Thinking of Therapy? 4 Tips From a Newbie
May 8, 2013 § 27 Comments
I recently decided to start seeing a psychotherapist. I had some life-stuff to work out, and I knew other people who swore by therapy, so I thought I’d give it a try. After my first session, I texted a friend who had encouraged me to make that appointment:
(Oh, please. Let ye who do not sometimes use “OMG” and “Dude” in conversation throw the first stone.)
I ought to have recognized some of the telltale signs of needing this kind of thing long ago. For example, when friends would talk about what they’d do if they won the lottery, they’d say, “Buy a beach house,” or “Pay off all my debt and move to France,” and I’d say, “Hire a shrink and pay them to listen to me talk about my life and my relationships and my kids and my work and my dreams and my failures and my conflicts and my shame and my hope and EVERY SINGLE THING IN THE WORLD.” And then inevitably someone would stare at me like I was weird, and I’d look down and stir my drink with my finger and start whistling.
Anyway, I finally decided that there’s no sense in waiting to win the lottery or to have a big, dramatic reason to get a little help sorting out all the craziness that is adulthood. And so far, so good.
What works for me might not be what works for you, but just in case you’re thinking of giving it a shot, I thought I’d offer up a few tips based on what I’ve experienced thus far. Bear in mind, I’m only just getting started. But here’s what I can tell you:
* * *
1. Take Advantage of the Free Kleenex
See also: Free coffee. I mean, “free” is perhaps not the precise term for things one uses after paying a large sum of money for an hour’s worth of time. But as far as I can tell, there’s no limit on the number of Kleenexes one can take. So if you use enough over time, you probably come out even and maybe even turn a profit.
I seriously have never seen an office with so many boxes of tissues in it. There’s a box on every surface. You could play stacking games with them.
* * *
2. Give Yourself Extra Time To Think
The time spent in the therapist’s office is one thing. But you can’t fix your life in an hour. So build in plenty of time for sitting in the waiting room, where you can read, look at the Zen waterfall, and just be quiet and mull over questions you’ll be talking about that day. I enjoy this part so much that I’ve been arriving earlier and earlier. Next time, I might just arrive the day before and camp out, maybe bring some food and a mini-grill, make it a tailgate kind of thing.
The amount of time I spend staring into the plants in the waiting room should probably indicate to me that I need a) more quiet time alone to think, or b) more plants.
* * *
3. Embrace Freedom of Speech
I was about four minutes into my first session when I launched into a description of a feeling that really could not be said without profanity. Then I apologized. You know what my therapist said? That my language was nothing compared to the language of some other patients. Traumatized veterans, for example. (Finally: Proof that I do, in fact, curse like a sailor. Like an actual, military sailor with PTSD.)
So now I just let it all fly, no editing. It’s a win-win, because I can express myself efficiently and accurately, and my therapist can pick up some interesting new compound cursewords* to take back to the veterans.
(* Oh! Speaking of which – I have a new one: fucktank. As in, “That situation was a fucktank of complexity.” Or, “I’ve got a fucktank of things to talk about. Should we tackle them alphabetically or just start with the stupidest problems?”)
I actually own this. It’s an f-bomb paperweight.
* * *
4. Keep It In Perspective
I resist the urge to point at other people in the waiting room and say, “I’m not as crazy as that guy, right?” But I comfort myself with the knowledge that there are people way weirder than me going in and out of those doors on a regular basis, and that whatever I have going on, the therapist has definitely seen worse.
Just to make sure everyone keeps it real, I recommend starting each session with a “confession” such as:
- “Yesterday, I killed someone for sport in a jungle island people-hunting game.”
- “This morning, I pretended to give someone a puppy and then took the puppy away and ate it.”
- “I think it’s important to have role models, which is why I pattern my life after Lindsay Lohan.”
Then you can say, “Nah, just kidding. My real problem is ________.” And suddenly it all looks pretty normal and easy to solve. Everything’s relative.
If you start with, “Herrrre’s Johnny!” and some crazy-eyes just for fun, then it’s really no big deal when you get to the real point, which is just that you need help setting priorities or whatever.
* * *
Disclaimer – No one warned me about this, so let me warn you: Apparently it’s normal to feel like a wrung-out dishrag after each session. Summoning the balls to be totally honest and open for even a single hour of self-examination is exhausting. My therapist says it’s BRAVE to deal with life and people head-on. My friends who’ve done this before me say it’s worth it. So I guess I’ll keep going until I’ve gotten my money’s worth in free Kleenex.
“Brave” by Sara Bareilles:
Fuck Math
April 17, 2013 § 62 Comments
The first time I said, “Fuck math,” I was in 8th grade. I haven’t stopped saying it since.
(For the record: It was algebra’s fault. What the hell are X and Y doing in the middle of a math problem? Math is supposed to be about numbers, not letters. Letters are my thing. Leave the letters alone and keep walking, math, you greedy sonofabitch.)
Don’t get me wrong. I see the value in numbers. I like balance and evidence and science. And I totally know that math education is important, so please, teachers, don’t get all over me for this one. Just let me make my case.
* * *
Fuck Math: Exhibit A
Gather ’round, ye fellow nerds. I need to shed a dorky little tear. A few weeks ago, I went into a big chain bookstore and tried to find a new novel that had just been glowingly reviewed in the New York Times Book Review. This place is the only bookseller anywhere near my part of town, so it was my only choice if I wanted the book in my hands that day. (We used to have a great independent bookstore, but it went out of business.)
They didn’t have the book in stock. They did, however, have 16 shelves of calendars (3 shelves just for the ones about cats) and a wide selection of coffee mugs, bookmarks, and chocolates. The sales associate explained it to me as such: “Well, it’s just, like, that’s kind of a weird book, so, like, if we don’t know how it’ll sell, we don’t order very many copies. It’s just, you know, math.”
Outwardly, I said: “Thank you.”
Inwardly, I said: FUCK MATH.
That’s not the first time I’ve had that book shopping experience. And look, I’m not going to get all You’ve Got Mail about it. I understand that superstores with the benefit of massive purchasing power can sell things for less than the cool little bookstores that actually curate a good inventory. That’s why the little places go under and the big places survive. Then, when the big places are the only ones left, they can sell or not sell whatever they want. I get that. I took economics. But still: FUCK MATH.
Scene from You’ve Got Mail: Characters see book chain superstore going up in their neighborhood. You can’t see their faces, but they probably look anguished. They are most likely saying, “Fuck math,” in unison.
Oh hell, never mind. I AM going to get all You’ve Got Mail about it. In Nashville, where I don’t live but maybe should, there’s a glorious little bookshop called Parnassus Books. It’s co-owned by the novelist Ann Patchett. (Perhaps you’ve read about it.) It’s fantastic – a glorious selection of books, not to mention a delightful shopping experience. The well-read staff love what they do and can help you find what you want. I enjoyed it so much the first time I visited that now I call and order books from there sometimes, just because — even though I like Amazon and dig how I can have any book in the world on my doorstep the next day — I like to support a bookstore that puts some thought into what it sells. Maybe I pay a buck or two more, but you know what? FUCK MATH.
Fun fact: One of my best friends works at Parnassus Books. I couldn’t attend the one-year anniversary party for the store, so she wore a little cardboard version of me at the party next to her nametag. This is flat-me partying booknerd-style at Parnassus.
* * *
Fuck Math: Exhibit B
Recently, I went down to my favorite getaway spot – a little island off the Carolina coast where I’ve been spending summers and random weekends for 25 years. It’s home to me. Over the past dozen years or so, I’ve increasingly had to put my hands up like blinders as I crossed the bridge to the island, because where once there were unobstructed views of the water, there are now a CVS, a Chili’s, and a Bed, Bath & BeFuckingYond. Where once there was a sandy playground, there’s now a parking deck and a conference center. What once was a small, quirky, friendly community is now a “resort destination.” I understand that the economy is rough these days and that a place has to do what it has to do to keep cash rolling in. Money is important. But also: FUCK MATH.
One of my favorite things to do upon arrival on the island is to stop in at the Red & White, the only grocery store on the island itself. Sure, I could drive back over the bridge to a major chain store, but shopping at the tiny, bizarrely stocked, locally staffed Red & White is an experience. I have known my way around that store since I was a kid, and I could maneuver its aisles blindfolded, starting with the bin of colorfully worded drink can koozies.
(Photo: IslandEyeNews.com)
So when I was out there this month, I headed straight over to the Red & White to get a magazine and a jug of wine (oh, I said jug, yes, I did) and maybe a box of waffles. But oh-sweet-humanity-save-my-soul, the place was closed. FOREVER.
I tried to explain my horror to someone else, and they said, “Well, yeah. That place had moldy produce and sticky floors and magazines that cost $7. There’s no way they could have stayed open in this economy.” So you know what I said, of course: FUCK MATH.
Passersby would report that all they witnessed was a woman standing in parking lot taking a photo. But on the INSIDE, I was falling to my knees on the asphalt and raising my fists to the sky with a roar of righteous indignation and sorrow. On the inside, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
* * *
Anyway. I know I’m a big dummy to get all sad and enraged over things like this. The world turns on math, when it comes right down to it. And math is just doing what it does. It’s about numbers. (Except when it’s about letters.)
Still.
Some things cannot be quantified. Not properly anyway. So FUCK MATH.
* * *
PS: I’ve decided to add Fuck Math onto other catchphrases, thereby forming new, compound catchphrases which put forth helpful messages while also relaying a disdain for math-based living. Like so:
Save The Whales. Fuck Math.
Rock The Vote. Fuck Math.
It Takes a Village. Fuck Math.
Live and Let Live. Fuck Math.
Don’t Eat Yellow Snow. Fuck Math.
Give Blood. Fuck Math.
You get the idea.
* * *
PPS: The lovely folks over at YeahWrite invited me to share this post over there this week. (Thank you, YeahWrite.) They’re doing neat things. If you haven’t yet, you should check out YeahWrite, for several reasons:
1. If you like reading good blogs, you’ll enjoy clicking through their great weekly collection of posts. Good stuff.
2. If you’re a blogging writer, you might like sharing your own post there with their readers.
3. Just for fun, you can also vote on your favorite post of the week (voting is open on Thursday and Friday), and the bloggers there (that would include me, this week) can win prizes. I didn’t totally read through the contest details, but I’m pretty sure it’s like a pot of gold and a live unicorn and maybe the winner also gets to make out with one of the editors there? Something like that. So I’m in.
The Giant Toothbeast Cometh
April 4, 2013 § 22 Comments
So here’s some news: Last weekend, while my family and I were out for a walk, an enormous dog attacked us. Actually, you know what? Dog is the wrong word. Let’s say, Giant Toothbeast.
I’m not exaggerating or using “attacked” in a melodramatic way. That is the exact word for what happened. The Giant Toothbeast – who was about the size of me, but, you know, a dog – was probably 20 yards away when he spotted us going down the sidewalk. He was unrestrained. Unattended. And I love dogs, so for a split-second, I was like, “Yay, doggie!” but then no. Not yay doggie. When he saw us, he started galloping. GALLOPING, I tell you — while snarling and making deep, guttural Darth Vader noises with his mouth wide open. Like this: “RAAAWRGHRRGAAAAAHRGIMGONNEATYOUAAWWWRGH”
If Darth Vader and Cujo had a baby, it would not be Luke Skywalker. It would be the Giant Toothbeast who tried to eat me alive.
If this has never happened to you before but you think it might one day, let me prep you for what will go through your mind when the time comes:
That dog wants to say hello!
Holy matchsticks, that dog is running fast.
Is there sound coming from that dog’s EYE SOCKETS?
OH MY SWEET SOUL, THAT DOG IS GOING TO BITE MY BALLS
WAIT A MINUTE, I’M A GIRL, I DON’T HAVE BALLS
MAYBE HE THINKS I DO HAVE BALLS
Does that mean the dog is gay?
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I completely support his freedoms and rights.
Although dogs don’t really get married.
Are dogs even monogamous?
Why am I thinking about this right now?
OH FUCKING HELL, I’M GOING TO GET EATEN BY A DOG.
All of that kind of races through your mind at once.
And at the same time, louder and more persistent, this:
THAT CREATURE IS GOING TO HURT MY CHILD.
Anyway, the Giant Toothbeast surveyed our crowd as he ran and decided to head for my son and me. We had about two seconds to react. So I screamed, “NOOOO,” in a movie-slow-motion way and jumped in front of my son, planting my body directly in the path of the Giant Toothbeast’s maw.*
(* Note: I have never read an article about what you’re supposed to do in a dog attack, so this was probably the wrong thing, but seriously… dog attack. Not a lot of time to Google it.)
The Giant Toothbeast slammed into my leg at full speed with his wide-open jaws, tearing at the fabric of my jeans with his teeth, still aiming for my son behind me. Unfortunately, one scrappy mama doesn’t do much to deter one ferocious Giant Toothbeast, and the animal still got a mouthful of my boy. But apparently offering up my leg as an appetizer reduced the impact of the next bite. Thanks to that and to a very tough pair of kid pants, my little guy was shaken – literally and figuratively – but his skin wasn’t broken. No blood was shed; there are just bruises.
I don’t know what made the Giant Toothbeast decide to run off after that one bite, but he did. Just turned and ran.
This is the part of the story that I keep thinking about now that it’s over: The fact that there was no thought at all in that moment when I saw the dog eye my child. That the first, gut instinct was to step in front of him. No weighing of pros and cons. No hesitating.
And I’m not saying this makes me a great parent – that’s totally not the point here. (I’m a godawful parent at least half the time. I look at my phone too much, and I forget to make dinner until the last minute, and sometimes when a Saturday soccer game is canceled, I don’t do a good job of hiding my delight at getting two hours back in the day.)
I’m just sort of in awe of the instinct that we humans have to protect what’s important. To lunge, in a second, toward what matters most.
So here’s the deep metaphorical concluding line: The people you want in your life are the ones who’d jump in front of you — or the ones you’d jump in front of — when the Giant Toothbeast comes.
[long philosophical gaze]
[nod]
The End
Hey Matt Damon, You’re Matt Damon
March 28, 2013 § 12 Comments
What do you do when you see a celebrity?
Do you run up and smash your cheek up to theirs and hold out your phone with one arm and take a close-range photo that makes you look like you have six chins and makes the celebrity look like they’ve just had a vision of how they will die?
Or do you play it cool and make a paper airplane out of your business card and fly it into their mouth?
I’m having fun discussing celebrity sightings in an essay over on Loop today. Here’s a little excerpt:
…I have never actually run into Matt Damon, but I have already planned how it will go one day when I do.
The scene: Matt Damon walks up to the bar, across from where I’m enjoying a beer and eating wasabi-covered peanuts and telling jokes that make everyone around me so glad they come to this bar.
What could happen: I walk over to Matt Damon, take his glasses off his face, and trace the bridge of his nose with my index finger while mouthing the names of our future children . . .
Click over to Loop to find out what happens next between Matt Damon and me. Rrrrrowr, chicka-chicka. (No, just kidding. It’s not like that. Matt Damon and I have more of an emotional connection. Philosophical, really. Or intellectual, even.) While you’re there, check out the hilarious essays by all the other writers — you’ll love ‘em. Many thanks to Loop for having me on!
Matt Damon approves this story. Probably.
Spring Break, My Ass
March 6, 2013 § 17 Comments
Some things need to be renamed around here, dammit.
For example: This week is our Spring Break, meaning my children don’t have school. Thus far, the term is a bit of a misnomer, as it’s neither spring (first week of March? really?) nor a break (because both kids have spent the week sick with the flu).
Let’s just call things what they are, shall we?
* * *
“The Flu Shot” –> Needle Full Of Fairy Snot
Oh yes, we got the shots. Back in October. A hell of a lot of good it did us. One child started complaining of aches the first day of the break; the other followed within 36 hours. After calling around, we discovered that a few of their friends were down and out as well. So basically it’s just like that movie Contagion, except sorely lacking in Matt Damon appearances. And if you’re not going to get to grab onto Matt Damon with one clammy hand and rasp, “Save me,” what’s the point in having a horrible virus? So, science nerds at the CDC or wherever, listen up: Either make me a vaccination that actually keeps the flu away, or bring me Matt Damon. You know what? Fuck the vaccine. Just bring me Matt Damon.
Hey, who doesn’t love needles. What’s that you say? This one serves no purpose whatsoever? Oh hell, shoot me up anyway — just for fun. And while we’re at it, how ’bout we hold down some screaming kids and shoot them with it, too. You know, just for kicks.
* * *
“Fever” –> Crimson-Faced Raving Delusions
When the nurse on the phone asked, “Does he have a temperature?” my son was actually standing in our kitchen, red as a bell pepper, ripping his clothes off and screaming, “SOMEBODY HELP ME! I’M ON FIRE!” Yeah, he’s got a temperature. It’s approximately one-hundred-and-three-point-crazy. This is more than “fever” – this is full-body hallucinations. I could melt ice cubes on my kid’s face. Hell, I could cook s’mores over my kid’s face.
And yet I didn’t. Because I’m a great parent.
I think my children’s fevers were so high that they actually believed they looked like this. Also they may have believed they were flying and that the sofa cushions were talking to them.
* * *
“Tamiflu” –> Rare Golden Butterfly Wing Serum
It took calling around to 12 pharmacies to get our hands on the virus-curbing drug. (Ultimately, the only place that had the elusive elixir was the Wal-Mart by the highway, where all sorts of interesting transactions go on in the parking lot, and I’m not talking about recipe swaps, youknowwhatimean.) Let me just tell you, when a doctor says my baby needs medicine and no one can seem to get my baby the medicine, this is how I handle it:
Actually, I hear it’s made of ground up Loch Ness Monster testicles,
which is why it’s so hard to find.
* * *
“Spring Break” –> Winter’s Final Fuck-You
Nature flipped us a middle finger a few days ago. Let me explain: We live in the South. My children almost never see snow. They were supposed to spend this week visiting their grandparents who live further north, where there’s lots of the exotic white stuff. So when the kids got Ebola and their travel plans got scrapped, so, too, did their chance at seeing snow just once before spring. Except: On Sunday, while they were both passed out blind with fevers, we had a freak cold front that brought… yep. Snow. Not much. Not enough to stick. But lots of pretty white flakes whirling outside our windows. And the kids didn’t see a bit of it, because it only happened while they were sick as dogs. And because Old Man Winter is an asshole.
Come on out, little flowers. It’s OK, it’s Spring Break. So it must be spring… That’s it. Lookin’ good. BAM! Take that. It’s STILL WINTER, SUCKERS.
Happy Spring Break!
* * *
Other Tidbits
- I decided to post a spring break update this week, because I realized it’s been one year since I Miss You When I Blink was born, and the very first post this time last year was a spring break recap. To all you goofballs who have stuck around to read this silliness over the past year, thank you.
- Many thanks to SkinnyScoop, which just announced its Top 25 Humor Blogs and included the Blink on the list. Nifty!
- On a non-humorous-but-kind-of-interesting note, I don’t know if you saw this article in the Wall Street Journal last weekend: The Tyranny of the Queen Bee. Personally, I’ve almost always had fantastic experiences working with fellow women. But I’ve heard lots of stories about queen-bee types and have encountered a few myself. Dr. Peggy Drexler, the author of the article, writes: “Something is clearly amiss in the professional sisterhood.” That reminded me of a poem I wrote, which was published last month by The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. (It’s also part of a neat project my writing partner, JD, and I are working on. Stay tuned for more about it later this spring — we’re excited to tell you more when the time comes.) Anyway, here’s the poem – anyone ever had an experience like this?
Sisterhood
It’s dawning on me now that we are not
Thelma and Louise, Laverne and Shirley,
Cagney and Lacey, or Oprah and Gayle,
We don’t sing “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,”
Or “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves,”
Or even “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar,”
We don’t “stick it to the man” together,
Or hammer away at the glass ceiling,
Or break down the walls of the old boys club,
Because there is no solidarity,
No sacred girl code or “hos before bros.”
We’re the only two females on this team,
And in front of everyone it was you
Who sent me out of the room for coffee.
Drugs, Water, Balloons, and a Suitcase
January 28, 2013 § 29 Comments
I was having trouble with a metaphor.
I was trying to explain to someone how much I need good conversation in my daily life, how grateful I am for it. I’m talking fun, smart, two-way, challenging, question-and-answer conversation. I don’t just like it. I need it.
So I said, maybe I am addicted to conversation. Like a drug.
No. Not meth. Come on. I’m too vain to have meth teeth.
A hit of great conversation can make me feel lit-up, productive, happy. Too long without it, and I’m anxious, down, unable to get untangled from my own thoughts. Written or out-loud, either way is fine, but I’m picky about quality. Boring small talk just isn’t the same. If I can’t get the good stuff, I’d rather not have anything and just deal with the shakes.
Aaand… that’s as far as I got with that metaphor. (I’m not very up on my lingo, what with not doing drugs of any sort these days.) So I tried… I need good conversation like water.
More than half full.
Yes. That’s it. Like water. I thirst for great conversation. Without it, I’ll dry up and blow away. With it, my leaves… oh dammit, now it sounds like I’m a plant. That’s not what I was going for. Metaphors are hard.
And then it came to me: balloon animals. My need to make good conversation is like a need to make balloon animals.
There. That’s better.
Hear me out: A need to make balloon animals on a regular basis is something a lot of people don’t understand. Balloon animals are probably considered non-essential to most. Frivolous to some. But they are important to me. (In this metaphor, I mean. Where they represent conversation. In real life, I don’t give a shit about balloon animals.) Metaphorically: When something good or bad or funny or interesting happens, I breathe it in. I hold it inside and let it fill up my lungs for a while. Then I reach a point where I have to blow that breath out and make it into something I can see. I need to show it to someone else and say, “What do you think of this?” Some people are keep-it-all-inside people. I am a balloon-animal-it-out person.
I’m happy to make balloons into just about anything. If you have a dog, we can make balloon animal dogs. If you like music, I will make you a balloon guitar. If you are a book lover – and oh, how I love a book lover who also loves balloon animals – let’s read a book and then make the characters out of balloons. Hell, I like to make balloon animals just for fun.
(Is this working? The balloon animal thing? Or should I go back to “drugs” or “water” or just “conversation”? I think I’ll stick with it a bit longer, see how it goes.)
Not everyone wants a balloon animal. Some people don’t see the point. Some are too busy. Some people, frankly, just aren’t any good at it – you hand them a balloon animal and they can’t figure out what it is. I’m sorry, but I can’t make balloon animals with a dumbass who can’t tell a balloon giraffe from a balloon hedgehog.
I am most delighted when I pull a balloon out of the little suitcase of balloons I drag around (does this count as a new metaphor, now that we’ve introduced the suitcase?) and say, “Watch this!” and — wiggity-wiggity-twist — a balloon monkey or frog or piglet or bear appears; and I hold it out in my hands, and someone takes it, and they say, “Oh, I know exactly what this is.”
Then, in the absolute best-case scenario, they reach into their suitcase and pull out a balloon and say, “Here. See if you can figure out this one.”
Yep. That’s it.
* * *
PS: After I wrote this, I had this thought: What if you were addicted to literal balloon animals? Like you got the shakes if you didn’t have a balloon animal in your hands at all times? That would be funny. I mean, sad, I guess. But funny.
The Not-In-My-Bucket List
January 23, 2013 § 74 Comments
Here are a few things I will never do:
* * *
1. Go On a Cruise
I am having a visceral reaction just looking at this.
“But WHAT?” you say – “Cruises are fabulous!” I totally believe you if you think a cruise is a great time… for you. No judgments here. Float along your merry way – you have my blessing. But trust me when I say they are not for me. Don’t get me wrong: I love to travel. Name the place, I’ll join you. Let’s go. But not on a cruise ship, OK? And yes, I know how crazy it is to swear off something I’ve never even tried, but hear me out:
- 75% of the time I get on a boat, I vomit, because I get motion-sick. Fast boats, slow boats, doesn’t matter. I hate throwing up. The only thing worse than throwing up is throwing up while you’re dizzy, because you’re like, “Is that the floor? Wait, no, that’s the ceiling. Why are the clouds spinning?” And you end up barfing into your own ear and then falling down. And by “you,” I mean me.
- I am a germaphobe with a vivid imagination, meaning I am unable not to think about the fact that being on a boat is basically like being in a floating trashcan, where everything you touch has been touched by hundreds of other people, who just keep touching things every day of the cruise. All however-many people, just stuck on a boat. Touching stuff.
- I don’t like to be forced to spend large amounts of time with large numbers of other people. Nothing personal, other people. I just don’t want to be loaded onto an enormous raft with you.
- People say, “Getting there is half the fun!” Not to me. I really would rather just BE there. You know what I’d rather do than circle Greece on a ship? Be in Greece. So, yeah, if there’s a quicker way to get to the actual destination than to take a slow-motion germ barge of vomitous hell, I’ll take that. Thanks.
* * *
2. Go Bungee Jumping / Skydiving
Wheeeeee…. Let’s jump out of a perfectly good plane and try to fly without wiiiiiiings!
Yeah, no. I took physics once. I don’t do free falls. End of story.
* * *
3. Shoot Something
If I *were* in the habit of shooting stuff, would I look like this in my handy holsters? Girl, you know it. Sadly, the world will never get to see that spectacular sight.
I know there are people who dream of taking down the elusive prey – the 30-point buck or rare albino tree rabbit or amazing four-winged duck or what have you. This is not me. I have friends who hunt, and I’m fine with it; if you’re humane and respectful in how you do it and you eat what you shoot, OK. But personally, I don’t want to shoot a gun. Not at an animal. Not at a person. Not at a target shaped like a clown. I just don’t. I’ve made it this long without ever having to, and I’m cool with that.*
(* Now, don’t let this make you think I’m defenseless and you can carjack me just because I won’t shoot. I have other means of protecting myself. I can stick a car key through an eyeball faster than you can say HOLY SHIT, LADY, THAT WAS FAST. Also, I know how many pounds of pressure it takes to rip a scrotum clean off a person, and I’m not squeamish in self-defense situations. So keep your carjacking balls away from me.)
* * *
4. Eat Something That Is Still Alive
Oh, goddamn, it’s like I’m back on the boat. Make it stop.
Delicacy, my ass. I love a good culinary adventure and will generally eat anything put in front of me, but if it’s still swimming, crawling, or calling for its mama, it’s a no-go. I don’t care how tiny and rare and gourmet it is or if it has winged fins made of gold.
(Regarding the picture above, from Wikipedia: This tiny octopus is served “still squirming on the plate.” Also: “Because the suction cups on the arm pieces are still active when the dish is served, special care should be taken when eating sannakji. The active suction cups can cause swallowed pieces of arm to stick to the mouth or throat. This can also present a choking hazard for some people, particularly if they are intoxicated.” HO-LY gag reflex, Batman — let’s go play a joke on some drunk people.)
* * *
5. Conquer Extreme Physical Goals
Look at all the equipment it takes to go on this recreational joyride without dying!
Again, let me be clear that I’m not judging others here. I get that, sometimes, an emotional goal gets all wrapped up in a physical goal, like, “If I can climb the tallest peak in the world while eating nothing but beef jerky and wearing only boots and a utility belt, it will symbolize that I am finally over my divorce and I have a fresh start.” OK. If that’s what you need to do, God-speed and climb safe. But these things, they are not for me. I feel like reason compels me to respect the category of Things Human Bodies Weren’t Meant To Do. Sleep in a tree for 60 straight days? Dive to the deepest point of the ocean and look into the eyes of the shark that never sees light? Hike across the Sahara blindfolded? No, thank you. I’d like to live long enough to do the things that actually are on my bucket list.
I mean, you know. Never-say-never and all that. But still. Never.
The Difference Between Alone and Lonely (And How To Avoid the Latter)
January 17, 2013 § 19 Comments
Let’s take a little stroll, shall we? (No, no… you don’t need to do any stretches. This is just an Internet stroll. So just keep sitting right there in your chair and crack open another Diet Coke. You’re good.) Here we go:
* * *
We’re going to start at Loop Letters, where a few writers (including me) have pieces running this week. Mine’s the one called “What I Was Doing In There,” and it’s about a job I had as a student – an internship where I spent most of the summer sitting in a closet. (Don’t miss the intro by Whitney Collins and the other essays by Monique Alice and Tarja Parssinen, by the way. They are an absolute hoot, and you will snort your coffee. Click over and see.) An excerpt:
That story is about being alone — literally alone in a room by myself for long stretches at a time — but it’s not about being lonely. (I didn’t really feel lonely sitting in a closet all summer. I actually enjoy being alone a good bit.) Being alone is different from feeling alone.
And sometimes, I admit, I feel a little alone in my weirdness. I mean, let’s be real: I make up conversations between myself and famous people. A lot. I also sit around drawing birds and making up stories about how they buy uncomfortable underwear and get drunk at parties and embarrass themselves. That’s pretty weird.
So that brings me to our next stop:
* * *
I can’t believe I’m about to quote Lena Dunham, but I am. (She inspires mixed feelings in me. On one hand, I love that she’s so honest and balls-to-the-wall in her work. On the other, her characters on Girls are a bit whiny for my taste. Also, I sort of want to tell her to stand up straight and cool it with the coy pigeon-toed awkwardness, because she’s 26 for God’s sake.) Anyway, here’s what she said after accepting one of her Golden Globe Awards the other night:
“Making this show – and the response to it – is the most validating thing that I have ever felt. It’s made me feel so much less alone in this world. I can’t define it. Thank you.”
I wanted to high-five her. Then maybe fire her stylist.
Anyway, moving along on our tour…
* * *
Allow me to introduce you to Sebastien Millon:
Have I ever told you that when I was 13, I co-wrote/illustrated a comic strip called “Ralph & Coco” about an unrequited, one-sided love affair between an alien and a palm tree? No? Well, I did. (I know. You can see how I just sailed into my teen years, an 80-pound badass high on the drug of my own coolness.) So you can imagine how delighted I was recently to discover a guy who draws asshole bunnies, gangster baby bears who deal cocaine, and the panda who invented ninjas.
* * *
Of course, I also love The Oatmeal.
Read the whole great comic about being a writer / content creator, and you will understand how I spend much of my time.
* * *
And finally, one more stop. This…
This was made by a Twitter-friend I’ve never met, an adorably strange Irish lass named Hazel Hayes. I can’t explain why it makes me laugh so. I just love that someone had the thought, “What if I were to film a pretend talk-show about a craft project with profane peanut-gallery commentary from a stuffed dead otter?” and then actually DID IT. It’s totally fucking weird, and I love it.
I see these people out there, and I think, nope – I’m not alone at all.
You just gotta find your fellow weirdos.
Allow Me To Resolve That For You
January 1, 2013 § 68 Comments
Happy new year!
I don’t know about you, but some years are bigger resolution years for me than others. Last year, I had a bunch. It was a year for lots of change. This year — maybe because I’m all resolutioned-out after 2012 — I could only come up with things like, “Wear striped socks more often.” Which I am doing already:
BAM. Nailed it. I am *great* at achieving my goals.
The fact that I don’t have oodles of resolutions for myself doesn’t mean I haven’t made any resolutions, though. Oh, no. It’s just that I’ve made them for others. Such as:
* * *
Kanye West and Kim Kardashian –
Awww. This is going to go great.
Resolve to name your baby something unique, you two. First off, congrats. Great decision to start a family. I see no way this goes wrong. Second: Look, I know it feels like there’s a lot of family pressure to give the baby a name that starts with K, like Klairol or Kleenwipes. But I urge you to resist. Be original. Give the child a standout name befitting his or her spectacular combination of DNA. Might I suggest:
Velour Hotpants
Peacock Feather
VIP Lounge
Panther
Sequin
Oh, I think that last one may be it. Sequin. I like it. Heed my words, Kimye.
* * *
The Ice Cream Man –
Go away. All of you. And take your horror-movie xylophone music with you.
Resolve to stay out of my neighborhood. This is not me taking a stand on child obesity and unhealthy eating – although it could be, because seriously, what is even IN those SpongeBob-on-a-stick things? – I just don’t like your skeezy truck. Or your sixth sense for knowing exactly when I’m deep in thought at work and choosing that moment to come wheeling around the corner, playing your weird little chime music.
What is that, anyway? The soundtrack to a Stephen King movie about clowns? Come to think of it, I’ve heard that song before. It sounds a lot like The Entertainer, which is causing me to have flashbacks to that tapdancing class in second grade when all the other girls knew each other and I was new and uncoordinated and my tights were too big and bagging around my knees and I held my little jazzy top-hat in front of my face and cried. You’re giving me fucking PTSD, Ice Cream Man. Find a new neighborhood.
* * *
My Hair –
Realistic depiction of my hair upon waking. (Also, this photo is all over the internet, so I’m not sure where to credit it – but thank you, whoever took this.)
Resolve to get your shit together, hair. Curly or straight, pick a direction. I’m not wasting this Moroccan Oil on you anymore until you make some choices.
* * *
People With Cameras and Bathrooms –
Actual self-portrait posted on Twitter by Jessica Simpson. On one hand, if I looked like this pregnant, I’d probably post this picture on a billboard. But on the other… kleenex box.
Resolve to stop taking bathroom mirror selfies and sharing them. I mean, I get that it’s hard. You’re looking awesome, and you want to snap a photo to show the world your awesomeness. I totally know the feeling. One time, I had on my favorite combo of pajama pants and T-shirt (a pair of surgical scrubs pants with my I [heart] BACON shirt), and I had just put my hair up in a bun to wash my face, and I realized that in the flickering over-sink light, I kind of looked like Reese Witherspoon if she were a doctor who was secretly strung out on meth, and I thought, “I bet EVERYONE wants to see what Dr. Reese Witherspoon, MD, would look like on meth!”
But everyone else at my house was asleep, so there was no one around to take a picture. It was a bummer, but you know what I *didn’t* do? I didn’t hold out my phone toward the mirror and snap a photo of myself holding up a phone, thereby also showing everyone the contents of my bathroom counter and my dirty towels. Skip the photo. Or find another backdrop. That’s all I’m saying.
* * *
Coffee Guy At The Farmers’ Market –
Actual photo of coffee cart guy. *
Resolve to keep being adorable. And I will keep giving you all my money every Saturday for coffee. That is all.
(* Slightly fictionalized portrait of the coffee guy.)
* * *
And now, an announcement… If you like The Random Penguins, this news is for you. (If you think they’re stupid, look away for a sec and hum an angry little song.) The penguins started at Thanksgiving as a holiday thing — a gift of thanks to Blink readers. They were going to ride off into the snowy sunset on New Year’s Day. But then they made a whole lot of friends in a short time, and I have to admit, even I have become rather attached to them. So what the hell — let’s just keep at it a while longer. The penguins can stay.
Bear with me as I figure out what their schedule will be. Not sure whether they’ll stick with every weekday or maybe just go three days a week. (Perhaps Wednesday/Thursday/Friday… doesn’t “WTF Penguins” have a nice ring to it?)
This penguin resolves to get his ass in shape if he’s going to be sticking around for 2013.
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And one more thing: Just a little thank-you and Internet high-five to the folks at YeahWrite, a group that highlights blog writing and encourages good blogs to interact with one another. I first stumbled upon it a few months ago. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not even sure if my column here counts as a “blog” — these are not deeply personal essays I’m writing, nor is this a regular account of what I’m doing every day. Is it a blog? I don’t know. But the gang at YeahWrite call their project, “1 part blogging showcase, 2 parts writing challenge, 3 parts bathtub gin.” I feel at home anywhere that’s 50% gin. Anyway, they just tweeted a little hello and said, hey, why don’t you join us this week? So I did. I love friendly people. Go check check their stuff out.
Writers Do It In Parentheses
December 4, 2012 § 35 Comments
I have a bit of a runaway imagination. Sometimes, it tortures me.
For example: I am unable not to think about little phrases I see on signs and T-shirts and bumper stickers, even if I really, really don’t want to think about them. This is never more of a problem than when I end up behind drivers who feel the need to proclaim on the back of their cars that they “do it” in some way involving a pun related to their occupation or hobby.
You know, like this:
Once that image is planted in my head, I can’t get it out. So there I am, stuck at a red light, thinking about a couple of homebrewers gettin’ it on in the garage. And as I’m attempting to get a look at the homebrewers in question (because now I want to see what they look like, although I kind of don’t, but I DO!), a list of questions is forming in my head:
- Is the garage carpeted?
- Do they drink the beer they brew before/during/after doing it? If you have to keep tasting and tasting to get the beer right, you would eventually end up consuming a lot of beer. So I can see how things would get a little sloppy and amorous.
- Is the beer-making area of the garage separate from the doing-it area of the garage? Because if it’s all one same general area, I don’t want any of that beer.
- Is the sticker a way of disclosing to friends and customers that there may, in fact, be other substances in the beer besides just beer? Like, “Warning: We were doing it mere moments before we bottled this stuff.” If so, that’s nasty, but also kind of considerate, in a way. Kind of like the nut allergy alerts on product packaging. Except a different kind of nuts.
My brain is held hostage by stupid musings like this until something else comes along to knock the thought loose. Like this:
I KNEW IT.
* * *
Sometimes, these stickers make me see something in a new light. For instance:
At first I was like, really? Midwives? And then as I got on the highway I thought, well, midwives do spend an unusually large amount of time staring straight into the business end of the doin’-it parts. I guess they have a better understanding of the various ways in which those parts can be arranged. So, OK. I get it. Way to use your work skills in your off-time, midwives.
* * *
Other times, I get the giggles, because I can’t help but picture a very literal interpretation of a sticker. Like this one:
I thought that one over for a while. I decided it goes like this: The guy says, “Ouch! I just got a papercut on my knee. What was that?” And the girl goes, “Oh, that’s my scholarship letter – you can move it out of the way.” And he goes, “No. Let’s DO IT on your scholarship!” And then the music starts.
* * *
I know it sounds entertaining, but it’s actually very distracting, because I can’t turn it off. I’d rather be thinking about the book I read the night before, or composing a song about what I’m making for dinner, or you know, PAYING ATTENTION TO DRIVING.
I don’t want to think about things like these:
I thought, genes? Oh, like… jeans? GROSS, biologists. Try to hold it together, dorks.
(http://www.cafepress.com/mf/16883900/biologists-do-it-in-genes-rectangle_sticker)
I wanted to make fun of this, but you know what? I just felt kind of happy for the chemists, getting a little play.
(http://www.cafepress.com/mf/9539371/chemists-do-it-rectangle_sticker)
Somebody draw the recyclers a bath – they need a night off.
(http://www.cafepress.com/mf/28063725/recyclers_sticker)
I didn’t even get that pun, but I guess that’s because I’m not a quilter. So I’m just assuming quilters enjoy banging by the side of the road, which is *totally* not what I thought about quilters at all. I figured them for indoor types.
(http://www.cafepress.com/mf/16275476/quilters-do-it-in-the-ditch-rectangle_sticker)
Let me tell you something: If there’s one thing that should make you pick your britches up off the floor and run, it’s the appearance of welding equipment.
(http://www.cafepress.com/mf/33860094/rectangle_sticker)
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Anyway. Sometimes I see one and, as is my habit, I find myself wanting to edit it; so then I’m stuck rewriting bumper stickers in my head all afternoon. Take this one:
Glass? Photographers do it with glass? DO WHAT WITH GLASS? And why? And HOW?
You can see why I’d have to rewrite that. I thought about maybe, “Photographers do it with focus.” Or, “Photographers do it in color.” Or, “Photographers do it on film.” But then I wondered, well, do they even use film anymore? It’s all digital now, isn’t it? So I guess they do it… Nevermind. The point is: Some of these could be better.
Speaking of which:
Obviously.
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(All images from Cafepress and Zazzle.)
