Waking up with cat wrapped around my arms is really lovely.
I've figured out that his allegiance lies with whoever is feeding him - so of course, I gave him exactly what he wanted. I think perhaps he's figured out that I'm his adopted mother, although I'm not entirely sure. We're working on it.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
This, and that. Among other things.
(What follow is purely emotional venting - you know I'm big on feelings and on that whole experience, so forgive me for detailing it all so intensely. If you're not familiar with this particular family dynamic, there's no point in attempting to further your knowledge with this post - so look elsewhere for your daily entertainment. You certainly won't find it here, at least not today.)
It's about to get a little heavy, though. Don't say you weren't warned.
I'm not big on Christmas.
I used to like it, I think, but as the years have passed, I've become more and more of a Scrooge about the whole ordeal.
Because it really is an ordeal to me.
I love Christmas lights, Christmas trees, the flutter you feel when you've found the exact right gift for someone you love. I love driving in the dark on those bitterly cold nights looking at lights. I love seeing our Christmas tree weighted down under the ornaments; I love remembering how much they all mean to me.
There's the sparkling ice cream cone to commemorate my years of Dairy Queen servitude, the pink car I got when I was 16, the mugs tilted on their sides showing a family of mice baking cookies (my personal favorite ornament), Mike's fishing stuff, the Broncos ones, the crystal ones, the doves, the homemade ones, the glass ones...everything. Some are dated, some aren't, some get more love than others, but each year my Mom wraps them all individually and puts them back in the boxes they came from and then we haul them down the stairs where they'll wait patiently for the next year.
I don't like remembering. I don't like Christmas.
It brings back really bad memories.
I automatically tense up when the holidays approach - I feel them coming as the weight gradually settles around my shoulders and I prepare to grit my teeth and get on with it. I know I'm old enough to have grown out of these stupid little moods, but there are times when I can't quite manage to keep it all together. I try, really, but somehow, something always slips through my defenses and nags at me until it has all come undone.
This year was no exception. It was all going well enough. For the second year in a row, I was watching Danny's dog Emma, who comes with a free house to stay in for a few days. I was taking advantage of a quiet bathtub and an adorable dog and an empty house.
We'd made plans to go to one Grandma's house on Christmas Eve (as usual) and then more plans to see the other side of the family the next day.
I felt that something was off, so when I finished Christmas Eve dinner and checked the text messages, I immediately knew something was wrong.
"Merry Christmas!! hey we now have plans tomorrow, but would love to cu guys soon. What's tom's #?"
6:13 pm.
My heart sank. I'd even spoken with Mom about this exact scenario. I'd seen it coming, but foolishly believed it wouldn't happen.
How foolish I was. You can't trust anyone, of course. There's no point in convincing yourself it's possible.
I spent the rest of the night holding in tears. Mom saw this, the eventual breakdown was sliding toward us, and ushered me home to go look after the dog. She saw the pain shooting through me, the hurt feelings. I rarely get my feelings hurt. I try to be tough enough, but every now and then....Christmas, and I was off-guard.
I love the family elements of Christmas - and I was beginning to think that pulling off family time wasn't going to be so difficult. It never is with Mom's family. I've come to realize over the years that they are the most family I have, really. They're never to busy to see us, they go out of their way to do things together, they help each other.
Like this:
Uncle Mike, my mom's brother-in-law, took a few days off to drive me to college my freshman year. Even though all the boys claimed they were just in it for the Cubs tickets (which I'm sure wasn't a huge lie), they were sweet enough to make the drive and then leave me. They still tease me about how much of a mess I was when they left. I can see Uncle Mike now, imitating my voice, crying, as they left. "Don't leave me, I'll go to DU, I swear! Take me with you!" I'm eternally grateful for their help, and I sincerely hope they weren't too scarred by my hysteria.
I'm the only girl grandchild on that side - you can imagine how they react to me. They understand more than they let on - they all had sisters - but that doesn't mean they don't take every opportunity to tease me. Christmas Eve, Uncle Mike was sitting telling me that my shoes made my ankles look skinny. Implicit in that remark was that they were fat enough to need to look skinny. He paused, then said, "What are they called? Cankles?" A lightning fast surge of fury shot through me, followed by a comfortable warmth and then a smile.
It was well-played, I have to admit. All the boys were laughing to themselves while I protested mildly about cankles.
That's the kind of family that you want around you.
Christmas Eve, my brother Mike came home with me. I was on the verge of tears and furious. We walked the dog and he let me vent at him. Then he sat with me and we watched tv for a couple of hours late into the night - long enough that a calm had come over me. I'm grateful that he did that for me - he knew exactly what I needed without even asking.
Christmas Day was fine. We saw Dad's new apartment. He cried, but that wasn't unexpected. We dug through his garage and found retro Broncos sweaters from the '80s, which we immediately claimed.
I rocked one of them for the game yesterday. Not a bad look, I must say.
It was Boxing Day when the phone rang and Dad's mom was on the other line. I could hear the guilt creeping through her voice, I know that's why she called me. I wasn't in the mood to play nice, so I told her exactly what I was (am) feeling.
That it's bullshit to call and cancel on us at 7 pm on Christmas Eve, that we're not stupid enough to think that "other plans" aren't just the regular plan minus us.
"Maybe they'll make it up to you," she said softly. I snorted into the phone. "Not likely," I told her. "They never do."
And so it was. I stated my case, told her how this always happens just because her side of the family doesn't want to see Dad, told her that Mike and I are independent adults who are capable of father-free actions, that we're sick of feeling left out like that.
(If it's not because they don't want to see Dad, then I have no idea what it could possibly be. I've spent so much time trying to be the niece and granddaughter they want me to be and I've finally given that up. I've tried to show them that I'm not off doing drugs - as Dad used to tell them - and that my life is on track. Hello, does my Bachelor's degree from a Catholic university mean nothing to them?
I can only think of once, maybe. We were little - I was fifteen. They found a lighter in their house and assumed it was mine. [It wasn't.] I never explained that to them, but if that's what it is, it's been way overblown. That was 8 years ago. I babysat their kids a week ago, so it can hardly be the lighter thing, right? I'm responsible, respectful, polite. I answer the kids' questions in a very PC way that no one should be able to find fault with. I'm a pro-babysitter, remember? It's my job to assist in child raising, not de-rail it.)
"You always have Christmas Eve with your Mom's family," she said. That fact has nothing to do with it. I wasn't invited to any Christmas Eve thing on Dad's side, so how can that be played as a card?
She was crying, and soon, so was I.
"It's really shitty to cry on Christmas Eve," I told her. "It's shitty to feel left out by your own family. Rejected like that."
"My hands are tied," she said. I disagree.
"Do you want to see them?" she asked.
"Why would I want to see people who have no interest in seeing me?" I asked, before I had to hang up because I was crying so much.
The divorce didn't have to put us in the middle like that. It's stupid that ten years later, we're still paying for the mistakes of our parents. It didn't have to come down to one side of the family against the other, but it's looking like we've got a clear winner.
And no, Dad, this one's not about money. It's about family and yours obviously doesn't think that we belong.
Again, that Christmas refrain: Bad memories and a sour taste.
It's about to get a little heavy, though. Don't say you weren't warned.
I'm not big on Christmas.
I used to like it, I think, but as the years have passed, I've become more and more of a Scrooge about the whole ordeal.
Because it really is an ordeal to me.
I love Christmas lights, Christmas trees, the flutter you feel when you've found the exact right gift for someone you love. I love driving in the dark on those bitterly cold nights looking at lights. I love seeing our Christmas tree weighted down under the ornaments; I love remembering how much they all mean to me.
There's the sparkling ice cream cone to commemorate my years of Dairy Queen servitude, the pink car I got when I was 16, the mugs tilted on their sides showing a family of mice baking cookies (my personal favorite ornament), Mike's fishing stuff, the Broncos ones, the crystal ones, the doves, the homemade ones, the glass ones...everything. Some are dated, some aren't, some get more love than others, but each year my Mom wraps them all individually and puts them back in the boxes they came from and then we haul them down the stairs where they'll wait patiently for the next year.
I don't like remembering. I don't like Christmas.
It brings back really bad memories.
I automatically tense up when the holidays approach - I feel them coming as the weight gradually settles around my shoulders and I prepare to grit my teeth and get on with it. I know I'm old enough to have grown out of these stupid little moods, but there are times when I can't quite manage to keep it all together. I try, really, but somehow, something always slips through my defenses and nags at me until it has all come undone.
This year was no exception. It was all going well enough. For the second year in a row, I was watching Danny's dog Emma, who comes with a free house to stay in for a few days. I was taking advantage of a quiet bathtub and an adorable dog and an empty house.
We'd made plans to go to one Grandma's house on Christmas Eve (as usual) and then more plans to see the other side of the family the next day.
I felt that something was off, so when I finished Christmas Eve dinner and checked the text messages, I immediately knew something was wrong.
"Merry Christmas!! hey we now have plans tomorrow, but would love to cu guys soon. What's tom's #?"
6:13 pm.
My heart sank. I'd even spoken with Mom about this exact scenario. I'd seen it coming, but foolishly believed it wouldn't happen.
How foolish I was. You can't trust anyone, of course. There's no point in convincing yourself it's possible.
I spent the rest of the night holding in tears. Mom saw this, the eventual breakdown was sliding toward us, and ushered me home to go look after the dog. She saw the pain shooting through me, the hurt feelings. I rarely get my feelings hurt. I try to be tough enough, but every now and then....Christmas, and I was off-guard.
I love the family elements of Christmas - and I was beginning to think that pulling off family time wasn't going to be so difficult. It never is with Mom's family. I've come to realize over the years that they are the most family I have, really. They're never to busy to see us, they go out of their way to do things together, they help each other.
Like this:
Uncle Mike, my mom's brother-in-law, took a few days off to drive me to college my freshman year. Even though all the boys claimed they were just in it for the Cubs tickets (which I'm sure wasn't a huge lie), they were sweet enough to make the drive and then leave me. They still tease me about how much of a mess I was when they left. I can see Uncle Mike now, imitating my voice, crying, as they left. "Don't leave me, I'll go to DU, I swear! Take me with you!" I'm eternally grateful for their help, and I sincerely hope they weren't too scarred by my hysteria.
I'm the only girl grandchild on that side - you can imagine how they react to me. They understand more than they let on - they all had sisters - but that doesn't mean they don't take every opportunity to tease me. Christmas Eve, Uncle Mike was sitting telling me that my shoes made my ankles look skinny. Implicit in that remark was that they were fat enough to need to look skinny. He paused, then said, "What are they called? Cankles?" A lightning fast surge of fury shot through me, followed by a comfortable warmth and then a smile.
It was well-played, I have to admit. All the boys were laughing to themselves while I protested mildly about cankles.
That's the kind of family that you want around you.
Christmas Eve, my brother Mike came home with me. I was on the verge of tears and furious. We walked the dog and he let me vent at him. Then he sat with me and we watched tv for a couple of hours late into the night - long enough that a calm had come over me. I'm grateful that he did that for me - he knew exactly what I needed without even asking.
Christmas Day was fine. We saw Dad's new apartment. He cried, but that wasn't unexpected. We dug through his garage and found retro Broncos sweaters from the '80s, which we immediately claimed.
I rocked one of them for the game yesterday. Not a bad look, I must say.
It was Boxing Day when the phone rang and Dad's mom was on the other line. I could hear the guilt creeping through her voice, I know that's why she called me. I wasn't in the mood to play nice, so I told her exactly what I was (am) feeling.
That it's bullshit to call and cancel on us at 7 pm on Christmas Eve, that we're not stupid enough to think that "other plans" aren't just the regular plan minus us.
"Maybe they'll make it up to you," she said softly. I snorted into the phone. "Not likely," I told her. "They never do."
And so it was. I stated my case, told her how this always happens just because her side of the family doesn't want to see Dad, told her that Mike and I are independent adults who are capable of father-free actions, that we're sick of feeling left out like that.
(If it's not because they don't want to see Dad, then I have no idea what it could possibly be. I've spent so much time trying to be the niece and granddaughter they want me to be and I've finally given that up. I've tried to show them that I'm not off doing drugs - as Dad used to tell them - and that my life is on track. Hello, does my Bachelor's degree from a Catholic university mean nothing to them?
I can only think of once, maybe. We were little - I was fifteen. They found a lighter in their house and assumed it was mine. [It wasn't.] I never explained that to them, but if that's what it is, it's been way overblown. That was 8 years ago. I babysat their kids a week ago, so it can hardly be the lighter thing, right? I'm responsible, respectful, polite. I answer the kids' questions in a very PC way that no one should be able to find fault with. I'm a pro-babysitter, remember? It's my job to assist in child raising, not de-rail it.)
"You always have Christmas Eve with your Mom's family," she said. That fact has nothing to do with it. I wasn't invited to any Christmas Eve thing on Dad's side, so how can that be played as a card?
She was crying, and soon, so was I.
"It's really shitty to cry on Christmas Eve," I told her. "It's shitty to feel left out by your own family. Rejected like that."
"My hands are tied," she said. I disagree.
"Do you want to see them?" she asked.
"Why would I want to see people who have no interest in seeing me?" I asked, before I had to hang up because I was crying so much.
The divorce didn't have to put us in the middle like that. It's stupid that ten years later, we're still paying for the mistakes of our parents. It didn't have to come down to one side of the family against the other, but it's looking like we've got a clear winner.
And no, Dad, this one's not about money. It's about family and yours obviously doesn't think that we belong.
Again, that Christmas refrain: Bad memories and a sour taste.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The "Hamventure"
We were sitting in Starbucks, sipping coffee and catching when, out of nowhere, I shouted, "Oh my god! It's Monday! We have to get a ham!"
I pushed back my seat, tossed my coffee cup in the trash, and barreled out the front door with a very confused Madeline trailing behind me.
We put the address into the GPS and somehow ended up at 29th and Havana, which is in the middle of the Stapleton development in Aurora.
"Turn left on Beeler," the GPS announced.
"Is there a Beeler?" Maddie asked.
"Beeler?....Beeler?"
We found it and turned and ended up having to make a long drive back to Havana and Yale. It included a desperate phone call to the Honey Baked Ham people asking them their cross streets.
As it turns out, the GPS had decided to remove the "South" direction and instead had routed us north.
It turned out to be a delicious adventure indeed, with free smoked turkey samples and a ham sandwich along the way.
Grandma was quite pleased with the outcome, although I was sure she was worried that I'd entirely neglected my duties. (I hadn't, obviously.)
However, this whole "hamventure" leads me to believe that I'm still not entirely confident in my re-adoption of my mental Denver map. I have been getting lost in dumb places for dumb reasons. The other night, I was trying to get on 6th heading west from Santa Fe, and for some reason, completely missed 8th and ended up having to do the Kalamath loop. It was a mess. I was a mess.
Those little things really throw me.
But alas, given enough time, the city will be mine again.
I pushed back my seat, tossed my coffee cup in the trash, and barreled out the front door with a very confused Madeline trailing behind me.
We put the address into the GPS and somehow ended up at 29th and Havana, which is in the middle of the Stapleton development in Aurora.
"Turn left on Beeler," the GPS announced.
"Is there a Beeler?" Maddie asked.
"Beeler?....Beeler?"
We found it and turned and ended up having to make a long drive back to Havana and Yale. It included a desperate phone call to the Honey Baked Ham people asking them their cross streets.
As it turns out, the GPS had decided to remove the "South" direction and instead had routed us north.
It turned out to be a delicious adventure indeed, with free smoked turkey samples and a ham sandwich along the way.
Grandma was quite pleased with the outcome, although I was sure she was worried that I'd entirely neglected my duties. (I hadn't, obviously.)
However, this whole "hamventure" leads me to believe that I'm still not entirely confident in my re-adoption of my mental Denver map. I have been getting lost in dumb places for dumb reasons. The other night, I was trying to get on 6th heading west from Santa Fe, and for some reason, completely missed 8th and ended up having to do the Kalamath loop. It was a mess. I was a mess.
Those little things really throw me.
But alas, given enough time, the city will be mine again.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The hunt has begun
I love my family.
Today, we fought about Michael Vick (who should not be allowed to play professional sports), the Eagles, and the Giants (which Manning is the hot one - Eli, obviously). We ate chicken (which I made to Mike's dismay yet which later became moderate approval. "It wasn't so bad," he said. "I thought it was going to kill me."), Mike made a Starbucks run (sweetly bringing back a latte for Mom and I), and things were generally copacetic.
We are currently in the middle of a heated (yet hilarious) non-argument about our future housing.
The situation is thus:
It all comes back to that damned cat. Seriously, single mothers have it rough.
I'm desperate for my own place.
Having lived alone, having loved that apartment in Chicago so intensely, and having tasted the sweet freedom of "my apartment," I'm loathe to linger here longer than I must.
However, the financial situation remains dire to say the least.
Complicating the whole situation is Cat/Carlos, who remains in the capable hands of my friend Jacob, yet who cannot live there forever.
My deadline is February 1.
The other day I found a too-good-to-be-true apartment downtown and emailed the guy out of curiosity only to find out that it was indeed too-good-to-be-true. Credit check prior to viewing? Ha, I think not, internet scam man.
I'm itching. I think it's the cat. (That was a cute little allergy pun just for Mom.)
I love that Jacob loves Cat, but he's mine, and I want him. I'm jealous that Jacob gets to live with him and I seriously think that five months of cat-care is long enough. Jacob wants his life back and I want my cat.
Mom is pestering us with questions about how we'll sort out things like food and blah, blah, blah, and Mike is silent. We've lived together for years, we'll sort it out.
He only pipes up whenever I say I wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom with him. He complains of girly products and clothes, I complain equally of sweaty gym socks and eau-de-man.
And thus nothing is settled and as usual, I'm the only one remotely agitated (not seriously, but a smidgeon). Mom's smirking that very pleased smirk while she crochets and Mike might be comatose on the couch.
And thus, the family dynamic remains strong: the evil matriarch, the quiet, reserved son, and the headstrong, stubborn, resilient (and might I add stunning) daughter.
It (which Mom has termed "our fireside chats") goes a little something like this:
"On some issues, I stand as evil mother and it doesn't bother me a bit. I notice that no one on the couch is agreeing with you..."
The couch stirs. "I'm staying out of it."
"See, that means he agrees with me."
"Mike, do you agree with her?"
"No. I don't agree with anyone."
It's never boring here, but I have the sneaking suspicion that none of us would have it any other way.
Today, we fought about Michael Vick (who should not be allowed to play professional sports), the Eagles, and the Giants (which Manning is the hot one - Eli, obviously). We ate chicken (which I made to Mike's dismay yet which later became moderate approval. "It wasn't so bad," he said. "I thought it was going to kill me."), Mike made a Starbucks run (sweetly bringing back a latte for Mom and I), and things were generally copacetic.
We are currently in the middle of a heated (yet hilarious) non-argument about our future housing.
The situation is thus:
It all comes back to that damned cat. Seriously, single mothers have it rough.
I'm desperate for my own place.
Having lived alone, having loved that apartment in Chicago so intensely, and having tasted the sweet freedom of "my apartment," I'm loathe to linger here longer than I must.
However, the financial situation remains dire to say the least.
Complicating the whole situation is Cat/Carlos, who remains in the capable hands of my friend Jacob, yet who cannot live there forever.
My deadline is February 1.
The other day I found a too-good-to-be-true apartment downtown and emailed the guy out of curiosity only to find out that it was indeed too-good-to-be-true. Credit check prior to viewing? Ha, I think not, internet scam man.
I'm itching. I think it's the cat. (That was a cute little allergy pun just for Mom.)
I love that Jacob loves Cat, but he's mine, and I want him. I'm jealous that Jacob gets to live with him and I seriously think that five months of cat-care is long enough. Jacob wants his life back and I want my cat.
Mom is pestering us with questions about how we'll sort out things like food and blah, blah, blah, and Mike is silent. We've lived together for years, we'll sort it out.
He only pipes up whenever I say I wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom with him. He complains of girly products and clothes, I complain equally of sweaty gym socks and eau-de-man.
And thus nothing is settled and as usual, I'm the only one remotely agitated (not seriously, but a smidgeon). Mom's smirking that very pleased smirk while she crochets and Mike might be comatose on the couch.
And thus, the family dynamic remains strong: the evil matriarch, the quiet, reserved son, and the headstrong, stubborn, resilient (and might I add stunning) daughter.
It (which Mom has termed "our fireside chats") goes a little something like this:
"On some issues, I stand as evil mother and it doesn't bother me a bit. I notice that no one on the couch is agreeing with you..."
The couch stirs. "I'm staying out of it."
"See, that means he agrees with me."
"Mike, do you agree with her?"
"No. I don't agree with anyone."
It's never boring here, but I have the sneaking suspicion that none of us would have it any other way.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
December Rundown - Employment Update
When I'm looking through my blog posts, I find that I rarely have large gaps of time when I don't have much to say, but even so, I can always tell when I'm simply writing to fill space and time, as if I feel obligated to write but have nothing to say.
This is one of those times.
I'm alone, I'm broke, I live at my mom's house, and I'm currently ten pounds above what I normally weigh. But I'm absolutely content. I'm so alright with everything that's going on at the moment. I'm positive, optimistic, radiant with promise.
It's strange and yet not unwelcome.
I've got a job, sort of. I'll be starting after the first of the year and I'll be doing cold calling and quality control for a software company that does law software.
It's $10 per hour and 40 hours per week, which is fine with me considering I'm currently making $0 per hour all hours of the week.
I've applied at Verizon.
I've applied at MSCD (UCD was going to be too much of a hassle - something about restrictions for non-degree students, etc.) to just take random math and business classes to see if that's what I really want to do with my life.
I have a brand new (gorgeous) resume.
By the way, I adore you.
Just so you know.
This is one of those times.
I'm alone, I'm broke, I live at my mom's house, and I'm currently ten pounds above what I normally weigh. But I'm absolutely content. I'm so alright with everything that's going on at the moment. I'm positive, optimistic, radiant with promise.
It's strange and yet not unwelcome.
I've got a job, sort of. I'll be starting after the first of the year and I'll be doing cold calling and quality control for a software company that does law software.
It's $10 per hour and 40 hours per week, which is fine with me considering I'm currently making $0 per hour all hours of the week.
I've applied at Verizon.
I've applied at MSCD (UCD was going to be too much of a hassle - something about restrictions for non-degree students, etc.) to just take random math and business classes to see if that's what I really want to do with my life.
I have a brand new (gorgeous) resume.
By the way, I adore you.
Just so you know.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Before I start: good luck to Uncle Mike, who is undergoing his first ever (and hopefully last ever) knee replacement surgery.
I hope that the healing process is swift, nearly painless, and positive for him and his family.
The last two weeks haven't been the most productive, but they've certainly been interesting.
I think everything is going to be alright, but then again, there's no other option, is there?
I went dancing on Friday night. Big deal, you're thinking. And you're right, except for one small thing. I danced entirely un-self-consciously. I danced and I was and I didn't care who was looking. That was a beautiful thing for me.
I hope that the healing process is swift, nearly painless, and positive for him and his family.
The last two weeks haven't been the most productive, but they've certainly been interesting.
I think everything is going to be alright, but then again, there's no other option, is there?
I went dancing on Friday night. Big deal, you're thinking. And you're right, except for one small thing. I danced entirely un-self-consciously. I danced and I was and I didn't care who was looking. That was a beautiful thing for me.
Friday, December 10, 2010
What flu?
I would like to take this opportunity to thank John Watterson for the flu-like symptoms I'm currently experiencing.
He's at home sick today after being ambushed by fever yesterday afternoon at work.
I woke up with the stuffy nose and sore throat combo that is guaranteed to sideline me for the weekend.
However, there is a lot of living I've still got to do, so hopefully an afternoon spent curled up with soup and television will be able to get me ready for an evening of hipster bar hopping with Emily.
Cross those fingers, world.
He's at home sick today after being ambushed by fever yesterday afternoon at work.
I woke up with the stuffy nose and sore throat combo that is guaranteed to sideline me for the weekend.
However, there is a lot of living I've still got to do, so hopefully an afternoon spent curled up with soup and television will be able to get me ready for an evening of hipster bar hopping with Emily.
Cross those fingers, world.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
I still own a Wii, maybe I should be playing that instead.
It's 6:30.
I've been awake since three forty.
It might be jet lag - I've been off since I got home - not hungry, not sleeping, always tired.
It might be everything.
I want to go to Chicago in January for a nice weekend away. I want to see everyone.
I need to stop writing little posts of nothing, I know that. But the other day, I was in the shower thinking (seriously that's where the best thinking gets done) and I was wondering if I come across as too whiny or self-absorbed in my blogs.
Of course, self-absorption is a necessary blog-evil, but I wonder if I accurately portray my perceptions of things and my world views.
I feel the need to share things - it's how I process. I don't care if no one reads this, it's therapeutic to type it out while I'm not consciously thinking about anything. Then I look down and everything is right in front of me.
But anyway, I'm restructuring my five year plan and trying to make everything fall into place. But I think the problem there is "make." You can't make anything fall into place. Everything falls in, you can nudge and push and rearrange, but at the end of the day, certain things are out of your hands.
Life is one of those funny things that will leave you behind if you just don't go along with it sometimes.
So for now I'm nudging, trying to find my way in this new, permanent Denver. I'm looking forward to reading - it's something I have really missed the last few years. I'm looking forward to a job and an apartment. I'm looking forward to settling into a routine.
I'm free floating now and I'm not entirely sure I like it but at the same time, I'm happy to be the free spirit that I am and I'm hoping to nurture that sense of independent adventure.
I want to hike and climb and go sandboarding and learn how to snowboard. I want to get back in the good graces of the Denver Public Library so that I can be allowed to sit downtown and spend an entire afternoon reading. I want to import wine from South Africa. I want to sit in dark bars and have long conversations. I want to work so that I can afford my own space and afford to leave it so I can travel the world. I want to see everything. But mostly I want to see beaches. All of them.
I'm excited. This free floating is tinged with fear but also glowing with promise. And that's the best part. The free fall can't last forever. It will have to end. And when it does, the solidity that emerges will be exact. Exactly what I'm looking for. (That's the mythical happily ever after that would really be adorable. Adorable is the wrong word, but you know what I mean.)
But - to the two things I love more than anything (I told Mom that and she questioned my love for her - I reminded her that I said things and not mothers.)
Also, I saw Cat. He's fat, furry, and absolutely happy, which makes me so happy. He's friendly and even though I can't tell if he remembers me, he's letting me snuggle him and I'm alright with that.
I am back in Simon. Highways beware, I'm back. That's beautiful freedom.
I've been awake since three forty.
It might be jet lag - I've been off since I got home - not hungry, not sleeping, always tired.
It might be everything.
I want to go to Chicago in January for a nice weekend away. I want to see everyone.
I need to stop writing little posts of nothing, I know that. But the other day, I was in the shower thinking (seriously that's where the best thinking gets done) and I was wondering if I come across as too whiny or self-absorbed in my blogs.
Of course, self-absorption is a necessary blog-evil, but I wonder if I accurately portray my perceptions of things and my world views.
I feel the need to share things - it's how I process. I don't care if no one reads this, it's therapeutic to type it out while I'm not consciously thinking about anything. Then I look down and everything is right in front of me.
But anyway, I'm restructuring my five year plan and trying to make everything fall into place. But I think the problem there is "make." You can't make anything fall into place. Everything falls in, you can nudge and push and rearrange, but at the end of the day, certain things are out of your hands.
Life is one of those funny things that will leave you behind if you just don't go along with it sometimes.
So for now I'm nudging, trying to find my way in this new, permanent Denver. I'm looking forward to reading - it's something I have really missed the last few years. I'm looking forward to a job and an apartment. I'm looking forward to settling into a routine.
I'm free floating now and I'm not entirely sure I like it but at the same time, I'm happy to be the free spirit that I am and I'm hoping to nurture that sense of independent adventure.
I want to hike and climb and go sandboarding and learn how to snowboard. I want to get back in the good graces of the Denver Public Library so that I can be allowed to sit downtown and spend an entire afternoon reading. I want to import wine from South Africa. I want to sit in dark bars and have long conversations. I want to work so that I can afford my own space and afford to leave it so I can travel the world. I want to see everything. But mostly I want to see beaches. All of them.
I'm excited. This free floating is tinged with fear but also glowing with promise. And that's the best part. The free fall can't last forever. It will have to end. And when it does, the solidity that emerges will be exact. Exactly what I'm looking for. (That's the mythical happily ever after that would really be adorable. Adorable is the wrong word, but you know what I mean.)
But - to the two things I love more than anything (I told Mom that and she questioned my love for her - I reminded her that I said things and not mothers.)
Also, I saw Cat. He's fat, furry, and absolutely happy, which makes me so happy. He's friendly and even though I can't tell if he remembers me, he's letting me snuggle him and I'm alright with that.
I am back in Simon. Highways beware, I'm back. That's beautiful freedom.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Cat!
It's Thanksgiving. This year, I am so grateful for everything, but for some reason, I'm really grateful for Cat/Carlos. So just to remind you how much I love him, I'm posting a picture blog devoted entirely to cat.
Adopted February 10, 2010.
cat on his leash. I'm not sure he'll ever get good at the "walking" part.
cat loves laundry baskets. I've never understood why. He loves to sleep in my clean laundry.
sleeping
post surgery
second picture ever taken - his first night on Newgard Ave in Chicago
loves to climb stuff
grumpy cat
(this is my favorite picture ever)
(the first picture I ever took of him - he was still getting used to the idea of being my cat son)
Cat loves feather boas.
he also loves cat naps in his spot on my bed
Friday, November 19, 2010
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Post-election
The election!
I'm ashamed that I didn't vote.
I didn't think it would be a problem, but as soon as I got here, I realized that absentee voting from Chicago is a bit different than absentee voting from South Africa.
And my mother, the law-abiding citizen that she is, refused to fill in my ballot for me and send it in.
So I didn't vote.
That makes two elections that I've missed since I've been a registered voter.
I swear that it will never happen again. You simply can't not vote.
You want to bitch about laws and policy and elected officials? I won't listen if you haven't voted.
Shame on me.
Alas, Hickenlooper is governor and this is a pleasing thing.
Instead of blogging today, I'm reposting a New York Times article written by Senator Evan Bayh.
I'm ashamed that I didn't vote.
I didn't think it would be a problem, but as soon as I got here, I realized that absentee voting from Chicago is a bit different than absentee voting from South Africa.
And my mother, the law-abiding citizen that she is, refused to fill in my ballot for me and send it in.
So I didn't vote.
That makes two elections that I've missed since I've been a registered voter.
I swear that it will never happen again. You simply can't not vote.
You want to bitch about laws and policy and elected officials? I won't listen if you haven't voted.
Shame on me.
Alas, Hickenlooper is governor and this is a pleasing thing.
Instead of blogging today, I'm reposting a New York Times article written by Senator Evan Bayh.
OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR
Where Do Democrats Go Next?
DEMOCRATS can recover from the disappointments of this election and set the stage for success in 2012. But to do so we must learn from Tuesday’s results.
Many of our problems were foreseeable. A public unhappy about the economy will take it out on the party in power, even if the problems began under previous management. What’s more, when one party controls everything — the House, the Senate, the White House — disgruntled voters have only one target for their ire. And the president’s party almost always loses seats in midterm elections.
Nonetheless, recurring patterns of history, broad economic forces and the laws of politics don’t entirely account for the Democrats’ predicament. To a degree we are authors of our own misfortune, and we must chart a better path forward.
It is clear that Democrats over-interpreted our mandate. Talk of a “political realignment” and a “new progressive era” proved wishful thinking. Exit polls in 2008 showed that 22 percent of voters identified themselves as liberals, 32 percent as conservatives and 44 percent as moderates. An electorate that is 76 percent moderate to conservative was not crying out for a move to the left.
We also overreached by focusing on health care rather than job creation during a severe recession. It was a noble aspiration, but $1 trillion in new spending and a major entitlement expansion are best attempted when the Treasury is flush and the economy strong, hardly our situation today.
And we were too deferential to our most zealous supporters. During election season, Congress sought to placate those on the extreme left and motivate the base — but that meant that our final efforts before the election focused on trying to allow gays in the military, change our immigration system and repeal the George W. Bush-era tax cuts. These are legitimate issues but unlikely to resonate with moderate swing voters in a season of economic discontent.
With these lessons in mind, Democrats can begin to rebuild. Where to start?
First, we have more than a communications problem — the public heard us but disagreed with our approach. Democrats need not reassess our goals for America, but we need to seriously rethink how to reach them.
Second, don’t blame the voters. They aren’t stupid or addled by fear. They are skeptical about government efficacy, worried about the deficit and angry that Democrats placed other priorities above their main concern: economic growth.
So, in the near term, every policy must be viewed through a single prism: does it help the economy grow?
A good place to start would be tax reform. Get rates down to make American businesses globally competitive. Reward savings and investment. Simplify the code to reduce compliance costs and broaden the base. In 1986, this approach attracted bipartisan support and fostered growth.
The stereotype of Democrats as wild-eyed spenders and taxers has been resurrected. To regain our political footing, we must prove to moderates that Democrats can make tough choices. Democrats should ban earmarks until the budget is balanced. The amount saved would be modest — but with ordinary Americans sacrificing so much, the symbolic power of politicians cutting their own perks is huge.
Democrats should support a freeze on federal hiring and pay increases. Government isn’t a privileged class and cannot be immune to the times.
The most important area for spending restraint is entitlement reform. Democrats should offer changes to the system that would save hundreds of billions of dollars while preserving the safety net for our neediest. For instance, we could introduce “progressive indexation,” which would provide lower cost-of-living increases for more affluent Social Security recipients, or devise a more accurate measure of inflation’s effects on all recipients’ income.
Democrats should also improve legislation already enacted. Health care reform, financial regulation and other initiatives were first attempts at solving complex problems, not holy writ. The administration’s grant of sensible exemptions to the health care bill, permitting some employers to offer only basic coverage, is an example of common-sense, results-oriented fine-tuning.
If President Obama and Congressional Democrats were to take these and other moderate steps on tax reform, deficit reduction and energy security, they would confront Republicans with a quandary: cooperate to make America more prosperous and financially stable, running the risk that the president would likely receive the credit, or obstruct what voters perceive as sensible solutions.
Having seen so many moderates go down to defeat in this year’s primaries, few Republicans in Congress will be likely to collaborate. And as the Republicans — including the party’s 2012 presidential candidates — genuflect before the Tea Party and other elements of the newly empowered right wing, President Obama can seize the center.
I’m betting the president and his advisers understand much of this. If so, assuming the economy recovers, President Obama can win re-election; Democrats can set the stage for historic achievements in a second term. The extremes of both parties will be disappointed. But the vast center yearning for progress will applaud, and the country will benefit.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Friday, friday, fright day.
I want to fall in love and fly away.
I also can't wait until I can hold Cat Carlos again.
I hope he remembers me.
Maybe he doesn't.
I also want to go fast down I-25.
I want to hold my drink up in silent salutation to a stranger.
I want to sit outside and drink hot coffee.
I want to write.
I want everything to fall into place.
That last statement may have been a lie.
Ever since I wrote about the possibility of not being able to be tied down, I haven't heard from John. I wonder if it was something I said, or didn't say.
Either way, I hope he's happy.
But I need to amend that post.
There are people who I would love. Who I would gladly stay with, if only they could hold my attention. There's always a point at which I become immensely disinterested and if I could find someone who never hit that point with me, I'd be madly and truly and deeply in love.
But let's get to that later. I keep speaking in generalities and I'm afraid that people are internalizing them and trying to paste them on to situations where they might not fit.
I'm exhausted and hungry and am excited to drink beer tonight!
(when am I ever not excited to drink beer?)
I also can't wait until I can hold Cat Carlos again.
I hope he remembers me.
Maybe he doesn't.
I also want to go fast down I-25.
I want to hold my drink up in silent salutation to a stranger.
I want to sit outside and drink hot coffee.
I want to write.
I want everything to fall into place.
That last statement may have been a lie.
Ever since I wrote about the possibility of not being able to be tied down, I haven't heard from John. I wonder if it was something I said, or didn't say.
Either way, I hope he's happy.
But I need to amend that post.
There are people who I would love. Who I would gladly stay with, if only they could hold my attention. There's always a point at which I become immensely disinterested and if I could find someone who never hit that point with me, I'd be madly and truly and deeply in love.
But let's get to that later. I keep speaking in generalities and I'm afraid that people are internalizing them and trying to paste them on to situations where they might not fit.
I'm exhausted and hungry and am excited to drink beer tonight!
(when am I ever not excited to drink beer?)
Friday, October 22, 2010
Blathering on about love, as usual.
What is true love?
Before you stop reading, annoyed that so many of my posts center on the concept of true love or even love itself, don't.
I'm going to wildly reverse my earlier conclusions. Maybe.
We're going to think about what it might be like to live in the modern world and therefore, experience the idea of modern love.
The other night I was listening to a Dan Savage podcast while I was trying to fall asleep. For those of you who don't know him, he's an advice columnist who focuses on sex and relationship issues. I don't always agree with him, but I enjoy a lot of the things he has to say. And I was thinking.
I'm usually in an odd romantic situation. If you're reading this, you most likely know me pretty well (I was going to write "intimately," but thought it might be mildly inappropriate in this context. ha.). You most likely understand my relationship history, even if it's the concise and thoroughly edited version.
I have boyfriends, mostly.
But then I have other things, as well. Sometimes boys on the side. Sometimes the briefest yet most intense affairs (I call them affairs although they don't fit the strict definition of affair, usually). Sometimes casual flirtations. Sometimes deep friendships.
You can't quite understand what I might be hinting at, but I'm not entirely sure yet either.
Anyway. Here I am, in Cape Town, dating a really nice boy named James. It's intensely sweet. He's very caring and of course he thinks I'm divine. I'm whole heartedly attempting to maintain the distance necessary to keep John happy, but selfishly, I hear Hunter's words in my head: "Until you're married, the most important person in your life is yourself."
I feel those words. I live those words.
At home, I still have John, the guy I was dating before I left, although our relationship is up in the air at the moment. We made a deal that we were going to be apart while I was in Cape Town and that we are going to see if things work out when I get back home in December. It was a nice romance, of course, intense in the ways that only I seem to be able to develop.
But is it for real?
Is anything for real?
I was/am very happy with John, but I'm not entirely sure that we had reached the point where I was able to commit. Like, really seriously commit. And I couldn't have been expected to. It was one month of dating. It felt very comfortable, I won't lie. But I don't know if it was everything I wanted. And I don't know if it's what I'm going to what.
Knowing I'm going back to it is a double-edged sword. It's nice to know I'll have someone I enjoy spending time with but it's also pressure to be in a relationship I don't know if I want.
It's not him, it's the freedom.
Single Katie really enjoyed 2010. She really came into her own, I think.
I don't know if anyone can be everything I want.
And I don't know that I can be anyone's everything, either.
And that's what I'm talking about today.
I'm worried that I might be: either a serial monogamist (someone who likes to date one person at a time, but not for very long) or just someone who can't be with one person.
I have the most wonderful relationships. I really like putting all of my focus onto one certain person, but in the end, I always end up dissatisfied. The ones who keep my attention (currently there's only one who's still got me enthralled against my better judgement, through absolutely no fault of his own or mine, either) seem to have a certain something about them. It used to be a sense of mystery and intrigue, an element of danger, sprinkled with the bits of intelligence I found so endearing, and it still is that. But now it's something else.
It's intelligence mixed with the same elements of danger and mystery but I also need a sense of stability, of ingenuity, of employability, of....dare I say it, maturity.
But let's define maturity another day because I have some thoughts on that as well.
That's the shift. The need to pick mates based on conversation skills rather than adventure skills.
And while I still have hope that some day someone is going to possess everything I need. In theory, I'd like someone to fit all the facets of my life.
But in reality, I know that chances are I'm not going to find that person. Because my requirements are a bit hard to meet. I need someone who is a broad human being, someone who wants to be in sweats and spend the day curled up on the couch watching the Food Network, someone who wants to learn how to ballroom dance, someone who wants to go skinnydipping and then go talk politics in a bar. Someone who wants to travel. (That's a big plus on the list of things I love. I want to go everywhere and learn everything.) Someone who likes to read and drink and is socially liberal leaning but a little bit moderate financially. Someone who can teach me something, who makes me strive to be the best person I can be, someone who calls me on my bullshit and supports me and listens. I want to be respected, though. Thoroughly respected.
This man isn't real.
My favorite times spent with Hunter were the times we'd make dinner together. I'll never forget being in the kitchen with him. I'd wash dishes - we always a pile a mile high - while he cooked breakfast - we had breakfast for dinner quite often - and music played in the background.
I want someone to cook dinner with.
James is a chef. The other night, he surprised me with dinner. He hasn't packed my lunch for work in about a week, I need to change that. I think it's nice. That little bit of extra thought makes my day a lot better.
This is not a tug of war between two men. This is not an America vs. South Africa smack down.
This is me thinking about what I really want that actually doesn't take into account either of the men currently playing the starring roles in my own romantic comedy.
I don't know what is going to happen when I get back to Denver. I'm not thinking about that right now. All I'm focusing on is me in the present.
This is my youth.
I'm going to put myself first and I'm not going to consider it a selfish act.
I emailed Madeline the other day and through our conversation, told her that I'm often unable to end things properly when they need to be ended, instead, I let them stew until they boil over. I need to learn that as soon as I know it's over, it needs to be over.
I need to learn that I'm not letting anyone down easy by leading them on and I'm certainly not helping myself.
I have a knack for finding nice men in dark bars, consider this my saving grace. It's served me well the past few years and I'm hoping it will continue to serve me well in the future.
I'm off running, following the directions that my heart gives me, hoping they make sense in the end.
So here's to red wine and indecision, to youth, to reckless love we never thought we'd find, to breakfasts in bed and late night conversations, to candlelit dinners and tearstained pillowcases, to glances from across the room, to jealousy and anger giving way to sweeter sleep, to war and peace and everything in between.
Here's to triumph and happiness and the rest of my life, come what may.
Before you stop reading, annoyed that so many of my posts center on the concept of true love or even love itself, don't.
I'm going to wildly reverse my earlier conclusions. Maybe.
We're going to think about what it might be like to live in the modern world and therefore, experience the idea of modern love.
The other night I was listening to a Dan Savage podcast while I was trying to fall asleep. For those of you who don't know him, he's an advice columnist who focuses on sex and relationship issues. I don't always agree with him, but I enjoy a lot of the things he has to say. And I was thinking.
I'm usually in an odd romantic situation. If you're reading this, you most likely know me pretty well (I was going to write "intimately," but thought it might be mildly inappropriate in this context. ha.). You most likely understand my relationship history, even if it's the concise and thoroughly edited version.
I have boyfriends, mostly.
But then I have other things, as well. Sometimes boys on the side. Sometimes the briefest yet most intense affairs (I call them affairs although they don't fit the strict definition of affair, usually). Sometimes casual flirtations. Sometimes deep friendships.
You can't quite understand what I might be hinting at, but I'm not entirely sure yet either.
Anyway. Here I am, in Cape Town, dating a really nice boy named James. It's intensely sweet. He's very caring and of course he thinks I'm divine. I'm whole heartedly attempting to maintain the distance necessary to keep John happy, but selfishly, I hear Hunter's words in my head: "Until you're married, the most important person in your life is yourself."
I feel those words. I live those words.
At home, I still have John, the guy I was dating before I left, although our relationship is up in the air at the moment. We made a deal that we were going to be apart while I was in Cape Town and that we are going to see if things work out when I get back home in December. It was a nice romance, of course, intense in the ways that only I seem to be able to develop.
But is it for real?
Is anything for real?
I was/am very happy with John, but I'm not entirely sure that we had reached the point where I was able to commit. Like, really seriously commit. And I couldn't have been expected to. It was one month of dating. It felt very comfortable, I won't lie. But I don't know if it was everything I wanted. And I don't know if it's what I'm going to what.
Knowing I'm going back to it is a double-edged sword. It's nice to know I'll have someone I enjoy spending time with but it's also pressure to be in a relationship I don't know if I want.
It's not him, it's the freedom.
Single Katie really enjoyed 2010. She really came into her own, I think.
I don't know if anyone can be everything I want.
And I don't know that I can be anyone's everything, either.
And that's what I'm talking about today.
I'm worried that I might be: either a serial monogamist (someone who likes to date one person at a time, but not for very long) or just someone who can't be with one person.
I have the most wonderful relationships. I really like putting all of my focus onto one certain person, but in the end, I always end up dissatisfied. The ones who keep my attention (currently there's only one who's still got me enthralled against my better judgement, through absolutely no fault of his own or mine, either) seem to have a certain something about them. It used to be a sense of mystery and intrigue, an element of danger, sprinkled with the bits of intelligence I found so endearing, and it still is that. But now it's something else.
It's intelligence mixed with the same elements of danger and mystery but I also need a sense of stability, of ingenuity, of employability, of....dare I say it, maturity.
But let's define maturity another day because I have some thoughts on that as well.
That's the shift. The need to pick mates based on conversation skills rather than adventure skills.
And while I still have hope that some day someone is going to possess everything I need. In theory, I'd like someone to fit all the facets of my life.
But in reality, I know that chances are I'm not going to find that person. Because my requirements are a bit hard to meet. I need someone who is a broad human being, someone who wants to be in sweats and spend the day curled up on the couch watching the Food Network, someone who wants to learn how to ballroom dance, someone who wants to go skinnydipping and then go talk politics in a bar. Someone who wants to travel. (That's a big plus on the list of things I love. I want to go everywhere and learn everything.) Someone who likes to read and drink and is socially liberal leaning but a little bit moderate financially. Someone who can teach me something, who makes me strive to be the best person I can be, someone who calls me on my bullshit and supports me and listens. I want to be respected, though. Thoroughly respected.
This man isn't real.
My favorite times spent with Hunter were the times we'd make dinner together. I'll never forget being in the kitchen with him. I'd wash dishes - we always a pile a mile high - while he cooked breakfast - we had breakfast for dinner quite often - and music played in the background.
I want someone to cook dinner with.
James is a chef. The other night, he surprised me with dinner. He hasn't packed my lunch for work in about a week, I need to change that. I think it's nice. That little bit of extra thought makes my day a lot better.
This is not a tug of war between two men. This is not an America vs. South Africa smack down.
This is me thinking about what I really want that actually doesn't take into account either of the men currently playing the starring roles in my own romantic comedy.
I don't know what is going to happen when I get back to Denver. I'm not thinking about that right now. All I'm focusing on is me in the present.
This is my youth.
I'm going to put myself first and I'm not going to consider it a selfish act.
I emailed Madeline the other day and through our conversation, told her that I'm often unable to end things properly when they need to be ended, instead, I let them stew until they boil over. I need to learn that as soon as I know it's over, it needs to be over.
I need to learn that I'm not letting anyone down easy by leading them on and I'm certainly not helping myself.
I have a knack for finding nice men in dark bars, consider this my saving grace. It's served me well the past few years and I'm hoping it will continue to serve me well in the future.
I'm off running, following the directions that my heart gives me, hoping they make sense in the end.
So here's to red wine and indecision, to youth, to reckless love we never thought we'd find, to breakfasts in bed and late night conversations, to candlelit dinners and tearstained pillowcases, to glances from across the room, to jealousy and anger giving way to sweeter sleep, to war and peace and everything in between.
Here's to triumph and happiness and the rest of my life, come what may.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Breakfast at Tiffanys
I was going to blog about "Breakfast at Tiffany's" but then I started doing research into criticism of it and I just couldn't be bothered to put sentences together.
I wasn't enthralled.
I was captivated, though, but only sort of.
Anyway, new blog layout today. I'm not entirely sure that I'm sold on it, but I already connected all of my Analytics to it and such so I'm not going to mess with it for a few weeks.
Or until I get some better images.
Either way, the one on www.katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com was taken on a bridge to nowhere. We went for a walk in Tokai and ended up climbing up to a bridge that was built in the 1970s but that doesn't go anywhere. So I stood out over the M3 and snap.
The new one for here is a lily picture taken in San Francisco at the conservatory. It's not the best of my lily photos, it fits now.
Alas.
It really does take a lot to piss me off, but there's a girl here who wears on my nerves. Seriously. There will be further explanation when its safe to divulge, but oh my goodness, she irks me.
Happy Monday, world.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Good Intentions
“You’ve always got one foot out the door,” she said.
She was right.
I’ve got nothing but good intentions
But somewhere along they line
I always seem to lose them.
I dig in empty pockets, feeling only lint and cotton.
I dig in empty pockets, feeling only lint and cotton.
And then it all goes to hell, always.
Can’t give it up when I should,
I put it off, waiting for divine interventions that don’t exist.
It’s usually too late for help anyway,
Half drunk on the pure adrenaline of new, I let go.
Push off and fly, a fire suddenly ignited.
I’m afraid to look back.
I don’t want to see your face.
I don’t want to watch you watch me let you go.
I don’t want to see your face.
I don’t want to watch you watch me let you go.
It’s the same ending every time.
And even now, I tell myself,
“It won’t happen again.”
This time will be different.
I’m another kind of addict,
The kind that gets away with it.
No scars, no marks, just scattered bits of hearts
and sharp shards of pretty memories lying around.
They hit me now and then.
You and me, or he and I,
His shirt, his song, his smile,
They’re all a part of me,
That nasty fabric I’ve woven for myself.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions
But this isn’t hell.
This is here.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Obama
We were halfway down Table Mountain, stopped to talk about EU policies and such.
"Why is everyone so down on Obama?" asks an Australian girl.
I have no answer.
But here's your question of the day: What have you done to fix the situations you're so unhappy with?
We spend so much time fighting amongst ourselves (it's times like these I'm not sure the US could handle any more political parties although it obviously needs them) that we can't get anything done.
Stop hating the opposite political party and start worrying about the future of YOUR country. It belongs to all of us and not just to one set of people aligned along a certain set of values.
Forget that they are pro-choice and realize that all the bickering is going to drive us straight into the ground.
Yeah, things are bad. Things are bad all over though. You're not the only ones. The US isn't the only place. Things are a lot better there than they are a lot of other places.
So do something about it. You want to get involved? Do it. Write your representatives, go do some volunteering, make houses in your community. Don't just sit on your couch and complain. And don't blame the man you elected.
He can't do a whole lot without any support. That's what the US constitution protects. It has a system of checks and balances in place so that he cannot act alone. And he certainly can't. It's not his fault we don't pass any laws - we're too busy fillibustering and acting like fools while we parade around and bitch about the state of everything.
So you want something done? You're going to have to do it yourself. You're going to have to help your leader change the world.
He's one man.
And so are you. (Human, man, woman, whatever.)
"Why is everyone so down on Obama?" asks an Australian girl.
I have no answer.
But here's your question of the day: What have you done to fix the situations you're so unhappy with?
We spend so much time fighting amongst ourselves (it's times like these I'm not sure the US could handle any more political parties although it obviously needs them) that we can't get anything done.
Stop hating the opposite political party and start worrying about the future of YOUR country. It belongs to all of us and not just to one set of people aligned along a certain set of values.
Forget that they are pro-choice and realize that all the bickering is going to drive us straight into the ground.
Yeah, things are bad. Things are bad all over though. You're not the only ones. The US isn't the only place. Things are a lot better there than they are a lot of other places.
So do something about it. You want to get involved? Do it. Write your representatives, go do some volunteering, make houses in your community. Don't just sit on your couch and complain. And don't blame the man you elected.
He can't do a whole lot without any support. That's what the US constitution protects. It has a system of checks and balances in place so that he cannot act alone. And he certainly can't. It's not his fault we don't pass any laws - we're too busy fillibustering and acting like fools while we parade around and bitch about the state of everything.
So you want something done? You're going to have to do it yourself. You're going to have to help your leader change the world.
He's one man.
And so are you. (Human, man, woman, whatever.)
Monday, September 27, 2010
"Over"
At first I didn't even like you, I didn't even know who you were.
I was intrigued but not impressed, curious but not intense.
Then came the wine, the warmth of it spreading deep into my toes, touching even my frost-chilled fingers.
I didn't take the time to reasses, to think of sleep or even rest.
Full of selfish disregard for the coming dawn, I went with you and drank and danced.
Full of life, hot wet blood coursing through me quickening my heartbeat at your mention.
I threw away a lot to have that wine, to sit with you and drink it, a carefree drunk neglecting closing time.
When it was over, there was nothing left, like staring into the deep green glass of an empty bottle,
like turning it upside down hoping something, anything will drop out.
Lke digging in your back pocket for a couple dollars but finding only pennies instead, not enough for another.
Like flinging the bottle from a darkened rooftop, hearing the satisfying shatter on the asphalt below,
like a blissful evening that turned violent and angry before fading sharply into black.
Like being sober as the nights breaks into morning, when sun tips into bloodshot eyes.
Like piecing it all back together while you pretend you didn't smoke the entire pack of cigarettes,
like stumbling into the kitchen and throwing open the refrigerator,
like staring into the white cold nothingness that whirrs in response to your suggestion.
It's not like I wanted anything anyway, it's still full of nothing but condiments and empty promises.
Like holding the sides of cold porcelain and retching, feeling turbulent and fuzzy, unlikely feelings intertwined.
It's the waiting that's the worst.
And slowly you were gone, finally a dull headache somewhere near my forehead, a good night's sleep
pushed you away.
Even so, there's no hesistation when the question of repetition comes up.
Meet me for a drink, he'll say, a dark glance in a dark bar, or a smile in the middle of the afternoon, a firm
handshake on a Wednesday evening, dinner as an afterthought.
Of course.
I was intrigued but not impressed, curious but not intense.
Then came the wine, the warmth of it spreading deep into my toes, touching even my frost-chilled fingers.
I didn't take the time to reasses, to think of sleep or even rest.
Full of selfish disregard for the coming dawn, I went with you and drank and danced.
Full of life, hot wet blood coursing through me quickening my heartbeat at your mention.
I threw away a lot to have that wine, to sit with you and drink it, a carefree drunk neglecting closing time.
When it was over, there was nothing left, like staring into the deep green glass of an empty bottle,
like turning it upside down hoping something, anything will drop out.
Lke digging in your back pocket for a couple dollars but finding only pennies instead, not enough for another.
Like flinging the bottle from a darkened rooftop, hearing the satisfying shatter on the asphalt below,
like a blissful evening that turned violent and angry before fading sharply into black.
Like being sober as the nights breaks into morning, when sun tips into bloodshot eyes.
Like piecing it all back together while you pretend you didn't smoke the entire pack of cigarettes,
like stumbling into the kitchen and throwing open the refrigerator,
like staring into the white cold nothingness that whirrs in response to your suggestion.
It's not like I wanted anything anyway, it's still full of nothing but condiments and empty promises.
Like holding the sides of cold porcelain and retching, feeling turbulent and fuzzy, unlikely feelings intertwined.
It's the waiting that's the worst.
And slowly you were gone, finally a dull headache somewhere near my forehead, a good night's sleep
pushed you away.
Even so, there's no hesistation when the question of repetition comes up.
Meet me for a drink, he'll say, a dark glance in a dark bar, or a smile in the middle of the afternoon, a firm
handshake on a Wednesday evening, dinner as an afterthought.
Of course.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
10 Things I Hate About You
Last night there was the obligatory girl bonding session which included delicious South African apricot cheese from some vineyards we visited on the wine tour, chocolate filled with mousse, wine, and of course, a girly movie.
From 10 Things I Hate About You (which I now own on DVD and on VHS):
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big, dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick — It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh — Even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you're not around. And the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you — Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all
Can you tell I'm spending too much time on the internet?
At work, I take things as they come, at a plodding pace. It's nearly eleven o'clock in the morning and all I've done today was to read a bunch of emails about Mullen and then walk to Pick N Pay to buy the newspaper we placed on hold yesterday and then cut some stuff out.
Acting as copy girl, I brought my boss some tea and muffins and then I returned to my spot to remain idle.
In a bit, I'm giving out a form to the learners and then will sit with them for forty minutes as they fill out a questionnaire about their presumptions about the world, AIDS, etc.
It's part of a larger project in which we take a baseline of their worldview and then reassess them after the conclusion of the course. That follow up data is inserted into the same database as the initial assessment and then sent off the foundation for comparison.
From 10 Things I Hate About You (which I now own on DVD and on VHS):
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big, dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick — It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh — Even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it when you're not around. And the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you — Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all
Can you tell I'm spending too much time on the internet?
At work, I take things as they come, at a plodding pace. It's nearly eleven o'clock in the morning and all I've done today was to read a bunch of emails about Mullen and then walk to Pick N Pay to buy the newspaper we placed on hold yesterday and then cut some stuff out.
Acting as copy girl, I brought my boss some tea and muffins and then I returned to my spot to remain idle.
In a bit, I'm giving out a form to the learners and then will sit with them for forty minutes as they fill out a questionnaire about their presumptions about the world, AIDS, etc.
It's part of a larger project in which we take a baseline of their worldview and then reassess them after the conclusion of the course. That follow up data is inserted into the same database as the initial assessment and then sent off the foundation for comparison.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thoughts on Stuff, the Panic Edition
It's only Wednesday but the loneliness has already set in. Priscilla was gone for dinner the other night, out at the Spur for Angela's birthday, leaving me with four or so hours of freedom. Now normally this wouldn't be a lot, but when you're a stranger in someone else's house and you've found that you've got nothing but time on your hands, things start to get strange.
I sat for awhile, reading. But it felt strange to be reading, almost as though I was trying to go to bed too early. So I had dinner. And then I read some more. And while I should have been doing something productive (read this as: physcial activity of some sort), by the time I had the urge to go outside, darkness was falling and I know there's no point in leaving the house past dusk as the danger level seems to multiply by nearly a million at the point of time that the sun dips below the moutain range and leaves us shrouded in the darkness.
So I started thinking.
And oh the thoughts came swirling out of my mind, as though they'd been crouched there, just waiting for me to call them up and put them to work.
Life and love and everything in between.
It's been more than a day now, nearly two but the thoughts haven't left.
It's like there's a tornado of information inside my mind and it won't quiet. Today, I made a pact with myself, a quiet plan for the future. I spent an hour Googling for jobs for myself and not for anyone else. I selfishly searched salary information and requirements and came up short.
But it's alright. I have a base plan. I have an idea. Hopefully that spark will grow and grow and turn into a career.
Let me remind you, Verizon does 100% tuition assitance (tuition costs, books, etc) for degrees that align with the career path there. So what is a year of customer service or sales? It's a base. It's something. It's money that I currently don't have. It's food on the table for me and cat food in Carlos's bowl. It's a start. It's Simon's new bumper. It's the beginning of my 401(k). It's a benefits package.
Keep your fingers crossed, then. Here's hoping they'll see something in me and hire me, odd resume and Communications degree and all.
Deep breaths.
Maybe the yoga I've been putting off might need to come in handy right about now. Or sooner than now, if possible.
Below: an article that's really got me pissed off today. $250,000 may not be rich, but don't have the balls to call yourself "middle class" and then talk about how you can't afford your gardener. And don't talk about how "living beyond your means" is something that the middle class "has" to do. There is much more segmentation in the class system than just simply "rich" and then "middle class" and it's not as if the middle class is so poor itself.
Do some research into the poverty lines and you'll see that you're already living well above their (the actual "poor") means.
If you live in an expensive neighborhood, it doesn't make you poor if you can't afford it, it makes you an idiot for buying a house you can't afford.
It's not about how much you make, it's about how well you budget. And I seriously doubt that anyone making $250,000 should worry about not being able to make ends meet. They just need to reevaluate their spending habits and the cost of all of those "necessary" expenses. And for the record, a gardener and a maid are not necessary expenses.
And also, you could live quite happily in a big city like Chicago on $250,000 per year, provided you aren't living somewhere ridiculously expensive and provided that you own what you have. Yeah, the city is damn expensive, but it doesn't have to be as expensive as some people make it out to be.
And maybe you're not "rich" but you're certainly well off and your energy would be better spent shutting your mouth and doing something productive instead of whining like a spoiled child.
Grow up. There are people more deserving of your money than you'll ever be, Elie Mystal (and Todd Henderson, too, for that matter).
Earning $250,000 Does Not Make You Rich, Not in My Town
By Elie Mystal
Last week, University of Chicago law professor Todd Henderson published a controversial post on Truth on the Market. Henderson revealed that he and his wife have a combined income of over $250,000, but argued that this doesn’t make them rich — certainly not rich enough to afford the new taxes Obama seeks to impose on married couples making $250K or more.
You can read the full post over at Brad DeLong’s blog, Grasping Reality with Both Hands. You cannot read the full post on Truth on the Market, because the post has been taken down. Henderson explains why:
The reason I took the very unusual step of deleting [the post and comments] is because my wife, who did not approve of my original post and disagrees vehemently with my opinion, did not consent to the publication of personal details about our family. In retrospect, it was a highly effective but incredibly stupid thing to do. The electronic lynch mob that has attacked and harassed me — you should see the emails sent to me personally! — has made my family feel threatened and insecure.
Well, Professor Henderson, I’ve got your back. We might fight to the death about the proper use of the government’s fiscal authority, but it should be beyond obvious that earning $250,000 a year in this country does not make you rich. That figure doesn’t even approach “wealth,” especially if you live in a major city.
I might have a little more experience with electronic lynch mobs then Professor Henderson, so bring it on if you must. But for all the moral outrage one can level at a person bitching about making “only” $250K, know that $250K per annum is much closer to the minimum starting point you need to bank in order to have a shot at “making it” in the expensive cities of America. Living the dream requires a whole hell of a lot more….
If you are starving and I give you a mayonnaise sandwich, you’re going to be pretty happy. You’ll probably say that you’ve eaten well that day. Due to your poverty and malnutrition, your “American Dream” might well be to simply get to the point where you can have three mayonnaise sandwiches a day, and perhaps provide additional sandwiches to your spouse and children. Similarly, if you are earning $50,000 a year, the prospect of earning $250,000 a year probably seems like a panacea. Think about it: you’d be earning five times as much! I’ve yet to meet the person who wouldn’t love to quintuple his or her salary. From the perspective of a person making $50,000 a year or less (the subset could also be called “most Americans”), the person or family making $250,000 a year is rich.
Except he’s not. Sorry to burst your bubble, but “zero money down” is a bad idea, ultra-feminine lesbian sexbots don’t really exist, and $250K doesn’t allow you to live in financial comfort. Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.
In fact, most people who make $250K aren’t even sitting there thinking: “Ooh, if I bust my ass and play my cards right, being ‘rich’ is just around the corner for me and my family.” If, God forbid, $250K also represents all you have, being truly rich is probably not even an option for you. You can’t “invest” in anything with the piddling savings you’ve stowed away. You can’t “buy” anything, other then maybe a family home and a some consumer assets that will start to depreciate the minute you breathe on them. And what you’re not spending on your day-to-day expenses had best go to retirement, unless you want to be 80 years old and confusing your grandkids with stories about “Social Security” and other entitlement programs they have never heard of.
No, if you are making $250K a year, what gets you out of bed every morning isn’t even the desire to become rich. Instead, you’re motivated by the white-knuckle fear that something will go wrong and you’ll be cast back down with the sodomites who struggle valiantly to eke out an existence on $50K or less. You are certainly not rich, but you are terrified of becoming poor.
When Professor Henderson broke down his expenses, included in them were things that make a person sound rich. He’s got a gardener. He’s got a cleaning lady. FAT CAT ALERT! Anybody who can afford to buy himself out of manual labor must be rich, right?
But hold on to your pitchforks for just a minute. I don’t think anybody wants to live in a country where the purchase of a luxury good or service defines people as “rich.” If that was the world we wanted, there would be an awful lot of people walking here with flat-screen televisions and fine automobiles, who would also be defined as “rich.” I’m looking at you, legal secretary with a $60,000-a-year job who somehow finds an extra $5,000 to take a vacation to Bermuda during non-hurricane season. I’m looking at you, $57,000-a-year paralegal who makes me feel bad about my “sales rack at Macy’s” wardrobe. Americans spend money on all kinds of “luxury” crap that they have no business buying. You know what makes you rich? When you can actually afford all that junk.
And at $250K, you simply can’t afford it. Take me. My wife and I are just under the $250K potential tax threshold — thanks honey! your law degree does not make your ass look fat! — and if things break right for us, we’ll be over it next year (click on these ads, click on them now, you damn freeloaders). But if you think that affords me anything more than a paycheck-to-paycheck monthly scramble, you’re out of your freaking mind.
I own nothing (mmm… judgment proof) — not a stock, a bond — and the only market for my “assets” is the “Cash for Gold” shop in Atlantic City. I pay a ridiculous premium to live in my 2-1-2 area code, and I live in a hovel so embarrassing that when non-New Yorkers come to visit, they assume I’ve just been robbed. As we shuffle by Park Avenue apartments that I can’t afford to even look at, my dog tries to break her leash and get herself adopted by someone who can afford her upkeep. I’m a professional blogger, yet my computer is so old I can’t even download decent porn off the internet anymore. Last night I got a text from my Manhattan bedbugs which read, “Dude, we can’t live like this no more, peace out loser.”
And I don’t even have kids. And I didn’t even bring up my debts.
Could we rework our expenses to pay new taxes or generally save more money? Of course. We’re middle-class. That’s what middle-class people do: live as far above their means as possible until it becomes impossible. And then we play the lotto like everyone else. Rich people don’t play the lotto, and they don’t live above their means. They worry about whether or not they can afford another plane, not whether they can afford to fly coach.
And those people, the real rich people, those people should be taxed. Tax the living hell out of them, I say (I’m a liberal, it’s in the handbook). Henderson points out that the truly rich are avoiding taxes by hiding money in the Caymans or by using complicated financial instruments, and I say Obama should be going after that money. Stop being afraid of being labeled as “anti-business,” and go get the money from the people who can afford to pay it.
And if Obama does get that money, if he does what is hard and actually closes offshore tax loopholes and raises the capital gains tax and executes all the policies that embody true fiscal restraint and make Republicans cry in the night, and then he comes back to me and says, “Yeah, and we still need to raise taxes on those making more than $250K,” I’ll say fine. I’m willing to pay my share, albeit begrudgingly. I absolutely recognize that at $250K I’m doing a hell of a lot better than my buddy who makes $62K, lives with four random roommates, and once told me that if you add frozen peas to a cup of ramen it’s a more nutritious and filling dinner because the peas pack extra protein at a cost-effective price. Yeah Obama, tax me, not that guy. I get it.
But don’t call me rich. Don’t insult me by putting my family and Michael Bloomberg’s family in the same freaking talking point. If you want to blow that “quarter of a million dollars a year” soundbite up the ass of a laid-off steelworker in Pittsburgh, fine. But you know damn well that $250K does not make one rich in this country.
(http://abovethelaw.com/2010/09/earning-250000-does-not-make-you-rich-not-in-my-town/)
I sat for awhile, reading. But it felt strange to be reading, almost as though I was trying to go to bed too early. So I had dinner. And then I read some more. And while I should have been doing something productive (read this as: physcial activity of some sort), by the time I had the urge to go outside, darkness was falling and I know there's no point in leaving the house past dusk as the danger level seems to multiply by nearly a million at the point of time that the sun dips below the moutain range and leaves us shrouded in the darkness.
So I started thinking.
And oh the thoughts came swirling out of my mind, as though they'd been crouched there, just waiting for me to call them up and put them to work.
Life and love and everything in between.
It's been more than a day now, nearly two but the thoughts haven't left.
It's like there's a tornado of information inside my mind and it won't quiet. Today, I made a pact with myself, a quiet plan for the future. I spent an hour Googling for jobs for myself and not for anyone else. I selfishly searched salary information and requirements and came up short.
But it's alright. I have a base plan. I have an idea. Hopefully that spark will grow and grow and turn into a career.
Let me remind you, Verizon does 100% tuition assitance (tuition costs, books, etc) for degrees that align with the career path there. So what is a year of customer service or sales? It's a base. It's something. It's money that I currently don't have. It's food on the table for me and cat food in Carlos's bowl. It's a start. It's Simon's new bumper. It's the beginning of my 401(k). It's a benefits package.
Keep your fingers crossed, then. Here's hoping they'll see something in me and hire me, odd resume and Communications degree and all.
Deep breaths.
Maybe the yoga I've been putting off might need to come in handy right about now. Or sooner than now, if possible.
Below: an article that's really got me pissed off today. $250,000 may not be rich, but don't have the balls to call yourself "middle class" and then talk about how you can't afford your gardener. And don't talk about how "living beyond your means" is something that the middle class "has" to do. There is much more segmentation in the class system than just simply "rich" and then "middle class" and it's not as if the middle class is so poor itself.
Do some research into the poverty lines and you'll see that you're already living well above their (the actual "poor") means.
If you live in an expensive neighborhood, it doesn't make you poor if you can't afford it, it makes you an idiot for buying a house you can't afford.
It's not about how much you make, it's about how well you budget. And I seriously doubt that anyone making $250,000 should worry about not being able to make ends meet. They just need to reevaluate their spending habits and the cost of all of those "necessary" expenses. And for the record, a gardener and a maid are not necessary expenses.
And also, you could live quite happily in a big city like Chicago on $250,000 per year, provided you aren't living somewhere ridiculously expensive and provided that you own what you have. Yeah, the city is damn expensive, but it doesn't have to be as expensive as some people make it out to be.
And maybe you're not "rich" but you're certainly well off and your energy would be better spent shutting your mouth and doing something productive instead of whining like a spoiled child.
Grow up. There are people more deserving of your money than you'll ever be, Elie Mystal (and Todd Henderson, too, for that matter).
Earning $250,000 Does Not Make You Rich, Not in My Town
By Elie Mystal
Last week, University of Chicago law professor Todd Henderson published a controversial post on Truth on the Market. Henderson revealed that he and his wife have a combined income of over $250,000, but argued that this doesn’t make them rich — certainly not rich enough to afford the new taxes Obama seeks to impose on married couples making $250K or more.
You can read the full post over at Brad DeLong’s blog, Grasping Reality with Both Hands. You cannot read the full post on Truth on the Market, because the post has been taken down. Henderson explains why:
The reason I took the very unusual step of deleting [the post and comments] is because my wife, who did not approve of my original post and disagrees vehemently with my opinion, did not consent to the publication of personal details about our family. In retrospect, it was a highly effective but incredibly stupid thing to do. The electronic lynch mob that has attacked and harassed me — you should see the emails sent to me personally! — has made my family feel threatened and insecure.
Well, Professor Henderson, I’ve got your back. We might fight to the death about the proper use of the government’s fiscal authority, but it should be beyond obvious that earning $250,000 a year in this country does not make you rich. That figure doesn’t even approach “wealth,” especially if you live in a major city.
I might have a little more experience with electronic lynch mobs then Professor Henderson, so bring it on if you must. But for all the moral outrage one can level at a person bitching about making “only” $250K, know that $250K per annum is much closer to the minimum starting point you need to bank in order to have a shot at “making it” in the expensive cities of America. Living the dream requires a whole hell of a lot more….
If you are starving and I give you a mayonnaise sandwich, you’re going to be pretty happy. You’ll probably say that you’ve eaten well that day. Due to your poverty and malnutrition, your “American Dream” might well be to simply get to the point where you can have three mayonnaise sandwiches a day, and perhaps provide additional sandwiches to your spouse and children. Similarly, if you are earning $50,000 a year, the prospect of earning $250,000 a year probably seems like a panacea. Think about it: you’d be earning five times as much! I’ve yet to meet the person who wouldn’t love to quintuple his or her salary. From the perspective of a person making $50,000 a year or less (the subset could also be called “most Americans”), the person or family making $250,000 a year is rich.
Except he’s not. Sorry to burst your bubble, but “zero money down” is a bad idea, ultra-feminine lesbian sexbots don’t really exist, and $250K doesn’t allow you to live in financial comfort. Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.
In fact, most people who make $250K aren’t even sitting there thinking: “Ooh, if I bust my ass and play my cards right, being ‘rich’ is just around the corner for me and my family.” If, God forbid, $250K also represents all you have, being truly rich is probably not even an option for you. You can’t “invest” in anything with the piddling savings you’ve stowed away. You can’t “buy” anything, other then maybe a family home and a some consumer assets that will start to depreciate the minute you breathe on them. And what you’re not spending on your day-to-day expenses had best go to retirement, unless you want to be 80 years old and confusing your grandkids with stories about “Social Security” and other entitlement programs they have never heard of.
No, if you are making $250K a year, what gets you out of bed every morning isn’t even the desire to become rich. Instead, you’re motivated by the white-knuckle fear that something will go wrong and you’ll be cast back down with the sodomites who struggle valiantly to eke out an existence on $50K or less. You are certainly not rich, but you are terrified of becoming poor.
When Professor Henderson broke down his expenses, included in them were things that make a person sound rich. He’s got a gardener. He’s got a cleaning lady. FAT CAT ALERT! Anybody who can afford to buy himself out of manual labor must be rich, right?
But hold on to your pitchforks for just a minute. I don’t think anybody wants to live in a country where the purchase of a luxury good or service defines people as “rich.” If that was the world we wanted, there would be an awful lot of people walking here with flat-screen televisions and fine automobiles, who would also be defined as “rich.” I’m looking at you, legal secretary with a $60,000-a-year job who somehow finds an extra $5,000 to take a vacation to Bermuda during non-hurricane season. I’m looking at you, $57,000-a-year paralegal who makes me feel bad about my “sales rack at Macy’s” wardrobe. Americans spend money on all kinds of “luxury” crap that they have no business buying. You know what makes you rich? When you can actually afford all that junk.
And at $250K, you simply can’t afford it. Take me. My wife and I are just under the $250K potential tax threshold — thanks honey! your law degree does not make your ass look fat! — and if things break right for us, we’ll be over it next year (click on these ads, click on them now, you damn freeloaders). But if you think that affords me anything more than a paycheck-to-paycheck monthly scramble, you’re out of your freaking mind.
I own nothing (mmm… judgment proof) — not a stock, a bond — and the only market for my “assets” is the “Cash for Gold” shop in Atlantic City. I pay a ridiculous premium to live in my 2-1-2 area code, and I live in a hovel so embarrassing that when non-New Yorkers come to visit, they assume I’ve just been robbed. As we shuffle by Park Avenue apartments that I can’t afford to even look at, my dog tries to break her leash and get herself adopted by someone who can afford her upkeep. I’m a professional blogger, yet my computer is so old I can’t even download decent porn off the internet anymore. Last night I got a text from my Manhattan bedbugs which read, “Dude, we can’t live like this no more, peace out loser.”
And I don’t even have kids. And I didn’t even bring up my debts.
Could we rework our expenses to pay new taxes or generally save more money? Of course. We’re middle-class. That’s what middle-class people do: live as far above their means as possible until it becomes impossible. And then we play the lotto like everyone else. Rich people don’t play the lotto, and they don’t live above their means. They worry about whether or not they can afford another plane, not whether they can afford to fly coach.
And those people, the real rich people, those people should be taxed. Tax the living hell out of them, I say (I’m a liberal, it’s in the handbook). Henderson points out that the truly rich are avoiding taxes by hiding money in the Caymans or by using complicated financial instruments, and I say Obama should be going after that money. Stop being afraid of being labeled as “anti-business,” and go get the money from the people who can afford to pay it.
And if Obama does get that money, if he does what is hard and actually closes offshore tax loopholes and raises the capital gains tax and executes all the policies that embody true fiscal restraint and make Republicans cry in the night, and then he comes back to me and says, “Yeah, and we still need to raise taxes on those making more than $250K,” I’ll say fine. I’m willing to pay my share, albeit begrudgingly. I absolutely recognize that at $250K I’m doing a hell of a lot better than my buddy who makes $62K, lives with four random roommates, and once told me that if you add frozen peas to a cup of ramen it’s a more nutritious and filling dinner because the peas pack extra protein at a cost-effective price. Yeah Obama, tax me, not that guy. I get it.
But don’t call me rich. Don’t insult me by putting my family and Michael Bloomberg’s family in the same freaking talking point. If you want to blow that “quarter of a million dollars a year” soundbite up the ass of a laid-off steelworker in Pittsburgh, fine. But you know damn well that $250K does not make one rich in this country.
(http://abovethelaw.com/2010/09/earning-250000-does-not-make-you-rich-not-in-my-town/)
Monday, September 20, 2010
Twenty Five Signs He's Not the One
Because where would we be without opinionated girly links??
http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-25-signs-hes-not-the-one/?obref=obinsite
Twenty Five Signs He's Not the One.
And some of them hit home.
http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-25-signs-hes-not-the-one/?obref=obinsite
Twenty Five Signs He's Not the One.
And some of them hit home.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Gender Issues in South Africa
Two posts this morning in Cape Town newspapers that deliver a shocking look into the state of gender affairs in this country.
Gender and sexuality-related violence seems to be a global issue.
The sterilisation article seems to highlight an issue that is more localized, although I know that birth control and other related (medical, invasive and otherwise) issues will be a fight between women and government for years to come.
http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916043709577C671043
(Woman Sterilized Without Her Permission)
Cape Times
http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916072627686C184866
(Killers Escape)
Worth reading both of these articles. They both raise questions about the judicial system's effectiveness at thwarting crimes and then its ability to maintain control over judicial proceedings, including handling and transport of prisoners.
Gender and sexuality-related violence seems to be a global issue.
The sterilisation article seems to highlight an issue that is more localized, although I know that birth control and other related (medical, invasive and otherwise) issues will be a fight between women and government for years to come.
http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916043709577C671043
(Woman Sterilized Without Her Permission)
Cape Times
http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916072627686C184866
(Killers Escape)
Worth reading both of these articles. They both raise questions about the judicial system's effectiveness at thwarting crimes and then its ability to maintain control over judicial proceedings, including handling and transport of prisoners.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Transgender Love
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/12/fashion/12Love.html?src=me&ref=style
Above is a link to a New York Times article I found interesting. It's about the relationship between a lesbian-identifying woman and her female to male transsexual partner, from a sexual reassignment surgery (sort of) to the breakup, extending as far as the aftermath of the breakup.
It's interesting to realize that the lifespan of a relationship is similar across much of the spectrum of sexuality; no matter what kind of person is involved in the relationship, it still manifests itself with the same standard characteristics: original attraction, change, monotony, finality, guilt, etc.
I hope you'll enjoy the article as much as I did.
Above is a link to a New York Times article I found interesting. It's about the relationship between a lesbian-identifying woman and her female to male transsexual partner, from a sexual reassignment surgery (sort of) to the breakup, extending as far as the aftermath of the breakup.
It's interesting to realize that the lifespan of a relationship is similar across much of the spectrum of sexuality; no matter what kind of person is involved in the relationship, it still manifests itself with the same standard characteristics: original attraction, change, monotony, finality, guilt, etc.
I hope you'll enjoy the article as much as I did.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Since I'll be in Cape Town until the beginning of December, you can track my blog there at:
http://www.katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com/
Sorry for the temporary move!
http://www.katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com/
Sorry for the temporary move!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wingman
Katie has been my best friend since my first day of high school. She was the first person to say hi to me in the hall, and I thought she was a cool kid. I was wrong. (Not that she's not a cool kid, but she wasn't a "cool kid," if that makes any sense. It does to me, probably because it is one of the most vivid memories I've retained in my fourteen year old mind.)
I love her. This sounds ridiculous, but being with her has shown me the true depth of love. I will never settle for a man who doesn't sometimes give me butterflies like she does. It's old and new and never boring.
I went up to Fort Collins last night to see her before I leave for Cape Town. I love the atmosphere of Fort Collins; it's such a funny place but it's so comfortable. Her house is always the same, and I'm always leaving stuff there or forgetting stuf but it's never an issue.
We went out and were soon approached by a lone man. He offered us drinks. We spent a good few minutes scouting out his position at the bar to check for drug-slippage. There was none, but you never can be too sure. We made him switch all the drinks around, which he was glad to do. We drank them and then thanked him and invited him to sit down.
He did. He and Katie hit it off and started talking, playing the question game. One would ask a question, we'd all have to answer, then someone else would ask a question. It went on. Eventually, to his apparent chagrin, his friends came over. Seeing that Katie was in the mood to continue the conversation, I spent the rest of the evening allowing the rest of the guys to sit and talk. Allowing is a strong word. I ran them in circles.
It's rare that you find an honest man. It's even more rare to find an honest man in a bar.
The three guys that made up the main entertainment for the evening were funny, charming, slightly awkward, but genuine. And that means a lot.
And Katie got asked to dinner.
I love her. This sounds ridiculous, but being with her has shown me the true depth of love. I will never settle for a man who doesn't sometimes give me butterflies like she does. It's old and new and never boring.
I went up to Fort Collins last night to see her before I leave for Cape Town. I love the atmosphere of Fort Collins; it's such a funny place but it's so comfortable. Her house is always the same, and I'm always leaving stuff there or forgetting stuf but it's never an issue.
We went out and were soon approached by a lone man. He offered us drinks. We spent a good few minutes scouting out his position at the bar to check for drug-slippage. There was none, but you never can be too sure. We made him switch all the drinks around, which he was glad to do. We drank them and then thanked him and invited him to sit down.
He did. He and Katie hit it off and started talking, playing the question game. One would ask a question, we'd all have to answer, then someone else would ask a question. It went on. Eventually, to his apparent chagrin, his friends came over. Seeing that Katie was in the mood to continue the conversation, I spent the rest of the evening allowing the rest of the guys to sit and talk. Allowing is a strong word. I ran them in circles.
It's rare that you find an honest man. It's even more rare to find an honest man in a bar.
The three guys that made up the main entertainment for the evening were funny, charming, slightly awkward, but genuine. And that means a lot.
It's rare that a man gives you an honest compliment. At some point, there were two interlopers attempting to gain entry to our odd circle. One went the eye route. "Stunning eyes, you've got a Halle Berry thing going on..." and so on. Katie would later refer to him as "Jersey Shore over there." I excused myself for a moment of air and the relative peace of the man-free women's restroom and upon my return, they had left. The two friends of the original guy were quick to say that they didn't like the way the guy had been talking to me. That protectiveness was quite unnecessary, but wholly welcomed.
One of them was surprised to find out that I am twenty two. "You carry yourself like you're older," he said. He extended it to include my intelligence and told me he was impressed by the upcoming South Africa adventure. "It looks like you've got your head on straight," he said. I crossed my fingers and smiled.
It may not have been honest flattery but it certainly made for a comfortable evening full of fast-paced conversation with people who weren't aware of the idea of the end game. I was also told I looked like I could hold my own in a bar fight, which is definitely not true but a sweet sentiment. And Katie got asked to dinner.
Like, a legitimate dinner date. Something that hasn't been seen in the Ft. Collins area since early 2003.
See? Sometimes being the wingman does have serious perks.
Monday, August 23, 2010
...there will be rants
I've got two rants today.
The first one is short and the second will take me all day if don't stop myself.
Numero uno: Last night, I went down to Confluence Park behind REI to cross the fire dancing and drum circle business off my summer bucket list. It was definitely more crowded than I had expected it to be. I would guess that there were a little over a hundred people there. I'm glad we got there late, it wasn't anything wildly exciting, but it was cool to watch the people who dared to perform swing fire around and I've always been a sucker for drumming.
With all of the hippies gathered around me, I was surprised to see the amount of litter that seemed to be accruing throughout the park. It annoyed me. First of all, the weekly summer gathering is a relatively un-minded event; I was actually quite surprised at the lack of police presence despite the population that was gathered there and the amount of weed I'm sure was being consumed. For that, everyone there should have been grateful for the privacy and the peace and should have been a little bit more respectful of the space.
Spilled beer isn't a whole lot, but someone has to pick that litter up.
I drank beer, I walked to a trashcan and put the bottle in. I should have recycled it. I didn't. But I didn't leave it on the concrete steps so that there might have been the possibility that it would have gone into the river. I didn't leave it in the dirt under the tree so that it could languish until cleaned up by someone whose job title most likely does not involve picking up the litter of disrespectful people who should have been happy to be left alone to get high or drunk or whatever or stay sober to watch fire dancing and listen to music.
I'm sure someone isn't taking too kindly to that behavior.
Numero dos:
http://www.denverpost.com/frontpage/ci_15854873
Bruce Randolph, with parental consent, is giving out contraception and emergency contraception. This morning, I was listening to KS107.5 while flipping through radio stations on my way out to pick Mike up, and they were discussing the situation.
And one of the deejays said something about "daughters as sluts." The female deejay tried to say something about it, but she didn't put up a fight at all and let it go. So they continued to comment on it and I really didn't appreciate it.
Pregnancy is a huge deal. Teen pregnancy is a bigger deal.
People calling girls who try to be proactive about protection and contraception "sluts" is ridiculous. It's disrespect on a whole new level and it shows that there are still double standards in place as far as gender expectations go.
As a woman, I find it horrifying that should I want to protect myself from pregnancy, I might risk being labelled a whore. I think the girls who reach out to accept the contraception are making mature decisions and should be rewarded with respect and fair treatment.
For young girls today, the pressure to be sexually active is immense. While I'm not arguing that the pressure isn't equally immense if not more so for young men, girls are hit with the inability to maintain the sexual habits that their male counterparts are allowed. And with the use of the word maintain, I mean that there are social stigmas attached to girls who wish to engage in sexual behavior. Society in this way reinforces the restrictions for women but glorifies young men who are able to attract larger numbers of sexual partners.
It's annoying. And it needs to stop.
Young people are going to have sex. It's a fact.
We can preach abstinence all we like, but I think knowing the facts and figures could be helpful as well. But when push comes to shove, availability of contraceptive methods such as condoms and birth control pills can help prevent pregnancy and the spread of sexually transmitted infections (STIs).
I read this article a few days ago and kept it open thinking it might be useful, and I'm linking to it below:
http://contexts.org/articles/summer-2010/is-hooking-up-bad-for-young-women/
It talks about reasons why many young people are forgoing relationships in favor of "hooking up," which involves all the best parts of dating without any of the hassle. But once again, it's women that are considered too weak to be able to engage in this particular behavior set. (While I'm not arguing that the "hooking up" is healthy, I think it's interesting that women are pinpointed as not being able to handle the emotional consequences. Again, it's the women engaging in behavior similar to their male counterparts yet being socially sanctioned for doing so.)
Here's another article that's not more than a blurb, but the pictures with it say a lot about the perpetuation of the Madonna/whore dichotomy (a popular theme for those of us who survived gender studies programs): http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2010/08/19/sti-transmission-wives-whores-and-the-invisible-man/
The article discusses the ways in which men are removed from the equation, much as they are being done in the debate about contraception. All of the babies that result from teen pregnancies, well, any pregnancy, have fathers, an equal participant in the choice to engage in risky or unprotected sexual activity.
It's not hard not to get pregnant.
But it does require effort on both sides. And for women who face pressure from boyfriends or partners who might refuse to use a condom, having a second choice is not a bad thing. The availability of protection and in some cases, emergency contraception is a positive statement about sexuality, something that is so often pushed under the rug. (Again, the refusal to use a condom should never be a part of any sexual equation and connotes something sinister about the intentions of the male or female who makes such a refusal. But it does happen. And many women aren't confident enough about their sexuality at that point that they are able to speak out against it.)
I know that contrarians are going to argue that emergency contraception is just that and shouldn't be regularly prescribed or used as birth control. I agree. But even those kids who are engaging in protected sex sometimes have accidents and the fear that results from those is a reminder of the consequences of engaging in such actions. Choosing emergency contraception does not cause an abortion to take place but can be a mature, responsible decision to continue the use of protection.
Either way, I think we need to normalize contraception, including neutralizing the way we converse about it. Women should never feel "demonized" for seeking out protection and shouldn't have to listen to others say anything negative about those positive decisions. Shame on KS107.5 for not being dignified in their discussion of the story and shame on their female deejay for allowing the men to dominate the conversation and to neglect her interjection. Calling people "sluts" is not only a cheap shot but it shows a lack of respect (for women) and maturity. I can fully say I refuse to support a station that promotes commentary such as that.
The first one is short and the second will take me all day if don't stop myself.
Numero uno: Last night, I went down to Confluence Park behind REI to cross the fire dancing and drum circle business off my summer bucket list. It was definitely more crowded than I had expected it to be. I would guess that there were a little over a hundred people there. I'm glad we got there late, it wasn't anything wildly exciting, but it was cool to watch the people who dared to perform swing fire around and I've always been a sucker for drumming.
With all of the hippies gathered around me, I was surprised to see the amount of litter that seemed to be accruing throughout the park. It annoyed me. First of all, the weekly summer gathering is a relatively un-minded event; I was actually quite surprised at the lack of police presence despite the population that was gathered there and the amount of weed I'm sure was being consumed. For that, everyone there should have been grateful for the privacy and the peace and should have been a little bit more respectful of the space.
Spilled beer isn't a whole lot, but someone has to pick that litter up.
I drank beer, I walked to a trashcan and put the bottle in. I should have recycled it. I didn't. But I didn't leave it on the concrete steps so that there might have been the possibility that it would have gone into the river. I didn't leave it in the dirt under the tree so that it could languish until cleaned up by someone whose job title most likely does not involve picking up the litter of disrespectful people who should have been happy to be left alone to get high or drunk or whatever or stay sober to watch fire dancing and listen to music.
I'm sure someone isn't taking too kindly to that behavior.
Numero dos:
http://www.denverpost.com/frontpage/ci_15854873
Bruce Randolph, with parental consent, is giving out contraception and emergency contraception. This morning, I was listening to KS107.5 while flipping through radio stations on my way out to pick Mike up, and they were discussing the situation.
And one of the deejays said something about "daughters as sluts." The female deejay tried to say something about it, but she didn't put up a fight at all and let it go. So they continued to comment on it and I really didn't appreciate it.
Pregnancy is a huge deal. Teen pregnancy is a bigger deal.
People calling girls who try to be proactive about protection and contraception "sluts" is ridiculous. It's disrespect on a whole new level and it shows that there are still double standards in place as far as gender expectations go.
As a woman, I find it horrifying that should I want to protect myself from pregnancy, I might risk being labelled a whore. I think the girls who reach out to accept the contraception are making mature decisions and should be rewarded with respect and fair treatment.
For young girls today, the pressure to be sexually active is immense. While I'm not arguing that the pressure isn't equally immense if not more so for young men, girls are hit with the inability to maintain the sexual habits that their male counterparts are allowed. And with the use of the word maintain, I mean that there are social stigmas attached to girls who wish to engage in sexual behavior. Society in this way reinforces the restrictions for women but glorifies young men who are able to attract larger numbers of sexual partners.
It's annoying. And it needs to stop.
Young people are going to have sex. It's a fact.
We can preach abstinence all we like, but I think knowing the facts and figures could be helpful as well. But when push comes to shove, availability of contraceptive methods such as condoms and birth control pills can help prevent pregnancy and the spread of sexually transmitted infections (STIs).
I read this article a few days ago and kept it open thinking it might be useful, and I'm linking to it below:
http://contexts.org/articles/summer-2010/is-hooking-up-bad-for-young-women/
It talks about reasons why many young people are forgoing relationships in favor of "hooking up," which involves all the best parts of dating without any of the hassle. But once again, it's women that are considered too weak to be able to engage in this particular behavior set. (While I'm not arguing that the "hooking up" is healthy, I think it's interesting that women are pinpointed as not being able to handle the emotional consequences. Again, it's the women engaging in behavior similar to their male counterparts yet being socially sanctioned for doing so.)
Here's another article that's not more than a blurb, but the pictures with it say a lot about the perpetuation of the Madonna/whore dichotomy (a popular theme for those of us who survived gender studies programs): http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2010/08/19/sti-transmission-wives-whores-and-the-invisible-man/
The article discusses the ways in which men are removed from the equation, much as they are being done in the debate about contraception. All of the babies that result from teen pregnancies, well, any pregnancy, have fathers, an equal participant in the choice to engage in risky or unprotected sexual activity.
It's not hard not to get pregnant.
But it does require effort on both sides. And for women who face pressure from boyfriends or partners who might refuse to use a condom, having a second choice is not a bad thing. The availability of protection and in some cases, emergency contraception is a positive statement about sexuality, something that is so often pushed under the rug. (Again, the refusal to use a condom should never be a part of any sexual equation and connotes something sinister about the intentions of the male or female who makes such a refusal. But it does happen. And many women aren't confident enough about their sexuality at that point that they are able to speak out against it.)
I know that contrarians are going to argue that emergency contraception is just that and shouldn't be regularly prescribed or used as birth control. I agree. But even those kids who are engaging in protected sex sometimes have accidents and the fear that results from those is a reminder of the consequences of engaging in such actions. Choosing emergency contraception does not cause an abortion to take place but can be a mature, responsible decision to continue the use of protection.
Either way, I think we need to normalize contraception, including neutralizing the way we converse about it. Women should never feel "demonized" for seeking out protection and shouldn't have to listen to others say anything negative about those positive decisions. Shame on KS107.5 for not being dignified in their discussion of the story and shame on their female deejay for allowing the men to dominate the conversation and to neglect her interjection. Calling people "sluts" is not only a cheap shot but it shows a lack of respect (for women) and maturity. I can fully say I refuse to support a station that promotes commentary such as that.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Unofficial Will, Officially
Before we leave, it's been insisted that we create a will.
My original thought was to just mess with everyone. I think that will take years, though, to figure out. I want to exact subtle revenge on people through my will, but I want it to be perfect. I want them to laugh when they figure out why they've been gifted what they've been gifted, and I want them to love me all the more for my horrid sense of humor.
The only problem seems to be that I have no earthly possessions to disperse and no real desire to be resuscitated past the logical points.
So here's this, just in case the will is improperly notarized or something:
Resuscitate me, sort of. Wait long enough to make sure I'm really brain dead before you pull the plug. And I mean long enough. (Like three months, if it's not too much to ask. Unless insurance won't cover it and in that case, stop supporting my breathing and metabolizing of liquids as soon as the coverage stops. It's not worth it if I'm not coming back.) Donate all of my organs (at least the usable ones). Plastination (the Body Worlds thing) is not an option, don't even think about it.
Power of attorney and such : Mom.
I keep joking with Mom that I'm going to give Cat to her, but in all honesty, I love my cat way too much for that to happen. Give him to someone who will love him, maybe Dad.
Simon can go to Madeline Hosanna, because she'll adore him. (Mom's name is on the title as well as mine, so maybe in the end, she'll want to keep him.)
Send Hunter my Tarot cards, just to freak him out.
Make sure that my voodoo doll is always facing some sort of south, if possible, or a window. He's particular about those things.
Don't bury me with shoes or socks on. Seriously. I won't be able to sleep. But do bury me with Buddy, my childhood Teddy bear (yes, the capitalization is proper).
Or, don't bury me at all and spread my ashes in Chicago, by the lake, near the L tracks, on Lake Shore Drive, and at Red Rocks, in the cemetery there or somewhere in the mountains, and then downtown. Don't have me compressed into jewelry.
There's a catch to the ash thing and that's the statue. I want a statue. Huge. (I mean, life size or better.) Of an angel that magically resembles me. She's wearing a toga-like Greek dress and holding a book and a pen and smiling and has humongous wings. And she's barefoot. And her hair is down and wild. That's the only way you can cremate me. Give me a sweet statue with some strange quotes or life facts. I want people who see it to wonder who I was in real life and then Google me.
Give all of my possessions to people who need them. Give Grandma my rings, she knows how much they mean to me.
My diaries and writings all belong to Mom, who should do something with them. Don't burn them.
She can have my Birkenstocks, too. But my mountain backpack should go somewhere wonderful.
Give Mike my cell phone, he'll break his and need the extras. He'll want my laptop, too.
Now for the particular stuff I'll be quite upset if you don't follow:
My funeral should be a party. Seriously. Two drink minimum. And then the speeches can begin. At first I thought it might be nice to have a posthumous roast, but then I decided I'd rather you all pretend I have no flaws and instead, give drunken speeches toasting my accomplishes (including my ability to use the English language correctly) - accomplishments, sorry, my adventures and my spirit. So I think everyone should have two strong drinks (at least, but if you have more don't drive) and then tell funny, touching, or just plain beautiful stories about me. Obviously you'd be doing that anyway, it's my funeral/wake/after party. And wear black, or don't. If you're up to it, maybe it should be a fancy dress and/or costume party. But maybe not. Tears are hell on silk.
If it's cheaper, feel free to buy my casket at Costco.
There. Done.
Will created, sort of. (I'm sure lawyers would look at this and laugh, but it's here and it's in my hand - as much as typing from your blog can be considered in your own hand.)
Also, did you know that Mike is worth more than me on life insurance? How unfair is that?
My original thought was to just mess with everyone. I think that will take years, though, to figure out. I want to exact subtle revenge on people through my will, but I want it to be perfect. I want them to laugh when they figure out why they've been gifted what they've been gifted, and I want them to love me all the more for my horrid sense of humor.
The only problem seems to be that I have no earthly possessions to disperse and no real desire to be resuscitated past the logical points.
So here's this, just in case the will is improperly notarized or something:
Resuscitate me, sort of. Wait long enough to make sure I'm really brain dead before you pull the plug. And I mean long enough. (Like three months, if it's not too much to ask. Unless insurance won't cover it and in that case, stop supporting my breathing and metabolizing of liquids as soon as the coverage stops. It's not worth it if I'm not coming back.) Donate all of my organs (at least the usable ones). Plastination (the Body Worlds thing) is not an option, don't even think about it.
Power of attorney and such : Mom.
I keep joking with Mom that I'm going to give Cat to her, but in all honesty, I love my cat way too much for that to happen. Give him to someone who will love him, maybe Dad.
Simon can go to Madeline Hosanna, because she'll adore him. (Mom's name is on the title as well as mine, so maybe in the end, she'll want to keep him.)
Send Hunter my Tarot cards, just to freak him out.
Make sure that my voodoo doll is always facing some sort of south, if possible, or a window. He's particular about those things.
Don't bury me with shoes or socks on. Seriously. I won't be able to sleep. But do bury me with Buddy, my childhood Teddy bear (yes, the capitalization is proper).
Or, don't bury me at all and spread my ashes in Chicago, by the lake, near the L tracks, on Lake Shore Drive, and at Red Rocks, in the cemetery there or somewhere in the mountains, and then downtown. Don't have me compressed into jewelry.
There's a catch to the ash thing and that's the statue. I want a statue. Huge. (I mean, life size or better.) Of an angel that magically resembles me. She's wearing a toga-like Greek dress and holding a book and a pen and smiling and has humongous wings. And she's barefoot. And her hair is down and wild. That's the only way you can cremate me. Give me a sweet statue with some strange quotes or life facts. I want people who see it to wonder who I was in real life and then Google me.
Give all of my possessions to people who need them. Give Grandma my rings, she knows how much they mean to me.
My diaries and writings all belong to Mom, who should do something with them. Don't burn them.
She can have my Birkenstocks, too. But my mountain backpack should go somewhere wonderful.
Give Mike my cell phone, he'll break his and need the extras. He'll want my laptop, too.
Now for the particular stuff I'll be quite upset if you don't follow:
My funeral should be a party. Seriously. Two drink minimum. And then the speeches can begin. At first I thought it might be nice to have a posthumous roast, but then I decided I'd rather you all pretend I have no flaws and instead, give drunken speeches toasting my accomplishes (including my ability to use the English language correctly) - accomplishments, sorry, my adventures and my spirit. So I think everyone should have two strong drinks (at least, but if you have more don't drive) and then tell funny, touching, or just plain beautiful stories about me. Obviously you'd be doing that anyway, it's my funeral/wake/after party. And wear black, or don't. If you're up to it, maybe it should be a fancy dress and/or costume party. But maybe not. Tears are hell on silk.
If it's cheaper, feel free to buy my casket at Costco.
There. Done.
Will created, sort of. (I'm sure lawyers would look at this and laugh, but it's here and it's in my hand - as much as typing from your blog can be considered in your own hand.)
Also, did you know that Mike is worth more than me on life insurance? How unfair is that?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Reflections
If only.....
....a million different things.
Sometimes what is right and what we want are two separate things, and I believe that to define maturity might be defining the ability to understand and separate the two separate things.
And if not that, then what?
Is it all worth it in the end?
What if we aren't supposed to pretend, and instead we're supposed to tell the truth and go with what could be?
Ha, not at all. We can't be.
But what is now is now and perhaps won't ever shall be, but with life stretching seemingly long before me, I'm off to explore the great unknowns of heart, and mind, and soul. And I'll come back complete and satisfied, a trail of lost and longing loves behind me, although I'll be buoyed by my expanses of knowledge and experiences and the depths of my own emotions. I will have loved deeply and lost immensely, gained more than that and fallen deeply into fits of both melancholy and exuberance.
I will have lived.
I will have conquered the unconquerable, my own heart, and mind, and soul. And then all will be well.
And whoever stands at the end of that contentment shall have me in all of my unconquerable glory.
....a million different things.
Sometimes what is right and what we want are two separate things, and I believe that to define maturity might be defining the ability to understand and separate the two separate things.
And if not that, then what?
Is it all worth it in the end?
What if we aren't supposed to pretend, and instead we're supposed to tell the truth and go with what could be?
Ha, not at all. We can't be.
But what is now is now and perhaps won't ever shall be, but with life stretching seemingly long before me, I'm off to explore the great unknowns of heart, and mind, and soul. And I'll come back complete and satisfied, a trail of lost and longing loves behind me, although I'll be buoyed by my expanses of knowledge and experiences and the depths of my own emotions. I will have loved deeply and lost immensely, gained more than that and fallen deeply into fits of both melancholy and exuberance.
I will have lived.
I will have conquered the unconquerable, my own heart, and mind, and soul. And then all will be well.
And whoever stands at the end of that contentment shall have me in all of my unconquerable glory.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Apple and Dad: Good deeds gone afoul
My father and I have an interesting relationship, to say the least.
It's been twenty two years of ups and more downs, a relationship plagued with guilt and pity and fear and anger.
Of course, neither of us intend to do the other any real harm, but the physical and emotional reactions that I have to that man are hard to calm. It's curious, really, and it's something that's taken me forever to even be able to manage. I'm still not there yet.
I get anxious, physically unable to sit still, mentally unnerved, and outwardly curt. These reactions happen within seconds of any comment that my brain fields as an attack. Usually, I am able to curtail these changes by removing myself from the situation. Sometimes, however, that is impossible and deep breathing has never been one of my specialties, leading to the outbursts and the blowups that seem to mark our interactions.
While I was camping, Dad thought it would be nice to take my computer into the Apple store to see what might be done about the screen issue. (I had cracked the screen, of course, and had it quoted to see what it would cost to fix, and the quote was over $800...since the computer was still usable and fine, I decided not to even bother, especially since 800 is more than I could ever get together at this point in my life.) They agreed to fix it. For free.
Grateful, yes, but upset also.
Again, the invasion of privacy issue began to irk me, and it stayed with me even after the tears had dried. Although he had the best of intentions, I was and still am upset by the fact that he removed my computer without asking. I've nearly had enough of people touching my computers while I'm out of town; the things that could go wrong seem to multiply and are the stuff of nightmares.
Of course, there was a blowup.
The first came after I returned; it was soft, perhaps a category two hurricane. Nothing came of it, but words were exchanged as I attempted to voice my concerns.
Upon the computer's completion, we made plans to go and get it. I've left out a crucial part of the story: illegal software. I had some of it on my computer, and had I known that it was going to be taken in to be serviced, I would have removed it. This would save me from having to suffer through a potentially embarrassing lecture. (I'm quite sensitive to criticism, it's not something that serves me well and it's something I'm hoping to do better with in the future.) Either way, I was apprehensive to retrieve the computer from the evil Apple employees bent on destroying their customers. (well...)
We attempted to leave in one car. I refused. Sometimes, you don't exactly return to where you started when you expect that you might or for hours after. I get upset. I have things to do, and even if I don't, not having that freedom is a very constricting feeling to experience.
One of the big things that I try to keep enacting in my relationship with my father is to have space between us, and a lot of that is my ability to remain my own agent of motion. That is why Simon and I are best friends. With him, I am able to move freely between places and of my own accord.
So when Dad insisted that we take one car, I freaked out.
No. I'd prefer that you respect my wishes.
No.
There were words exchanged, fueling a situation that had already become nearly category 4. Serious business. I knew there was no going back, there never is.
There wasn't.
It ended with us going our separate ways, now on a desperate drive to reach Cherry Creek Mall before the other one. We met there and retrieved the computer. There were words exchanged, more of those pesky things. They hurt sometimes.
I am upset that he accuses me of being a nasty ungrateful person and he's hurt that I'm holding onto the privacy thing.
Reviewing the situation is tough for me. I acted immaturely. I let my emotions get the best of me. I shouldn't have. This is something that I strive to fix, although the summer has been remarkably free of incident. To have made it six weeks is somewhat of an anomaly, so I'll take it. I'm afraid that this repair is going to be held over my head for quite awhile and I detest that.
However, the incident serves as a reminder that no matter how mature I'd like to pretend I am, I still have a lot of learning to do. I have a lot of focusing to practice and perhaps that deep breathing to master.
Either way, I'm wildly grateful for the way my computer looks now; the screen is gorgeous and the new top (which was unnecessary) is gorgeous also. I'm alright with these things.
I'm not alright with how the situation went down (happened). I should have been calmer, I should have just taken my computer with me.
It's been twenty two years of ups and more downs, a relationship plagued with guilt and pity and fear and anger.
Of course, neither of us intend to do the other any real harm, but the physical and emotional reactions that I have to that man are hard to calm. It's curious, really, and it's something that's taken me forever to even be able to manage. I'm still not there yet.
I get anxious, physically unable to sit still, mentally unnerved, and outwardly curt. These reactions happen within seconds of any comment that my brain fields as an attack. Usually, I am able to curtail these changes by removing myself from the situation. Sometimes, however, that is impossible and deep breathing has never been one of my specialties, leading to the outbursts and the blowups that seem to mark our interactions.
While I was camping, Dad thought it would be nice to take my computer into the Apple store to see what might be done about the screen issue. (I had cracked the screen, of course, and had it quoted to see what it would cost to fix, and the quote was over $800...since the computer was still usable and fine, I decided not to even bother, especially since 800 is more than I could ever get together at this point in my life.) They agreed to fix it. For free.
Grateful, yes, but upset also.
Again, the invasion of privacy issue began to irk me, and it stayed with me even after the tears had dried. Although he had the best of intentions, I was and still am upset by the fact that he removed my computer without asking. I've nearly had enough of people touching my computers while I'm out of town; the things that could go wrong seem to multiply and are the stuff of nightmares.
Of course, there was a blowup.
The first came after I returned; it was soft, perhaps a category two hurricane. Nothing came of it, but words were exchanged as I attempted to voice my concerns.
Upon the computer's completion, we made plans to go and get it. I've left out a crucial part of the story: illegal software. I had some of it on my computer, and had I known that it was going to be taken in to be serviced, I would have removed it. This would save me from having to suffer through a potentially embarrassing lecture. (I'm quite sensitive to criticism, it's not something that serves me well and it's something I'm hoping to do better with in the future.) Either way, I was apprehensive to retrieve the computer from the evil Apple employees bent on destroying their customers. (well...)
We attempted to leave in one car. I refused. Sometimes, you don't exactly return to where you started when you expect that you might or for hours after. I get upset. I have things to do, and even if I don't, not having that freedom is a very constricting feeling to experience.
One of the big things that I try to keep enacting in my relationship with my father is to have space between us, and a lot of that is my ability to remain my own agent of motion. That is why Simon and I are best friends. With him, I am able to move freely between places and of my own accord.
So when Dad insisted that we take one car, I freaked out.
No. I'd prefer that you respect my wishes.
No.
There were words exchanged, fueling a situation that had already become nearly category 4. Serious business. I knew there was no going back, there never is.
There wasn't.
It ended with us going our separate ways, now on a desperate drive to reach Cherry Creek Mall before the other one. We met there and retrieved the computer. There were words exchanged, more of those pesky things. They hurt sometimes.
I am upset that he accuses me of being a nasty ungrateful person and he's hurt that I'm holding onto the privacy thing.
Reviewing the situation is tough for me. I acted immaturely. I let my emotions get the best of me. I shouldn't have. This is something that I strive to fix, although the summer has been remarkably free of incident. To have made it six weeks is somewhat of an anomaly, so I'll take it. I'm afraid that this repair is going to be held over my head for quite awhile and I detest that.
However, the incident serves as a reminder that no matter how mature I'd like to pretend I am, I still have a lot of learning to do. I have a lot of focusing to practice and perhaps that deep breathing to master.
Either way, I'm wildly grateful for the way my computer looks now; the screen is gorgeous and the new top (which was unnecessary) is gorgeous also. I'm alright with these things.
I'm not alright with how the situation went down (happened). I should have been calmer, I should have just taken my computer with me.
Monday, August 16, 2010
For tonight, there is only emotional exhaustion to blame for my lack of blogging ability.
http://katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com/ (It's got a sort of actual post about things relevant to my life currently.)
I've been on the go since I got back to Denver. I've done wonderful things with wonderful people and I've had a great time.
I miss Chicago. It tears at me sometimes, but then I think of how nice it is to be here and I'm just grateful that I got the chance to experience such a beautiful and dramatic place.
I hope to not fall in love with too much of the world; I already find it hard to think of the places that I'd like to live someday.
I hope to stay in love in the way that I am now. It's tender and new but it's also fulfilling and correct. (Correct is phonetically sharp word but I love the way it fits there. This is nothing if not correct.) There's no inequality or untruth; it simply is a connection that is quickly building on experiences and shared thoughts. It's comfortable and exciting and new and so very old. It's my first kiss and my last, and it's nothing I can quite wrap my head around.
I hope to find the things I'm looking for when I'm in Cape Town. I want to find myself and my ability; I want to find confidence for employment and skill sets.
I want to read and write and fall in love with another city so that someday I won't know where I want to live.
I want to be safe and happy.
Tomorrow I'll write about the slight emotional block that has prevented me from thinking clearly tonight, but it should be insightful and promising, I hope. Revealing, perhaps.
http://katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com/ (It's got a sort of actual post about things relevant to my life currently.)
I've been on the go since I got back to Denver. I've done wonderful things with wonderful people and I've had a great time.
I miss Chicago. It tears at me sometimes, but then I think of how nice it is to be here and I'm just grateful that I got the chance to experience such a beautiful and dramatic place.
I hope to not fall in love with too much of the world; I already find it hard to think of the places that I'd like to live someday.
I hope to stay in love in the way that I am now. It's tender and new but it's also fulfilling and correct. (Correct is phonetically sharp word but I love the way it fits there. This is nothing if not correct.) There's no inequality or untruth; it simply is a connection that is quickly building on experiences and shared thoughts. It's comfortable and exciting and new and so very old. It's my first kiss and my last, and it's nothing I can quite wrap my head around.
I hope to find the things I'm looking for when I'm in Cape Town. I want to find myself and my ability; I want to find confidence for employment and skill sets.
I want to read and write and fall in love with another city so that someday I won't know where I want to live.
I want to be safe and happy.
Tomorrow I'll write about the slight emotional block that has prevented me from thinking clearly tonight, but it should be insightful and promising, I hope. Revealing, perhaps.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Trout Mostly
This is the post-camping trip post.
You'll be surprised to hear that I survived four nights in the wilderness. John and I left on Sunday for a three night adventure in Rocky Mountain National Park. By the time we got there, the camping spots were all nearly full, so we ventured a little further out of Estes to a spot where we proceeded to set up the tent at dusk.
The days have all blurred together, as they are wont to do when one is lost in the woods (not necessarily lost, but you'll understand the idea of it all). Three different campsites in the four days, the second being my favorite.
We ended up following Trail Ridge Road all the way through, which was something I'd never done. I was amazed to see people biking the road; I'd be terrified to even try to do that. They are paving the road at higher elevations and this seems to cause a back up in traffic. So there was a lot of sitting.
We stole salt and pepper shakers from the Alpine Center. This is only because they sold nothing of importance or mountain value. It was all souvenirs, which under normal circumstances are acceptable and even welcome, but when I had already been in the woods for hours, days nearly, and was in dire need of salt and pepper (among other things), finding decorative vases was an unpleasant experience.
We ended up at Willow Creek Reservoir near Grand Lake for our second and third nights. It was a wonderful escape, quiet, removed, beautiful view. We specifically chose our campsite for the sake of the view and were sad to leave, but forced to do so because of a sudden influx of unruly children.
And normally I love children. (That's a proven fact.) But these kids and chaperones were annoyingly present at all hours.
We hiked around the lake and up a path that we found but were unable to drive up to. Once we got down to the water, we went swimming (sort of a shower, sort of a swim, mostly a freezing cold mountain water experience) and then sat in the sun.
It was wonderful.
The last night, I laid awake for most of the night and was glad that we didn't get to do the hike that we had planned. Exhaustion would have overtaken me. Instead, we headed into the National Forest and did some hiking there.
Two things I love: my mountain backpack (obviously) and my new hiking boots.
This post isn't done but I'm too tired to finish and I have a wedding to go to tomorrow.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AUNT SALLY!!!!
You'll be surprised to hear that I survived four nights in the wilderness. John and I left on Sunday for a three night adventure in Rocky Mountain National Park. By the time we got there, the camping spots were all nearly full, so we ventured a little further out of Estes to a spot where we proceeded to set up the tent at dusk.
The days have all blurred together, as they are wont to do when one is lost in the woods (not necessarily lost, but you'll understand the idea of it all). Three different campsites in the four days, the second being my favorite.
We ended up following Trail Ridge Road all the way through, which was something I'd never done. I was amazed to see people biking the road; I'd be terrified to even try to do that. They are paving the road at higher elevations and this seems to cause a back up in traffic. So there was a lot of sitting.
We stole salt and pepper shakers from the Alpine Center. This is only because they sold nothing of importance or mountain value. It was all souvenirs, which under normal circumstances are acceptable and even welcome, but when I had already been in the woods for hours, days nearly, and was in dire need of salt and pepper (among other things), finding decorative vases was an unpleasant experience.
We ended up at Willow Creek Reservoir near Grand Lake for our second and third nights. It was a wonderful escape, quiet, removed, beautiful view. We specifically chose our campsite for the sake of the view and were sad to leave, but forced to do so because of a sudden influx of unruly children.
And normally I love children. (That's a proven fact.) But these kids and chaperones were annoyingly present at all hours.
We hiked around the lake and up a path that we found but were unable to drive up to. Once we got down to the water, we went swimming (sort of a shower, sort of a swim, mostly a freezing cold mountain water experience) and then sat in the sun.
It was wonderful.
The last night, I laid awake for most of the night and was glad that we didn't get to do the hike that we had planned. Exhaustion would have overtaken me. Instead, we headed into the National Forest and did some hiking there.
Two things I love: my mountain backpack (obviously) and my new hiking boots.
This post isn't done but I'm too tired to finish and I have a wedding to go to tomorrow.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AUNT SALLY!!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)