(Thanks to Korn, an excerpt of whose song "Thoughtless" is my title for today; more lyrics are included below.)
At least once a month, I hear about a party thrown by someone at work to which most of the office is invited and I am not. I really thought that sort of crap was supposed to end somewhere around high school graduation. I got sick of it after two years of constantly dealing with it when I was a cheerleader (--the one the other cheerleaders hated and ignored and tried to get kicked off so one of their friends could be a cheerleader instead) and pretty much spent my entire senior year in a bitter funk. And then I went through the goth phase and at least I found a scene where some people liked me and wanted to hang out with me and thought I was cool. In State College, thanks mostly to the obsessive crush of someone who barely knew me, I even had a bunch of groupies, most of whom I'd never met. And of course, being me, I was afraid of talking to any of them, because I figured they'd be disappointed by the real me. I both liked and was trapped by the mystique, but it was better than being the weird, moody kid everyone in high school mocked or treated as if she was invisible.
I don't know why not being invited to these parties messes me up so much. In many cases, I wouldn't go anyway. In some cases, I don't even like the person throwing the party any more than they apparently like me. But it still bothers me. I'd rather be hated than invisible, but I'd really prefer neither of those options.
The thing is, though, that it makes me feel like my own attempts, halfhearted and reluctant, to become an adult just aren't worth it. I don't wear goth makeup anymore. I try to dress like a professional person for work, even though I still mostly wear black. My therapist and various other people who I know have my best interest in mind keep trying to convince me that growing up is good, and I can let go of my angry inner adolescent, and hurting myself is "immature" and "unhealthy" and will scare away healthy people. But sometimes I don't feel like the tradeoff is worth it. Socially (because I have no social life outside of work), I feel invisible again, bland and neutral, forgettable. And I hate that. I hate wondering what's wrong with me and why I'm not cool enough and why someone might possibly decide to snub me. I hate that it matters. I hate that I obsess about it.
I don't have the energy to be consistently, existentially angry anymore, or maybe I've just learned to sometimes funnel the energy in other directions. I've been listening to HIM a lot lately (which is sort of like being in high school, except with a melodrama-parodying self-awareness that I lacked back then--I mean the CD is called "Razorblade Romance"; how much more absurdly melancholic can you get?). But some days I feel like I'm 16 again, and that just makes me want to cut myself and listen to Korn and try to put curses on people and hate everyone.
Thumbing through the pages of my fantasies
Pushing all the mercy down, down, down
I wanna see you try to take a swing at me
Come on, gonna put you on the ground, ground, ground
Why are you trying to make fun of me?
You think it's funny?
What the f*** you think it's doing to me?
You take your turn lashing out at me
I want you crying with your dirty a** in front of me
Thumbing through the pages of my fantasies
I'm above you, smiling as you, drown, drown, drown
I wanna kill and rape you the way you raped me
And I'll pull the trigger
And you're down, down, down
All my friends are gone, they died (gonna take you down)
They all screamed, and cried (gonna take you down)
All of my hate cannot be bound
I will not be drowned
by your thoughtless scheming
So you can try to tear me down
Beat me to the ground
I will see you screaming
Friday, September 28, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Waiting
I am on call for jury duty this week. I hate the waiting, not knowing whether I'll be called in and whether I'll make the cut for the jury. I have a dr. appt Thursday, made before I knew this was my week for jury duty. Do I reschedule? And, trivial as this sounds, I really want to watch the "Criminal Minds" season premiere Wednesday, but if I do end up serving, I probably won't be home in time. I feel like a bad American, but I'd be much more willing to serve if there was a way to reschedule or somehow not have to put myr entire life on hold for a week or longer.
I wouldn't want me on a jury anyway.
Also going on: Myriad cranky people sending me e-mails. Overnighted a check to my bank; it was supposed to get there at noon Saturday. At noon today, it still hadn't arrived. Until it does, I have 41 cents in my account. And no food in the fridge. And yeah, I know, I need to budget better. Even the good raises I've sometimes received don't do much to keep up with the exploding costs of gas and electricity.
Someone from the Savannah property maintenance dept was supposed to revisit my house today to see if I had cut my 10+ inch weeds and grass. I spent most of the weekend cutting the darn stuff; I have a blister on my thumb, scratches all over from the blackberry thistles, myriad bug bites, and sunburn. But there was some grass waaaaay at the back of the yard that may or may not even be on my property that I did not get to. The next door neighbor doesn't have hers clipped that far back either. So I am hoping that doesn't net me the potential fine of $1K or up to 30 days in jail (cuz we don't have enough real criminals here clogging up the jail cells). I figure, though, that since I called the inspector twice and left my work and cell numbers in a voicemail, specifically requested more information about my alleged violation, and she never called back, I have valid grounds for a complaint if they do smack some sort of penalty on me.
More than anything else, I am upset about my grandma, who is not doing well. I haven't been emotionally invested much up to this point as she's gone through various surgeries, emergencies, etc. I don't know what's changed; I think until last week, I believed she just wasn't ready to let go, and when she was ready, she would die. But she IS ready to go. She had surgery last week to repair a stress fracture in one of her vertebrae, and she said afterward that she had hoped not to wake up from the anesthesia. She is going to be 90 in less than a month; she had another surgery when we were there in early August; they can only operate so many times on someone that old and frail. Now an old fracture has re-broken, and they don't think they can perform another operation on her. She's in terrible pain. She wants to die. Maybe this is (to my mind) more of that refining cruelty of God. My aunt likened it to Job (Bible book) in an e-mail today. My grandmother has eight children and a constantly growing number of great-grandchildren. She lost my grandfather 18 years ago and believes she will join him in heaven when she dies. So why won't God just take her?
I wouldn't want me on a jury anyway.
Also going on: Myriad cranky people sending me e-mails. Overnighted a check to my bank; it was supposed to get there at noon Saturday. At noon today, it still hadn't arrived. Until it does, I have 41 cents in my account. And no food in the fridge. And yeah, I know, I need to budget better. Even the good raises I've sometimes received don't do much to keep up with the exploding costs of gas and electricity.
Someone from the Savannah property maintenance dept was supposed to revisit my house today to see if I had cut my 10+ inch weeds and grass. I spent most of the weekend cutting the darn stuff; I have a blister on my thumb, scratches all over from the blackberry thistles, myriad bug bites, and sunburn. But there was some grass waaaaay at the back of the yard that may or may not even be on my property that I did not get to. The next door neighbor doesn't have hers clipped that far back either. So I am hoping that doesn't net me the potential fine of $1K or up to 30 days in jail (cuz we don't have enough real criminals here clogging up the jail cells). I figure, though, that since I called the inspector twice and left my work and cell numbers in a voicemail, specifically requested more information about my alleged violation, and she never called back, I have valid grounds for a complaint if they do smack some sort of penalty on me.
More than anything else, I am upset about my grandma, who is not doing well. I haven't been emotionally invested much up to this point as she's gone through various surgeries, emergencies, etc. I don't know what's changed; I think until last week, I believed she just wasn't ready to let go, and when she was ready, she would die. But she IS ready to go. She had surgery last week to repair a stress fracture in one of her vertebrae, and she said afterward that she had hoped not to wake up from the anesthesia. She is going to be 90 in less than a month; she had another surgery when we were there in early August; they can only operate so many times on someone that old and frail. Now an old fracture has re-broken, and they don't think they can perform another operation on her. She's in terrible pain. She wants to die. Maybe this is (to my mind) more of that refining cruelty of God. My aunt likened it to Job (Bible book) in an e-mail today. My grandmother has eight children and a constantly growing number of great-grandchildren. She lost my grandfather 18 years ago and believes she will join him in heaven when she dies. So why won't God just take her?
Friday, September 21, 2007
Ratsy
The rat (the one Fade twice refused to eat, earning it a lifetime reprieve from being python fodder) has carved out a nice little burrow beneath the Rubbermaid lid in my backyard, although it seems also to have found quarters elsewhere. During rainstorms, however, it faithfully scurries back under the overturned Rubbermaid to take shelter. Sometimes when I fill the bird feeder, I leave a handful of birdseed for the rat, to whom I variously refer (not being certain of its gender) as Rattila, Cleoratra, Ratricia, Ratsy, or Ratatouille. I'm getting a kick out of having a semi-pet rat in the backyard, although that will quickly end should it 1) try to get into the house, in which case I expect its life will quickly be terminated by the feline posse, or 2) have babies, in which case I am not sure what I'll do (maybe bring them back to the pet store?). Given the nature of rats, I realize one or both of these is likely, of course.
Azrael and Nightshade are being less entertaining. They have become more adept at hunting and usually can be found curled up together under one of the miniature tombstones in their tank.
Azrael and Nightshade are being less entertaining. They have become more adept at hunting and usually can be found curled up together under one of the miniature tombstones in their tank.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
KERFUFFLE
Means the same thing as clusterf***, but it sounds so funny that it makes you laugh, you can safely say it at work, and it is best when it bursts emphatically from your lips on a great gust of breath, aka is yelled at the top of your lungs.
Things are in (?) a kerfuffle lately. I am popularizing this word.
Things are in (?) a kerfuffle lately. I am popularizing this word.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Weighing (in on) Britney
Since everyone else in the universe has opinions about Britney's disastrous VMA performance, and mine is probably more intelligent and thoughtful than a good number of them, I'm going to air them, and where better than on my blog?
An obvious issue, and the one I find most crucial to explore before critiquing the other elements of the train wreck, is her body. As a woman, a feminist, a former size 2 struggling with birth control-induced weight, a friend of women struggling with post-baby weight--as all those things, I don't want to criticize Britney for donning skimpy clothing when her body is less than toned and svelte. I don't want to criticize her, because I think women should have the freedom to celebrate their bodies, no matter what they look like, and the confidence to wear whatever they want.
That said, however, there was nothing in Spears' attire or performance that bespoke confidence. Delusion, perhaps, but not realistic appraisal, acceptance, and unapologetic enjoyment. Spears is no Beth Ditto. Her performance was a grotesque parody of her former glory primarily because it wasn't intended as a parody, or a statement of defiance about what makes women attractive, or anything that would have implied agency, awareness, and control on Britney's part.
We already knew Britney hadn't come close to regaining her pre-baby body. We knew that dance training and celebrity chefs and liposuction and every other slenderizing force she might have had access to were powerless to withstand the onslaught of constant Cheeto-crunching and boozing. We've seen her "ample bottom" hanging out of shirts she misguidedly repurposed as dresses. We've seen her thighs in torn fishnets. So we weren't surprised by her VMA tummy, but plenty of people are still commenting on it.
And you know what? Her defenders are right about a few things: She did just have back-to-back babies. Compared to most women, she doesn't look bad. Besides, as I've already said, I fully support her right to wear whatever she wants onstage no matter how she looks.
What makes her so tragic, to me, is the level of delusion that seems to be operating in her mind. Britney Spears' success is based on the way she has sold sexiness, starting when she was dancing through high school halls in a plaid Catholic schoolgirl mini almost 10 years ago. And now, in her mid-twenties and with two children, she's still frantically grasping at that look of innocence and seduction. Reportedly, she vetted the more flattering corset MTV had chosen for her to wear at the VMAs because she wanted to look "extra sexy." And she didn't. She looked awkward and uncomfortable and, yeah, flabby, and it didn't work because she was performing a song and a dance routine that called for sleek, svelte, toned. If she was redefining sexuality or expanding it to encompass the body she has now and the person she's become, I would applaud her. But her sexuality seems as out of control as everything else about her; her wardrobe choices smack of the desperate need to be a cute adolescent sex kitten.
In the end, I think it's her own failure to see herself as she is now--compromised by bad weaves and drinking, by her trailer-trash marriage to Kfed, by her public breakdowns, by her genital-baring couture--and move on from that to forge a new identity that is her greatest failure. Tragically, what the current shenanigans are showing us is that apart from the cute pout and the breathy croon and the toned muscles of the teenaged seductress, she is nothing. She has no genuine sense of identity as she struggles to define herself in adulthood. And maybe that's why her VMA attempt at sexiness fell flat: because to endure, sexiness requires substance, ingenuity, creativity--qualities whose absence from Britney Spears' person and work has never been more pitiably, pathetically apparent than it was Sunday night.
An obvious issue, and the one I find most crucial to explore before critiquing the other elements of the train wreck, is her body. As a woman, a feminist, a former size 2 struggling with birth control-induced weight, a friend of women struggling with post-baby weight--as all those things, I don't want to criticize Britney for donning skimpy clothing when her body is less than toned and svelte. I don't want to criticize her, because I think women should have the freedom to celebrate their bodies, no matter what they look like, and the confidence to wear whatever they want.
That said, however, there was nothing in Spears' attire or performance that bespoke confidence. Delusion, perhaps, but not realistic appraisal, acceptance, and unapologetic enjoyment. Spears is no Beth Ditto. Her performance was a grotesque parody of her former glory primarily because it wasn't intended as a parody, or a statement of defiance about what makes women attractive, or anything that would have implied agency, awareness, and control on Britney's part.
We already knew Britney hadn't come close to regaining her pre-baby body. We knew that dance training and celebrity chefs and liposuction and every other slenderizing force she might have had access to were powerless to withstand the onslaught of constant Cheeto-crunching and boozing. We've seen her "ample bottom" hanging out of shirts she misguidedly repurposed as dresses. We've seen her thighs in torn fishnets. So we weren't surprised by her VMA tummy, but plenty of people are still commenting on it.
And you know what? Her defenders are right about a few things: She did just have back-to-back babies. Compared to most women, she doesn't look bad. Besides, as I've already said, I fully support her right to wear whatever she wants onstage no matter how she looks.
What makes her so tragic, to me, is the level of delusion that seems to be operating in her mind. Britney Spears' success is based on the way she has sold sexiness, starting when she was dancing through high school halls in a plaid Catholic schoolgirl mini almost 10 years ago. And now, in her mid-twenties and with two children, she's still frantically grasping at that look of innocence and seduction. Reportedly, she vetted the more flattering corset MTV had chosen for her to wear at the VMAs because she wanted to look "extra sexy." And she didn't. She looked awkward and uncomfortable and, yeah, flabby, and it didn't work because she was performing a song and a dance routine that called for sleek, svelte, toned. If she was redefining sexuality or expanding it to encompass the body she has now and the person she's become, I would applaud her. But her sexuality seems as out of control as everything else about her; her wardrobe choices smack of the desperate need to be a cute adolescent sex kitten.
In the end, I think it's her own failure to see herself as she is now--compromised by bad weaves and drinking, by her trailer-trash marriage to Kfed, by her public breakdowns, by her genital-baring couture--and move on from that to forge a new identity that is her greatest failure. Tragically, what the current shenanigans are showing us is that apart from the cute pout and the breathy croon and the toned muscles of the teenaged seductress, she is nothing. She has no genuine sense of identity as she struggles to define herself in adulthood. And maybe that's why her VMA attempt at sexiness fell flat: because to endure, sexiness requires substance, ingenuity, creativity--qualities whose absence from Britney Spears' person and work has never been more pitiably, pathetically apparent than it was Sunday night.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A week in my life
Monday, Aug. 27: Our surprise team-building outing at work turned out to be an afternoon at the Five-Star Family Fun Park in Pooler, which I had never visited. We ate pizza, drove go-carts, and played nine holes of mini-golf before we all wilted in the mid-90-degree heat/90% humidity. Loved the go-carts, which I'd never driven before (except mine wouldn't go as fast as some of the others did and I am a bit more competitive than I realized). Enjoyed the mini-golf, but, being me, managed to step in a fire ant hill on hole 7. Noticed nothing until multiple burning pinpricks lit into my foot all at once, at which point I looked down, gasped, and did the ants-on-me dance. Went home and slept. Mildly sunburned.
Tuesday: Woke up with surprisingly no evidence of the fire ant bites. Had a teeth-chatteringly high fever by noon. By evening, the bites were itching, burning welts. Knew work next day was not going to happen so stayed up until 3 a.m. finishing The Ruins by Scott Smith.
Wednesday: Called in sick and stayed home nursing fever. Foot was slightly swollen, even though I had fewer than 10 bites.
Thursday: Back at work, still running low fever, bites starting to subside. Fever finally gone by evening. Go to Target and buy three bookshelves, then have fun cramming them into car.
Friday: Get caught by traffic camera at White Bluff and Abercorn, running red light. %^$#! Go to Savannah Mall, visit bookstore, have lovely experience. Visit very cool store called Soap, which is owned and operated by an Asian woman who mixes all the soaps, candles, and incense herself on the premises. She also has much Asiana, such as fans. Proceed to Target, buy five more bookshelves, decline all offers of assistance because I can do it myself, darn it! Cram them ALL into my Civic. Get home, start pouring a bowl of Frosted MiniWheats. Think, why does it look like there are small bugs running around in my cereal? Why, because there ARE small bugs running around in my cereal! Discover trail of sugar ants from window into cabinet, right into Frosted MiniWheat box. Throw the box into fridge, rinse out bowl, wash tainted cereal down disposal, do the ants-on-me dance.
Saturday: Raining. Put on "Black Celebration" by Depeche Mode, light candles, read, all lovely and relaxing. Eventually decide to be productive, go into garage, see water seeping in, including around the bases of boxes that still contain books. @#$%^! Empty boxes, carry armloads of books into house. Carry six bookshelves upstairs, assemble. Carry books upstairs. Notice sugar ants have adjusted trail from window sill into disposal.
Sunday: Carry futon from garage into house, wrestle upstairs (by MYSELF! YES! I am STRONG!). Air out garage. Clean garage up in anticipation of new stuff.
Monday: Wake up, call Home Depot to reserve truck, go get truck. Crazy woman behind me in line asks if she can "ride with me." She wants to use the truck too; can we share and split the cost? Uh, no. Meet up with college student helper, who turns out to be fabulous. Go pick up new free washer, dryer, sofa, and armchair. Load into truck. Drive to my house, unload W/D in garage and furniture on lawn. Return truck. Wrestle sofa and armchair through front door and into living room BY MYSELF, THANK YOU. (Helper would have helped; I declined. Because I am STRONG and STUBBORN and sometimes NOT VERY BRIGHT.)
Tuesday: Buy Fade his rat before he eats Sadie, because he seems about ready to (if she doesn't get him first, which is the more likely option). Fade decides he doesn't want to eat the rat. So now I have a rat living in a big RubberMaid container. Worried first that it might escape, then decided more accurate worry was that Sadie would figure out how to remove the RubberMaid lid and kill the rat. Rat is now in closet. Azrael and Nightshade are in new, very autumnal looking tank, much taller than their plastic shoebox, meaning I can drop in crickets without danger of them climbing out and/or getting close enough to sting me. I decided care is required. I don't want to die of anaphylactic shock from baby scorpion bites, after all. Move bookshelves around, situate futon.
Wednesday: So far, eat six brownies at work because I CAN because I have gotten so much exercise. Seriously. My face looks skinnier than it has in ages. Anticipate serious sugar crash.
Tuesday: Woke up with surprisingly no evidence of the fire ant bites. Had a teeth-chatteringly high fever by noon. By evening, the bites were itching, burning welts. Knew work next day was not going to happen so stayed up until 3 a.m. finishing The Ruins by Scott Smith.
Wednesday: Called in sick and stayed home nursing fever. Foot was slightly swollen, even though I had fewer than 10 bites.
Thursday: Back at work, still running low fever, bites starting to subside. Fever finally gone by evening. Go to Target and buy three bookshelves, then have fun cramming them into car.
Friday: Get caught by traffic camera at White Bluff and Abercorn, running red light. %^$#! Go to Savannah Mall, visit bookstore, have lovely experience. Visit very cool store called Soap, which is owned and operated by an Asian woman who mixes all the soaps, candles, and incense herself on the premises. She also has much Asiana, such as fans. Proceed to Target, buy five more bookshelves, decline all offers of assistance because I can do it myself, darn it! Cram them ALL into my Civic. Get home, start pouring a bowl of Frosted MiniWheats. Think, why does it look like there are small bugs running around in my cereal? Why, because there ARE small bugs running around in my cereal! Discover trail of sugar ants from window into cabinet, right into Frosted MiniWheat box. Throw the box into fridge, rinse out bowl, wash tainted cereal down disposal, do the ants-on-me dance.
Saturday: Raining. Put on "Black Celebration" by Depeche Mode, light candles, read, all lovely and relaxing. Eventually decide to be productive, go into garage, see water seeping in, including around the bases of boxes that still contain books. @#$%^! Empty boxes, carry armloads of books into house. Carry six bookshelves upstairs, assemble. Carry books upstairs. Notice sugar ants have adjusted trail from window sill into disposal.
Sunday: Carry futon from garage into house, wrestle upstairs (by MYSELF! YES! I am STRONG!). Air out garage. Clean garage up in anticipation of new stuff.
Monday: Wake up, call Home Depot to reserve truck, go get truck. Crazy woman behind me in line asks if she can "ride with me." She wants to use the truck too; can we share and split the cost? Uh, no. Meet up with college student helper, who turns out to be fabulous. Go pick up new free washer, dryer, sofa, and armchair. Load into truck. Drive to my house, unload W/D in garage and furniture on lawn. Return truck. Wrestle sofa and armchair through front door and into living room BY MYSELF, THANK YOU. (Helper would have helped; I declined. Because I am STRONG and STUBBORN and sometimes NOT VERY BRIGHT.)
Tuesday: Buy Fade his rat before he eats Sadie, because he seems about ready to (if she doesn't get him first, which is the more likely option). Fade decides he doesn't want to eat the rat. So now I have a rat living in a big RubberMaid container. Worried first that it might escape, then decided more accurate worry was that Sadie would figure out how to remove the RubberMaid lid and kill the rat. Rat is now in closet. Azrael and Nightshade are in new, very autumnal looking tank, much taller than their plastic shoebox, meaning I can drop in crickets without danger of them climbing out and/or getting close enough to sting me. I decided care is required. I don't want to die of anaphylactic shock from baby scorpion bites, after all. Move bookshelves around, situate futon.
Wednesday: So far, eat six brownies at work because I CAN because I have gotten so much exercise. Seriously. My face looks skinnier than it has in ages. Anticipate serious sugar crash.
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