so gently lifted the handle.
Any other day, the toilet would have stopped running right then and there but clearly, it did not appreciate my attitude of the use of sigh 713. It continued to run! I decided to leave it running. Then I thought really, other than an astronomical water bill and the collapse of the delicate ecosystem, what could be the harm? I looked at it, I was going to have to move the shelves, lift the lid and peer into the tank as if I knew what I was doing.
I invoked sigh number 713 again along with a smattering of sigh 39, you know, the quiet desperation but I'm not gonna cry sigh. And the most amazing thing happened...it stopped. Just stopped. and I found myself saying, outloud, "Thank you, toilet."
Yup. That summed up my day: "Thank you, toilet."
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