Thursday, August 5, 2010
Identity Crisis
This isn't staying this way I promise. I don't know how to fix what I did in the 5 minute I have right now to fix it. [sadfce]
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
One of Many
No, not a Borg designation. A statement of being.
There is, contrary to what a lot of your personal critics will say to and about you, more than one thing that makes you who you are. Today I issue a challenge. Fold a plain sheet of paper in half. One one side list the things that others use to define you (read: limit in cases where you have very critical people in your surroundings). On the other side list the things that really define you.
Keep in mind that you will want to list the "good" the "bad" and the "fugly". For instance on my list I would put my divorce the "Others" list. On the side I define myself, I would write the following: patient, supportive and caring in a relationship but knows her limits. Limits: infidelity, embezzlement, violence.
I could look at that chapter of my life as the failure that my family does. But I lived that chapter paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word and letter by letter without them being involved in anything but the aftermath. I am the one who knows what if feels like to build a business only to have someone drain your profits and operating budget without any thought for persons other than themselves. I am the one who woke up in the morning and knew that I had to start all over and had nothing to do it with. I am the one who woke up with fingers around her throat, was nearly impaled on a coat hook (just like in the movies). I am the one who put time into marriage counseling only to be told by the counselor that there was no hope to save the relationship because I was married to a sociopath. I am the one who went to food pantries for help. I had to face my customers and tell them that I could no longer provide the services they expected of me. Talk about embarrassing. What does my family have to be embarrassed about? A divorced sister who is still determined to be single even if that costs her the security of a stable relationship.
You are the author and the main character in your story. No one knows the life behind the details that you share with others better than you. No one knows my life better than I do. So why are we letting others define us?
Are you struggling with your career goals? With your own personal happiness? It's because you, like I've done, have been letting other people define you by your job, your mistakes, your past relationships. It's the trifecta of low self esteem. Your job is how you pay your bills. It's how you fund your goals. If you aren't in the field you want to be in it's either because you've stopped trying or you're still in transition. Your mistakes teach you something about yourself. And keep in mind, you never know something that looks like a good idea is a mistake till you get to the end of the experience. If you knew ahead of time that your train was headed for a busted trestle over a deep gorge you obviously would not keep piling coals into the engine. None of you are that stupid. So tell your critics that.
Start with the list. It isn't about spin doctoring. It is about telling yourself the truth. There are too many people in the world, family, friends and frenemies who want you to stay on their sad sorry level. Full of self-pity, drama, and plain old lazy-brained-ness, these people like to keep us low so that they can feel better about the limitations that they have to live with. Don't try to pigeon-hole their limits. Concentrate instead on your boundless potential and go for it.
There is, contrary to what a lot of your personal critics will say to and about you, more than one thing that makes you who you are. Today I issue a challenge. Fold a plain sheet of paper in half. One one side list the things that others use to define you (read: limit in cases where you have very critical people in your surroundings). On the other side list the things that really define you.
Keep in mind that you will want to list the "good" the "bad" and the "fugly". For instance on my list I would put my divorce the "Others" list. On the side I define myself, I would write the following: patient, supportive and caring in a relationship but knows her limits. Limits: infidelity, embezzlement, violence.
I could look at that chapter of my life as the failure that my family does. But I lived that chapter paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by word and letter by letter without them being involved in anything but the aftermath. I am the one who knows what if feels like to build a business only to have someone drain your profits and operating budget without any thought for persons other than themselves. I am the one who woke up in the morning and knew that I had to start all over and had nothing to do it with. I am the one who woke up with fingers around her throat, was nearly impaled on a coat hook (just like in the movies). I am the one who put time into marriage counseling only to be told by the counselor that there was no hope to save the relationship because I was married to a sociopath. I am the one who went to food pantries for help. I had to face my customers and tell them that I could no longer provide the services they expected of me. Talk about embarrassing. What does my family have to be embarrassed about? A divorced sister who is still determined to be single even if that costs her the security of a stable relationship.
You are the author and the main character in your story. No one knows the life behind the details that you share with others better than you. No one knows my life better than I do. So why are we letting others define us?
Are you struggling with your career goals? With your own personal happiness? It's because you, like I've done, have been letting other people define you by your job, your mistakes, your past relationships. It's the trifecta of low self esteem. Your job is how you pay your bills. It's how you fund your goals. If you aren't in the field you want to be in it's either because you've stopped trying or you're still in transition. Your mistakes teach you something about yourself. And keep in mind, you never know something that looks like a good idea is a mistake till you get to the end of the experience. If you knew ahead of time that your train was headed for a busted trestle over a deep gorge you obviously would not keep piling coals into the engine. None of you are that stupid. So tell your critics that.
Start with the list. It isn't about spin doctoring. It is about telling yourself the truth. There are too many people in the world, family, friends and frenemies who want you to stay on their sad sorry level. Full of self-pity, drama, and plain old lazy-brained-ness, these people like to keep us low so that they can feel better about the limitations that they have to live with. Don't try to pigeon-hole their limits. Concentrate instead on your boundless potential and go for it.
Damn it!
Okay. I tried to do something techno and totally got scewed. I will get everyone back on the follwers page but I may have to totally change the design. So much for following the money.
Laid up in the Summer
There was always one good thing about being sick in the Summer. I remembered this last night as I sought refuge out on the deck. When we took up permanent residence on the "farm" we had the option of fending off the chills under 100% Irish cotton sheets on Gramma Ada's chaise lounge. When you were stone bored of your own sweaty bed and the siblings persistent assurances that 3 hours of game shows at full volume were the cure for your migraine and stuffy head, Dad swooped in for the rescue.
He'd wheel the chaise out into the grassy swale by the plum-grafted-to-pear tree near the old chicken coop, bring out the sick sheets, a mason jar full of fresh, crisp well-water and your stack of library books. If there were nary a cloud in the sky he'd bring out the boom box and plug into the chicken coop's juice. I'd feebly trudge out my healing music: Michael Jackson's Off the Wall, Thriller, something something Mozart with Eine Kleine Nachtmusic and a mixed tape with the favorites from Kasey's American top 40, mostly the Police and a couple extra King of Pain for good measure. And of course the requisite grumbling from mom about using the electricity running off the chicken coop. I don't know what the deal was. Maybe playing Thriller over the grave of a 100 savage chicken corpses reminded her that she watched way to much Hitchcock as an impressionable youth. I don't know.
But it was such a treat to sit in the sun-splashed shade with music set low, cool refreshing water and the comfort of Gramma's chaise. So tonight, as whatever malaise is affecting me has now developed a sore throat and reduced my already childish sounding voice to that of squeaky Disney rodent, I am on a less comfy chaise on a deck. There is nothing dulcet in the tones I can hear at present. An old oil rig is cricketty-cricketty cricketting its owner to a modest retirement less than 1/10th a mile away while some insect's scissor step is whining much closer.
But I do have a great book in my hands. This book helped me remember the chaise as I associate it with the music that healed me and comforted me as a kid. "Love is a Mixed Tape" is the light Summer read that my friend Michelle said it would be. It seems such a shame to devour it so quickly. It is just so full of greatness that I can't put it down. everything that I love about what music does for my memory is in here. Rob Sheffield is way cooler about keeping off the overwrought fence than I am when it comes to those memories. I promise you that you will love this book.
But...
If I say it will LeVar Burton sue me?
You're right. He is too nice a guy. See ya next time.
He'd wheel the chaise out into the grassy swale by the plum-grafted-to-pear tree near the old chicken coop, bring out the sick sheets, a mason jar full of fresh, crisp well-water and your stack of library books. If there were nary a cloud in the sky he'd bring out the boom box and plug into the chicken coop's juice. I'd feebly trudge out my healing music: Michael Jackson's Off the Wall, Thriller, something something Mozart with Eine Kleine Nachtmusic and a mixed tape with the favorites from Kasey's American top 40, mostly the Police and a couple extra King of Pain for good measure. And of course the requisite grumbling from mom about using the electricity running off the chicken coop. I don't know what the deal was. Maybe playing Thriller over the grave of a 100 savage chicken corpses reminded her that she watched way to much Hitchcock as an impressionable youth. I don't know.
But it was such a treat to sit in the sun-splashed shade with music set low, cool refreshing water and the comfort of Gramma's chaise. So tonight, as whatever malaise is affecting me has now developed a sore throat and reduced my already childish sounding voice to that of squeaky Disney rodent, I am on a less comfy chaise on a deck. There is nothing dulcet in the tones I can hear at present. An old oil rig is cricketty-cricketty cricketting its owner to a modest retirement less than 1/10th a mile away while some insect's scissor step is whining much closer.
But I do have a great book in my hands. This book helped me remember the chaise as I associate it with the music that healed me and comforted me as a kid. "Love is a Mixed Tape" is the light Summer read that my friend Michelle said it would be. It seems such a shame to devour it so quickly. It is just so full of greatness that I can't put it down. everything that I love about what music does for my memory is in here. Rob Sheffield is way cooler about keeping off the overwrought fence than I am when it comes to those memories. I promise you that you will love this book.
But...
If I say it will LeVar Burton sue me?
You're right. He is too nice a guy. See ya next time.
On the Mend
Here's hoping that this is the start of a long stretch of being healthy. I really hate being sick and I think the sore throat and Disney rodent voice is a result of too much air conditioning yesterday. I just could not be in the house for logistics reasons. Plus the environment isn't really convalescent friendly. Oh and I didn't want to be in the house with someone who dreamt I died. It's one thing if I dream that... I can't get away from me. But 'tis another all together when someone else does... especially the #1 beneficiary.
And I am hoping for a new era of brain work. I have so much to write. And a bit more demand for it than I thought. Apparently my friend miss those long handwritten letters they used to get. So why aren't they following the blog? Essentially that is what this is... a series of long letters. Its all the same content that I used to cram into a 142 pages (record) with an average letter length of 58 pages college rule. Maybe it isn't personal enough. I used to write about 3 letters a week, had 6 people in a rotation. But I gotta tell you, while it is fun to customize the weekly reports of the goings on in our little core group of friends for individuals it is draining. and I always heard "Why did you tell Jon about ____________ and not me?" Honestly... there was a lot of stuff that I didn't think Mike would think was interesting, especially if it didn't involve superheroes and gaming. But I guess he was more into sunset worship services at the Marquette Black Rocks than I thought. For things like that there is Facebook, for everything else there is the blog.
But still that isn't exactly good enough. I have some demand for my fiction which I am not feeling compelled to write because all my nerves are still a bit raw. Every few days someone rubs salt in them by exposing a fresh betrayal. I hate working with a bunch of girls. Have I said that enough? My job would be great if there were some personality screening and someone used legal stereotypes.I might not make the cut. But the people who cause the most trouble wouldn't be there either. [redacted after editing]. Oddly the older I am getting the wider and more divers the pool of my social circle's. So some of the people who want to read my work wouldn't really be blog readers and some of them well never join the Evil Empire that is Facebook.
Oddly, this new editing window for Blogger has rearranged the order of buttons, decided not to update the spell check menu with words like Twitter, Facebook and OMG. WTF?! Oooh Oooh Oooh Mr Kotter! I have a strike through font! Do you know how many kinds of crazy envy I have had regarding the Wheaton'sstrike-through font? Is font envy a disease or a compliment? Well, there's a pretty patch of yellow on my screen. Techno stuff is like shiny things to a kleptomaniac. Oh look. It knows how to spell kleptomaniac but not klepto.
Back on task: I think I also solved a software problem that will let me make stuff I got excited about on CafePress. So I can sell some artwork and maybe generate some cash for Germany. It looks like I can swing the trip for less than a 1000.00. My cousin is going to buy me the ticket. I just need the passport, concert ticket, concert swag, dinner out x10, extra memory card for the camera or money for a camera if they are cheaper over there and some handmade t-shirts MW style. And I am there.
There is just a lot to do and I don't feel like there is a lot of time to do it in. That is an odd thing to say. But yeah, I guess brother's dream was a little unsettling. I didn't tell his wife the reason that I was a bit freaked was because I dreamt the same thing that night.
And then there is the matter of resumming the use of future posting functions. I realize I've kinda been spamming you guys with burst of posts after dry spells. So I am going to space them out a bit more. Blogger had issues a while back and I quit using the function. But it sems to be working now. I have one scheduled for around 3 pm today. We'll see if it posts.
And I am hoping for a new era of brain work. I have so much to write. And a bit more demand for it than I thought. Apparently my friend miss those long handwritten letters they used to get. So why aren't they following the blog? Essentially that is what this is... a series of long letters. Its all the same content that I used to cram into a 142 pages (record) with an average letter length of 58 pages college rule. Maybe it isn't personal enough. I used to write about 3 letters a week, had 6 people in a rotation. But I gotta tell you, while it is fun to customize the weekly reports of the goings on in our little core group of friends for individuals it is draining. and I always heard "Why did you tell Jon about ____________ and not me?" Honestly... there was a lot of stuff that I didn't think Mike would think was interesting, especially if it didn't involve superheroes and gaming. But I guess he was more into sunset worship services at the Marquette Black Rocks than I thought. For things like that there is Facebook, for everything else there is the blog.
But still that isn't exactly good enough. I have some demand for my fiction which I am not feeling compelled to write because all my nerves are still a bit raw. Every few days someone rubs salt in them by exposing a fresh betrayal. I hate working with a bunch of girls. Have I said that enough? My job would be great if there were some personality screening and someone used legal stereotypes.I might not make the cut. But the people who cause the most trouble wouldn't be there either. [redacted after editing]. Oddly the older I am getting the wider and more divers the pool of my social circle's. So some of the people who want to read my work wouldn't really be blog readers and some of them well never join the Evil Empire that is Facebook.
Oddly, this new editing window for Blogger has rearranged the order of buttons, decided not to update the spell check menu with words like Twitter, Facebook and OMG. WTF?! Oooh Oooh Oooh Mr Kotter! I have a strike through font! Do you know how many kinds of crazy envy I have had regarding the Wheaton's
Back on task: I think I also solved a software problem that will let me make stuff I got excited about on CafePress. So I can sell some artwork and maybe generate some cash for Germany. It looks like I can swing the trip for less than a 1000.00. My cousin is going to buy me the ticket. I just need the passport, concert ticket, concert swag, dinner out x10, extra memory card for the camera or money for a camera if they are cheaper over there and some handmade t-shirts MW style. And I am there.
There is just a lot to do and I don't feel like there is a lot of time to do it in. That is an odd thing to say. But yeah, I guess brother's dream was a little unsettling. I didn't tell his wife the reason that I was a bit freaked was because I dreamt the same thing that night.
And then there is the matter of resumming the use of future posting functions. I realize I've kinda been spamming you guys with burst of posts after dry spells. So I am going to space them out a bit more. Blogger had issues a while back and I quit using the function. But it sems to be working now. I have one scheduled for around 3 pm today. We'll see if it posts.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Macaroons!!!
OMG! I warned you that I was going to ad a monetization feature. I should have headed my own warnings. The first ad they send me is for macaroons like the ones I saw on unwrapped! Oy and double veh! I love macaroons. How can you not love coconutty goodness?!?!?!
It's one of those simple foodie things I want to make but that unreasonably scares me to death. And now I get to look at this ad?
And what kind of macaroon do I have to be to decide to enable a new edit feature for my blog? I was barely used to the old one. Techonophobe trembles.
So here is the post testing new edit feature.
It's one of those simple foodie things I want to make but that unreasonably scares me to death. And now I get to look at this ad?
And what kind of macaroon do I have to be to decide to enable a new edit feature for my blog? I was barely used to the old one. Techonophobe trembles.
So here is the post testing new edit feature.
Another benefit of old movies
While it may not be obvious from recent posts, I have been enduring a rough patch in my health. From dizzy "It's probably Benign Positional Vertigo" and "I'm sure you have PCOS" to random fevers and being sent home from work puking, I've spent more time in bed in the last month than I think I did as a baby in a bassinet. Yes, I am old enough to have had a bassinet. And yes, this whole paragraph was a bad joke. Except for the bassinet part and being sick. In my infirmity I've had the opportunity to explore Turner Classic Movies with more abandon.
My brother frequently asks me why I like old movies. Partly for nostalgia, as I've said before. In part it is because I get along so much better with people who are older than myself and it gives me a popular common ground on which to converse. I think I mentioned that fact before. But with this last bout, unable to lift my head from the pillow and unwilling to move save for a mad dash to the toilet, I have discovered another set of benefits to old movies. Calm cinematography.
It was a special treat to be sick on a Sunday and skip church to watch Matinee at the Bijou with mom on PBS. TCM allows for that same kind of comfort during illness; which ranks with cinnamon toast, Vernors and jell-o, ice cream for sore throats. The treat this time is a stillness not present in modern cinematography. Boring is what my brother calls it. I call it peaceful and focused. When your head is spinning you don't want the choppy, roller coaster, slash and dash shots you get with say a Rob Zombie or George Romero movie. Nor do you want to watch the camera calisthenics of James Cameron's Titanic... for very obvious reasons. Even in the modern romantic comedy the camera is focused on the characters less than in the old movies.
I'd rather watch Myrna Loy and William Powell with his slap stick antics than the sliding split screen and wild screen changes of Ryan and Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, or Ryan and Jackman in Kate and Leopold when I'm holding the garbage pail like a life preserver. Old movies let you have a chance to let the script sink in. You didn't have to try to keep up with the goof ball antics or the warp speed one-liners. When you're sick that is the distraction that you need. What you don't need are the bells and whistles of a game show that masquerades as a drama, dramedy, teen slasher movie, sci-fi adventure or something other than an excuse for the effects guys to blow something up.
Of course there are exceptions. I can't deal with the 3 Stooges when I don't feel good. And Lucille Ball with a headache? Well... I guess that's when I figure out where Dezi's acting and real life meet. I won't say that old movies were more thoughtful. I've seen a couple of real snoozers. But given the material available at the time, and here I am thinking cinematic interpretations of literary classics and pulp fiction, you can't beat an old movie when you feel like offering yourself as Ahab's whale bait. Not that ol' Moby would have kept me down.
Steadily parked in front of the TV for more than 48 hours you'll wake to a few gems. TCM ran a Julie Christie special. Before seeing some of these movies I'd only heard of her because Doctor Zhivago was Gramma Olive's favorite movie. I found a few that I liked. And a few that fit into the crazy shots category since they were 60's flicks. Petulia was a little hard to follow. Okay, the psychedelic cinematography instantly spun the room. But I did like the Go-Between. I saw a few things that I wouldn't know the name of. Sure I could look it up at TCMs homepage. But then I'd have to know what day I was watching and what time. Funny thing about stowing away in some one else's man cave: it's dark. And when you're that sick you can't really hit the buttons on the remote. So you are at the mercy of the movie gods... or Robert Osborn.
Vernors (a native MI favorite ginger ale), popsicles, cinnamon toast and old movies are a good way to try to forget about all the crap wreaking that special havoc on your internal systems. I can't really say which movies are the best. Everyone has a preferred genre. I happen to like the literary classics like Little Women, Jane Eyre, Sherlock Holmes and Pride an d Prejudice (with or without zombies) and the dance movies with Astaire and Kelley. I'm not so much a Garland fan but I like Mickey Rooney comedies, Powell and Loy, Tracy and Hepburn, and most of the psychological thrillers... but not when I'm sick. At some point in time I have to be able to figure out at least one mystery before the movie gumshoe does and that requires all of my faculties.
Though now that I think of it... maybe a 103degree temp will mess up my brain enough to give me that genius flash of inspiration that could only be induce in Holmes with a 7% solution. Ya know, that may have been something Lastrade should have taken for a spin. I really hate being sick. It is unproductive and emotionally draining to lie like a lump on a couch or a bed. But when you are sick there is always TCM for your sorrows. Just don't drown them in Duck Soup.
My brother frequently asks me why I like old movies. Partly for nostalgia, as I've said before. In part it is because I get along so much better with people who are older than myself and it gives me a popular common ground on which to converse. I think I mentioned that fact before. But with this last bout, unable to lift my head from the pillow and unwilling to move save for a mad dash to the toilet, I have discovered another set of benefits to old movies. Calm cinematography.
It was a special treat to be sick on a Sunday and skip church to watch Matinee at the Bijou with mom on PBS. TCM allows for that same kind of comfort during illness; which ranks with cinnamon toast, Vernors and jell-o, ice cream for sore throats. The treat this time is a stillness not present in modern cinematography. Boring is what my brother calls it. I call it peaceful and focused. When your head is spinning you don't want the choppy, roller coaster, slash and dash shots you get with say a Rob Zombie or George Romero movie. Nor do you want to watch the camera calisthenics of James Cameron's Titanic... for very obvious reasons. Even in the modern romantic comedy the camera is focused on the characters less than in the old movies.
I'd rather watch Myrna Loy and William Powell with his slap stick antics than the sliding split screen and wild screen changes of Ryan and Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, or Ryan and Jackman in Kate and Leopold when I'm holding the garbage pail like a life preserver. Old movies let you have a chance to let the script sink in. You didn't have to try to keep up with the goof ball antics or the warp speed one-liners. When you're sick that is the distraction that you need. What you don't need are the bells and whistles of a game show that masquerades as a drama, dramedy, teen slasher movie, sci-fi adventure or something other than an excuse for the effects guys to blow something up.
Of course there are exceptions. I can't deal with the 3 Stooges when I don't feel good. And Lucille Ball with a headache? Well... I guess that's when I figure out where Dezi's acting and real life meet. I won't say that old movies were more thoughtful. I've seen a couple of real snoozers. But given the material available at the time, and here I am thinking cinematic interpretations of literary classics and pulp fiction, you can't beat an old movie when you feel like offering yourself as Ahab's whale bait. Not that ol' Moby would have kept me down.
Steadily parked in front of the TV for more than 48 hours you'll wake to a few gems. TCM ran a Julie Christie special. Before seeing some of these movies I'd only heard of her because Doctor Zhivago was Gramma Olive's favorite movie. I found a few that I liked. And a few that fit into the crazy shots category since they were 60's flicks. Petulia was a little hard to follow. Okay, the psychedelic cinematography instantly spun the room. But I did like the Go-Between. I saw a few things that I wouldn't know the name of. Sure I could look it up at TCMs homepage. But then I'd have to know what day I was watching and what time. Funny thing about stowing away in some one else's man cave: it's dark. And when you're that sick you can't really hit the buttons on the remote. So you are at the mercy of the movie gods... or Robert Osborn.
Vernors (a native MI favorite ginger ale), popsicles, cinnamon toast and old movies are a good way to try to forget about all the crap wreaking that special havoc on your internal systems. I can't really say which movies are the best. Everyone has a preferred genre. I happen to like the literary classics like Little Women, Jane Eyre, Sherlock Holmes and Pride an d Prejudice (with or without zombies) and the dance movies with Astaire and Kelley. I'm not so much a Garland fan but I like Mickey Rooney comedies, Powell and Loy, Tracy and Hepburn, and most of the psychological thrillers... but not when I'm sick. At some point in time I have to be able to figure out at least one mystery before the movie gumshoe does and that requires all of my faculties.
Though now that I think of it... maybe a 103degree temp will mess up my brain enough to give me that genius flash of inspiration that could only be induce in Holmes with a 7% solution. Ya know, that may have been something Lastrade should have taken for a spin. I really hate being sick. It is unproductive and emotionally draining to lie like a lump on a couch or a bed. But when you are sick there is always TCM for your sorrows. Just don't drown them in Duck Soup.
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