I've been trying to mix up my routine lately, so I've decided to really try running. I've never liked running; I find it uncomfortable, often painful, and always humiliating. In one of my more masochistic phases I joined the track team in middle school (obviously, there were no try-outs). Track meets consisted of me, five-feet, white, slow and steady, vs girls from the other high school in my town, populated, apparently by mostly towering African-American freaks of nature. Picture Nathan Lane in drag lining up next to FloJo and you get the idea. Sometimes I couldn't finish because I was laughing too hard. It never affected the outcome, which was always predestined.
So with some trepidation I tried the treadmill at the gym, and discovered that treadmills aren't bad; they work with you, making it feel less like running and more like flying. I could go for a good length of time once I was warmed up; with my music on and my heart finding its cruising rate, I found I really enjoyed it.
Running outside was another matter. Running outside means a surface, usually hard, that does not move with you. It says, "Run or don't run; it's all the same to me. I'm a sidewalk. I've got all kinds of time." The impact was greater, I felt more earthbound, and worst of all, I was outside, where everyone could observe my struggles to run a fraction of the distance I could on the beloved Treadmill of Encouragement.
I knew that if I could find a running buddy it would be easier; I'd done this in college a few times and it made a big difference. Problem is, none of my friends wanted to (I'm beginning to realize that people I consider my friends are not people with whom I have a lot in common. This has caused a lot of reflection over the past week. Topic for another post, when I'm not feeling pissy about it all).
My chiropractor recommended a Chicago running group, and sure enough, they have training. I signed up. It went like this:
Show up at meeting point, a high-end gym so opulent that the bathroom causes you to stop short when you first enter because it is approximately three times the size of your apartment and you literally lose your orientation when you walk in. Worry that the Ponytail Police will serve you a citation for being in violation of Trendy Code 1.3.C, with added time for applying polish to your own toenails. Wait in atrium on large 3-sided couch while other runners join you. Note that as always you are older by far than everyone, and amuse yourself with your usual routine of talking to them like you're also a human being similar in many ways to them, almost the same species even, watching them get all polite-awkward. Fail to care, since your arms and legs are better than most of theirs, and your stomach more flat. (This is what happens when you don't consider beer a food group, girls. Watch and learn.) Realize after a few minutes that everyone is staring at a hand-held device and saying nothing to one another. Consider suddenly shouting YOUR GENERATION IS DESTROYING CIVILIZATION, but decide to hold that ace for another time. When the trainers arrive, prepare to tell them that you will be in the beginner group, but when they ask for a show of hands, realize you would be the only one. Raise your hand with others in the 5K-training group of about six people.
Go outside, do stretching exercises on a busy sidewalk, then take off in a group. Run for one mile along side streets and the lakefront, listening to the one guy in the group tell another girl that his girlfriend gets angry because he calls her on the phone to talk rather than texting her. Consider asking him to tell his ungrateful psycho of a GF that she is destroying civilization, but instead suggest that the next time he's in bed with her he say nothing but text her instead.
Remind self to work on filters. Play rhythmic running music in your head.
Run one mile, stop with the group, rest, drink some water, run a mile back. Second mile is easier. Discuss muscle issues with the leader of the other group, a seemingly cool woman who isn't put off by your overactive energy gene.
Genuinely look forward to your own run this weekend. For now, the soreness.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Hot Flashes and Heat Waves
I want to preface this post by explaining that it's been in the 90s here. I like hot weather. I bike in it, I walk around in it, I'm down with the heat. However.
I have a small apartment that gets little in the way of a cross-breeze, and I have pets, animals who have fur, and who, if they weren't domesticated, would be hiding sensibly in some cool, damp hole somewhere instead of sprawled on the floor trying to cool off.
We're having our buildings tuck pointed, having some much-needed repair done to our parapet walls and lintels, but the crew took a ridiculously long time to get its shit together, and the upshot of it is that for over three weeks I've had scaffolding in front of the only windows large enough to accommodate my air conditioner. And there are just so many days you can close the windows, shut the curtains, turn on fans and ask your animals to deal; there are just so many evenings you can sit in almost nothing while a film of sweat forms between you and anything you touch. Like my lap and my laptop. Right now. And the crazy-in-love cat stretched against my leg, on her back, head hanging off the couch, paws out, like Superman flying upside-down. Because this cat will do anything to be near/on me when I'm sitting. Kind of sweet, kind of a huge pain in the ass.
Did I mention I've had hot flashes all day and now cramps? that I'm wearing only underpants and two bandannas because everything else I have, including tank tops, feels like a bear pelt?
Just as long as you can envision the pretty, pretty picture here. I did wax my upper lip, so I am somewhat redeemed from being something that terrifies kids in a Grimm Fairy Tale.
So here's the latest on the Why Can't Joy Feel Connected, and please, comments are more than welcome, because I need some perspective.
My friend Jennifer, who's lived here for two years and agrees that Chicago is good in that people aren't snobs and don't judge people on a superficial level, is also finding it hard nevertheless to connect with people intellectually. She put it well: "In order for people to be interesting, the have to have INTERESTS."
She hit it on the head. I am heartily sick and tired of trying to recommend books or radio programs or ANYTHING to people, to have absolutely NOBODY say, hey, that sounds interesting; let me try that!
I just finished two books recommended to me by the guy who owns a bookstore. I listened to two radio interviews recommended to me by Karen at Mutttering, and loved them; In fact, I was inspired to buy a book by the interviewee. That is how I go through life, like a magpie picking up pieces here and there that people hold out for me. Being OPEN. It makes for a wealth of unexpected experience, and it just absolutely baffles the living shit out of me that I'm surrounded by people who spend so much energy finding stupid reasons to dislike something, mainly, it seems, so that they don't have to try anything new.
Where is the curiosity? Where is the INTEREST? Where is the craving for inspiration?!?!
So I'm taking a new approach: I signed up for a running training clinic, so I can meet people who like to run, and hopefully get better. First one for me is Thursday. I will no longer watch movies unless I want to, attend things unless I'm interested. No longer will I go along just for the social component. I can't do that when there's little reciprocity. Part of it is indeed a small temper tantrum; part of it is stopping myself from feeling like a social doormat. Jennifer will be in China for a large chunk of the summer on business, so it will be up to me to forge new connections. I will go the the Irish Fest alone and dance; I will do what I want without the irritating futility of hoping I can spark an interest in others for something other than TV and sports. I will turn down offers to get together if the activity does not work for me. That includes miniature golf, dive bars (I drink very little) and movies about comic-book heroes.
I don't even care about finding friends at this point; I'll be happy to just meet people, share the fun, and move on.
Does anyone else struggle with this? I this a single-person phenomenon? I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes, but my gosh, it's like there's NOTHING I can get people interested in. I want to scream at them, "THIS IS YOUR LIFE? THIS IS ALL YOU WANT? SERIOUSLY?"
I have a small apartment that gets little in the way of a cross-breeze, and I have pets, animals who have fur, and who, if they weren't domesticated, would be hiding sensibly in some cool, damp hole somewhere instead of sprawled on the floor trying to cool off.
We're having our buildings tuck pointed, having some much-needed repair done to our parapet walls and lintels, but the crew took a ridiculously long time to get its shit together, and the upshot of it is that for over three weeks I've had scaffolding in front of the only windows large enough to accommodate my air conditioner. And there are just so many days you can close the windows, shut the curtains, turn on fans and ask your animals to deal; there are just so many evenings you can sit in almost nothing while a film of sweat forms between you and anything you touch. Like my lap and my laptop. Right now. And the crazy-in-love cat stretched against my leg, on her back, head hanging off the couch, paws out, like Superman flying upside-down. Because this cat will do anything to be near/on me when I'm sitting. Kind of sweet, kind of a huge pain in the ass.
Did I mention I've had hot flashes all day and now cramps? that I'm wearing only underpants and two bandannas because everything else I have, including tank tops, feels like a bear pelt?
Just as long as you can envision the pretty, pretty picture here. I did wax my upper lip, so I am somewhat redeemed from being something that terrifies kids in a Grimm Fairy Tale.
So here's the latest on the Why Can't Joy Feel Connected, and please, comments are more than welcome, because I need some perspective.
My friend Jennifer, who's lived here for two years and agrees that Chicago is good in that people aren't snobs and don't judge people on a superficial level, is also finding it hard nevertheless to connect with people intellectually. She put it well: "In order for people to be interesting, the have to have INTERESTS."
She hit it on the head. I am heartily sick and tired of trying to recommend books or radio programs or ANYTHING to people, to have absolutely NOBODY say, hey, that sounds interesting; let me try that!
I just finished two books recommended to me by the guy who owns a bookstore. I listened to two radio interviews recommended to me by Karen at Mutttering, and loved them; In fact, I was inspired to buy a book by the interviewee. That is how I go through life, like a magpie picking up pieces here and there that people hold out for me. Being OPEN. It makes for a wealth of unexpected experience, and it just absolutely baffles the living shit out of me that I'm surrounded by people who spend so much energy finding stupid reasons to dislike something, mainly, it seems, so that they don't have to try anything new.
Where is the curiosity? Where is the INTEREST? Where is the craving for inspiration?!?!
So I'm taking a new approach: I signed up for a running training clinic, so I can meet people who like to run, and hopefully get better. First one for me is Thursday. I will no longer watch movies unless I want to, attend things unless I'm interested. No longer will I go along just for the social component. I can't do that when there's little reciprocity. Part of it is indeed a small temper tantrum; part of it is stopping myself from feeling like a social doormat. Jennifer will be in China for a large chunk of the summer on business, so it will be up to me to forge new connections. I will go the the Irish Fest alone and dance; I will do what I want without the irritating futility of hoping I can spark an interest in others for something other than TV and sports. I will turn down offers to get together if the activity does not work for me. That includes miniature golf, dive bars (I drink very little) and movies about comic-book heroes.
I don't even care about finding friends at this point; I'll be happy to just meet people, share the fun, and move on.
Does anyone else struggle with this? I this a single-person phenomenon? I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes, but my gosh, it's like there's NOTHING I can get people interested in. I want to scream at them, "THIS IS YOUR LIFE? THIS IS ALL YOU WANT? SERIOUSLY?"
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
"...I'm sorry if that was unclear."
I miss the joyous writing of all my experiences, all the things that strike me and amaze me and make me enjoy the weirdness of life.
The problem is, I'm struggling, and while I've written lots of entries, so many of them are just such ranting bitchery and self-pity that by the time I finish them, not only do I NOT want to publish them, I want to stop being me for five minutes so I can experience some relief from the constant effort to be philosophical about the fact that, essentially, I'm unhappy and I can't seem to jump-start out of it. I play favorite songs on my iPod, I ride my bike, I make witty comments on FaceBook, I make small talk with strangers everywhere, I stay BUSY, but under it all I just want to let loose one unending, ear-splitting scream. My job, my personal life, my creative life, are all stuck. And I'm lonely, that kind of lonely where in spite of having friends you feel locked in your own head all the time.
The recent tipping point (because there always is one): Kevin and I have been spending a fair amount of time together. I'm no longer consumed with attraction when I'm with him; instead, there is that nice feeling of real friendship, although of course, I sill have my crush. With most men, I'd know what to do; with Kevin, the rules are in a foreign language. The point is, I was confused as to what we were. Were we platonically dating? Not? Not that it had to be defined or pushed, but a comment he made in an email about a woman he'd been chatting with after yoga class had me confused. Was he saying he was chatting her up? What does this mean?
So I sent an email that said basically, "My crush is obstinate and delusionally optimistic. It would help if you would just write in black and white, 'Im not interested in dating you.'"
And then I went for a 2-hour walk with a friend.
I came back. There was an email from Kevin. The first two lines were:
"I'm not interested in dating you. I'm sorry if that wasn't clear."
I thanked him, and we had no more discussion about it. I made the comment my desktop so that I would be reminded whenever I got wistful.
So It's official: K-man does not want to date me. I won't go into all the complicate thoughts/feelings I have around this. My feelings for him were real, the desire was real, and the craving for a connection with him was real, and perhaps it could have worked if we'd been similarly attracted and motivated. I don't think I've ever worked so hard to connect with someone. But, if he's not interested, he's not interested. Attraction chooses us, not the other way around.
So I stood in my kitchen, cutting some watermelon, pondering for the seventh-hundred time why the hell I felt called to come to Chicago. I mean, consider:
I thought about all the stuff I've tried to accomplish and haven't, all the failure. Did I come to Chicago just to fail? And then it hit me. Maybe I did. The epiphany was this: maybe I came here so that Chicago could teach me to survive rejection. I have always had a really hard time with rejection -- it cuts my legs out from under me, goes to the heart of my insecurities and feelings of self-worth. I know nobody likes it, but for me, rejection - particularly from men -- conjures up lots of old, old stuff. I become obsesses with comparisons, with self-criticism, with rage. Now, here I was facing the rejection of a guy I'd liked for a year and a half, and I was eating watermelon and wondering how to get back in the game. No self-destruction. Sure, there's anger, my old stand-by (what does he see in those other women that I don't have?!?!?!), but I remind myself again (and again) that attraction chooses us, not vice-versa.
I still have my share of cynicism and bitterness, for sure; Lord knows that's obvious. I don't deny I'm an angry person. The difference is that before, my response would have been, "I'm so worthless because nobody appreciates me," and I would have fallen into a vortex of despair and self-destructive behavior. Now, it's "People are so stupid to not appreciate me." I've been rejected a lot here, failed many times, but I've kept faith that I'm worthwhile, that I should keep trying, at least so far. That is huge for me. I'm getting tired, though.
Don't get me wrong: there are deep, deep complicated emotions tied to this, and if history is any proof, my full reaction will take awhile. I'm sure I'll be angry for a long time, but the key is that I'm still standing. Of course I'm trying like crazy to figure out how to apply all of this so the lesson can end. Or maybe once the lesson is learned it will simply be time to go somewhere else.
The problem is, I'm struggling, and while I've written lots of entries, so many of them are just such ranting bitchery and self-pity that by the time I finish them, not only do I NOT want to publish them, I want to stop being me for five minutes so I can experience some relief from the constant effort to be philosophical about the fact that, essentially, I'm unhappy and I can't seem to jump-start out of it. I play favorite songs on my iPod, I ride my bike, I make witty comments on FaceBook, I make small talk with strangers everywhere, I stay BUSY, but under it all I just want to let loose one unending, ear-splitting scream. My job, my personal life, my creative life, are all stuck. And I'm lonely, that kind of lonely where in spite of having friends you feel locked in your own head all the time.
The recent tipping point (because there always is one): Kevin and I have been spending a fair amount of time together. I'm no longer consumed with attraction when I'm with him; instead, there is that nice feeling of real friendship, although of course, I sill have my crush. With most men, I'd know what to do; with Kevin, the rules are in a foreign language. The point is, I was confused as to what we were. Were we platonically dating? Not? Not that it had to be defined or pushed, but a comment he made in an email about a woman he'd been chatting with after yoga class had me confused. Was he saying he was chatting her up? What does this mean?
So I sent an email that said basically, "My crush is obstinate and delusionally optimistic. It would help if you would just write in black and white, 'Im not interested in dating you.'"
And then I went for a 2-hour walk with a friend.
I came back. There was an email from Kevin. The first two lines were:
"I'm not interested in dating you. I'm sorry if that wasn't clear."
I thanked him, and we had no more discussion about it. I made the comment my desktop so that I would be reminded whenever I got wistful.
So It's official: K-man does not want to date me. I won't go into all the complicate thoughts/feelings I have around this. My feelings for him were real, the desire was real, and the craving for a connection with him was real, and perhaps it could have worked if we'd been similarly attracted and motivated. I don't think I've ever worked so hard to connect with someone. But, if he's not interested, he's not interested. Attraction chooses us, not the other way around.
So I stood in my kitchen, cutting some watermelon, pondering for the seventh-hundred time why the hell I felt called to come to Chicago. I mean, consider:
- I've performed monologues for audition after audition and have not been cast.
- I graduated from Second City to realize that the improv world is mostly young and male and unappealing.
- I quit an acting class when their bullying BS was pointless and did nothing for me. And told the instructor that their method was reckless and irresponsible.
- I've had crap jobs. I hate the one I've got.
- And now I've been rejected by a guy with poor social skills and a terror of intimacy.
I thought about all the stuff I've tried to accomplish and haven't, all the failure. Did I come to Chicago just to fail? And then it hit me. Maybe I did. The epiphany was this: maybe I came here so that Chicago could teach me to survive rejection. I have always had a really hard time with rejection -- it cuts my legs out from under me, goes to the heart of my insecurities and feelings of self-worth. I know nobody likes it, but for me, rejection - particularly from men -- conjures up lots of old, old stuff. I become obsesses with comparisons, with self-criticism, with rage. Now, here I was facing the rejection of a guy I'd liked for a year and a half, and I was eating watermelon and wondering how to get back in the game. No self-destruction. Sure, there's anger, my old stand-by (what does he see in those other women that I don't have?!?!?!), but I remind myself again (and again) that attraction chooses us, not vice-versa.
I still have my share of cynicism and bitterness, for sure; Lord knows that's obvious. I don't deny I'm an angry person. The difference is that before, my response would have been, "I'm so worthless because nobody appreciates me," and I would have fallen into a vortex of despair and self-destructive behavior. Now, it's "People are so stupid to not appreciate me." I've been rejected a lot here, failed many times, but I've kept faith that I'm worthwhile, that I should keep trying, at least so far. That is huge for me. I'm getting tired, though.
Don't get me wrong: there are deep, deep complicated emotions tied to this, and if history is any proof, my full reaction will take awhile. I'm sure I'll be angry for a long time, but the key is that I'm still standing. Of course I'm trying like crazy to figure out how to apply all of this so the lesson can end. Or maybe once the lesson is learned it will simply be time to go somewhere else.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Warm Weather Invincibility
Last week at work was a combination of a co-worker being out and crazy deadlines for four spec books we had to pull together. How to impress the magnitude of the task without boring you... well, we usually have one of one kind of the book, but Department Head decided it would be better to split them up between two business lines, asset management and facilities management. This meant we had to take 12 years' historical data (building square footage and claims data) that is represented two ways: showing only those properties that are currently in the program, and also all the properties that have ever been in the program.
And we had to do this twice, once for each business line. So Active Claims Data is an Excel workbook with about 8 worksheets; ditto for All In Claims. And these are just two of about 15 files that comprise each book. And historically, the data were compiled by people not so good with the Excel. Add to that I get claims data reports from Claims Guy, who gives them to me A DAY before they have to be handed to the broker (did I mention there are two reports, from two different carriers, which means different column headings and formatting that have to be combined? And also much of the data we use as criteria for the project was missing?)
It's always a mess, always a scramble, it always sucks, only this time the other admin was out all week. So not only was I covering for her, I had this project to work on. Oh, and I had a stomach thing where I had to retreat to the bathroom regularly to curl up on the floor while stabbing pain shot across my abdomen.
But the worst part is that my boss and the pathological control issues she really needs to take to a professional therapist has been on my ass for no reason other than her paranoia. I don't appreciate her tone or her apparent assumption that being my employer entitles her to treat me like an indentured servant. I have been biting my tongue and being neutral to pacify her, but we are one rude, lecture-to-a-ten-year-old conversation away from me telling her to fuck off. I don't mean that metaphorically. I bend over backwards to make things work, and I don't seek out trouble, but when you back me into a corner and keep pressing, I will by God bite your face off.
So as I always do when I am stressed out and full of such rage that I'm imagining scenarios while I'm cleaning my house, and practicing telling my boss to fuck off, I take a look a the big picture. Because as Megan says in "Bridesmaids," "The problem isn't the world. The problem is you."
I don't mean that in the sense that my conduct is poor; I mean it in the sense that I can't let anyone but me decide my life. And if I don't like my life, I need to change it.
This weekend the weather was summer hot, and this kind of weather always makes me feel like I can do anything. I'm meteorologically bipolar. When I'm out in hot weather, I feel invincible. I saw a really fun play with Kevin (he gets free tickets as a reviewer), and took Monday off. I spent the day off the phone, doing laundry and painting my kitchen the yellow it has wanted to be. I love this, this independence, this self-determination, this understanding of who I am when I'm not at work and unhappy.
I've been budgeting heavily, but I'm re-joining the art studio in Greenleaf as an associate, have been working on some canvases, and plan to take a wheelthrowing class in June. I was a potter a long time ago, and I loved it; it's my kind of meditating. I need to focus on more creative activity, because the person I am inside is dying to come back out.
And I'm not sure how I feel about this, but I keep thinking a lot of this would be easier if I had someone to lean on. Granted, I've had few relationships where I could lean on my guy, but to have someone say, "Do what you need to do, if only for a little while. I have your back" would be huge.
And we had to do this twice, once for each business line. So Active Claims Data is an Excel workbook with about 8 worksheets; ditto for All In Claims. And these are just two of about 15 files that comprise each book. And historically, the data were compiled by people not so good with the Excel. Add to that I get claims data reports from Claims Guy, who gives them to me A DAY before they have to be handed to the broker (did I mention there are two reports, from two different carriers, which means different column headings and formatting that have to be combined? And also much of the data we use as criteria for the project was missing?)
It's always a mess, always a scramble, it always sucks, only this time the other admin was out all week. So not only was I covering for her, I had this project to work on. Oh, and I had a stomach thing where I had to retreat to the bathroom regularly to curl up on the floor while stabbing pain shot across my abdomen.
But the worst part is that my boss and the pathological control issues she really needs to take to a professional therapist has been on my ass for no reason other than her paranoia. I don't appreciate her tone or her apparent assumption that being my employer entitles her to treat me like an indentured servant. I have been biting my tongue and being neutral to pacify her, but we are one rude, lecture-to-a-ten-year-old conversation away from me telling her to fuck off. I don't mean that metaphorically. I bend over backwards to make things work, and I don't seek out trouble, but when you back me into a corner and keep pressing, I will by God bite your face off.
So as I always do when I am stressed out and full of such rage that I'm imagining scenarios while I'm cleaning my house, and practicing telling my boss to fuck off, I take a look a the big picture. Because as Megan says in "Bridesmaids," "The problem isn't the world. The problem is you."
I don't mean that in the sense that my conduct is poor; I mean it in the sense that I can't let anyone but me decide my life. And if I don't like my life, I need to change it.
This weekend the weather was summer hot, and this kind of weather always makes me feel like I can do anything. I'm meteorologically bipolar. When I'm out in hot weather, I feel invincible. I saw a really fun play with Kevin (he gets free tickets as a reviewer), and took Monday off. I spent the day off the phone, doing laundry and painting my kitchen the yellow it has wanted to be. I love this, this independence, this self-determination, this understanding of who I am when I'm not at work and unhappy.
I've been budgeting heavily, but I'm re-joining the art studio in Greenleaf as an associate, have been working on some canvases, and plan to take a wheelthrowing class in June. I was a potter a long time ago, and I loved it; it's my kind of meditating. I need to focus on more creative activity, because the person I am inside is dying to come back out.
And I'm not sure how I feel about this, but I keep thinking a lot of this would be easier if I had someone to lean on. Granted, I've had few relationships where I could lean on my guy, but to have someone say, "Do what you need to do, if only for a little while. I have your back" would be huge.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Bunnies and Bunnymen
Yesterday I went to Red Door to help with some painting, which is funny, because my first intro to Red Door was volunteering to paint there...the same areas.
Red Door is the only shelter in the city, and only one of a handful in the nation, that adopts out rabbits. It spans several storefront retail spaces, and has been opened up for the main rabbit room. Another woman, Lisa, and I were painting a cat room, a section of hallway, and two of the window nests the cats use. Lisa had a great smartphone that doubled as a radio; she was on Pandora and was rocking some really good 80s-90s music: The Cure, The Psychedelic Furs, Joy Division.
"Oh, I remember this one," I said as Echo and the Bunnymen talked about a killing moon. "It was shortly after graduation; an ex-college roommate of mine shared a room in an apartment with her borderline personality disorder and my clinical depression. Ah, memories."
We painted (the walls, the trim, ourselves), and I took breaks to hang out with cats and rabbits. They have a good crowd in there right now. One of the rabbits went home with a couple I really liked, and another went home later with a nice family.
I was in the window area when "Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus came on. (The song became famous as the song from Silence of The Lambs that plays on the serial killer's stereo while he makes himself up and Clarice Starling tries to sneak into the basement to find his kidnap victim. It's ethereal on its own, but when coupled with the movie, becomes chilling.)
"Oh, God, this song always gives me the creeps now, "said Lisa, shivering.
"I really like it," I said. Then in my best deep Buffalo Bill voice; "I'd f*ck me."
"AHHHHH!" said Lisa, contorting. "That was the creepiest scene."
"I found him kind of hot," I said.
My problems with having a healthy dating life are not that hard to figure out.
We got the job done, and I helped put the rabbits back in cages and break down their exercise pens. It was good to have spent time getting something done and feeling good about it. I biked home in drizzle and had a nice hot bath. And smooched my critters.
Red Door is the only shelter in the city, and only one of a handful in the nation, that adopts out rabbits. It spans several storefront retail spaces, and has been opened up for the main rabbit room. Another woman, Lisa, and I were painting a cat room, a section of hallway, and two of the window nests the cats use. Lisa had a great smartphone that doubled as a radio; she was on Pandora and was rocking some really good 80s-90s music: The Cure, The Psychedelic Furs, Joy Division.
"Oh, I remember this one," I said as Echo and the Bunnymen talked about a killing moon. "It was shortly after graduation; an ex-college roommate of mine shared a room in an apartment with her borderline personality disorder and my clinical depression. Ah, memories."
We painted (the walls, the trim, ourselves), and I took breaks to hang out with cats and rabbits. They have a good crowd in there right now. One of the rabbits went home with a couple I really liked, and another went home later with a nice family.
I was in the window area when "Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus came on. (The song became famous as the song from Silence of The Lambs that plays on the serial killer's stereo while he makes himself up and Clarice Starling tries to sneak into the basement to find his kidnap victim. It's ethereal on its own, but when coupled with the movie, becomes chilling.)
"Oh, God, this song always gives me the creeps now, "said Lisa, shivering.
"I really like it," I said. Then in my best deep Buffalo Bill voice; "I'd f*ck me."
"AHHHHH!" said Lisa, contorting. "That was the creepiest scene."
"I found him kind of hot," I said.
My problems with having a healthy dating life are not that hard to figure out.
We got the job done, and I helped put the rabbits back in cages and break down their exercise pens. It was good to have spent time getting something done and feeling good about it. I biked home in drizzle and had a nice hot bath. And smooched my critters.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Like Sands Through The Hourglass....
Woke today full of energy for all the things I was going to get done, chief among them putting the finishing touches on a canvas and getting some new paintings started. I've decided I'm going to just go for broke and really try to get my stuff out there so that I can make some money on the side. Money from something I like to do.
Well, I did get a lot of things done: took myself to Svea for breakfast like old times (I needed a solo breakfast out in the worst way), got badly needed pet supplies and some stuff to cook. Called a friend who'd left a voicemail and sounded in a bad way; that took a good 90 minutes, during which I picked up shit around the house and finally took dry clothes off the clothes rack (well, what the cats hadn't already pulled down). Got my asthma medication ($224 - yes I want Obamacare, thank you very much), and came home to cook some food so that I'd have something in the house. Made some kickass Tom Kha soup (here is the recipe with chicken; I modify to make it vegetarian); oh my gosh this soup is easy and GOOD. Also made a large salad, cooked some soaked chickpeas, and set some kidney beans out to soak in order to make a ton of burritos to freeze for lunches next week (I've discovered that dried beans are more work but far cheaper, and I don't worry about them sitting in a can forever before I buy them).
Posted to FB intermittently while doing all this. And here it is 1 am and no painting. Tomorrow I'm heading to Red Door to help out for a few hours; painting will have to be tomorrow night. Lord, I wish I had more free time.....
Well, I did get a lot of things done: took myself to Svea for breakfast like old times (I needed a solo breakfast out in the worst way), got badly needed pet supplies and some stuff to cook. Called a friend who'd left a voicemail and sounded in a bad way; that took a good 90 minutes, during which I picked up shit around the house and finally took dry clothes off the clothes rack (well, what the cats hadn't already pulled down). Got my asthma medication ($224 - yes I want Obamacare, thank you very much), and came home to cook some food so that I'd have something in the house. Made some kickass Tom Kha soup (here is the recipe with chicken; I modify to make it vegetarian); oh my gosh this soup is easy and GOOD. Also made a large salad, cooked some soaked chickpeas, and set some kidney beans out to soak in order to make a ton of burritos to freeze for lunches next week (I've discovered that dried beans are more work but far cheaper, and I don't worry about them sitting in a can forever before I buy them).
Posted to FB intermittently while doing all this. And here it is 1 am and no painting. Tomorrow I'm heading to Red Door to help out for a few hours; painting will have to be tomorrow night. Lord, I wish I had more free time.....
Sunday, April 29, 2012
The Dance
This past Friday I went to see Fountains of Wayne at the Double Door. I'd told friends about the show but had no takers, so I went by myself. Kevin was working a baseball game at Sox field, and we arranged to meet for a bite after the show.
The show was old out, and I was pleased to see that many of the audience members were around my age. FoW has been around awhile, so that's not surprising, and I was happy to be surrounded by what I saw as like-minded peers. Although as always it was couples, since most people my age seem incapable of traveling in any herd smaller than two.
The opening act was a young woman with with an aggressive vibrato who wailed about Feelings. After she left, I found a spot a little closer to the stage. A woman stood beside me. Two men walked by, and paused in front of us.
OK, a word here about being five feet tall. Being five feet tall means that when it comes to concerts, clubs, movie theaters, parades -- you get the idea-- being around other people always involves dealing with idiots who think you paid good money to look at their shoulder blades. It means that when I sit in a theater, some tall asshole always plops down in front of me despite other seats being available. It means I have to stand on the foot rail and pull myself up by the edge of the bar top if I want to be seen by a bartender. I means if I want to see a band as well as hear them, I have to get to venues early to get a spot at the front, which means I have seen more shitty warmup bands than I care to mention, all while drinking nothing so that I don't have to use the restroom and lose my stakeout.
And after all this, there is always some loser who just steps in front of me as though I were invisible. And that's when I get all Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. I get all, "What, you think I'm funny? I amuse you? I'm like a clown?" And then I start jabbing kidneys, and glaring and "Hey! I'm standing RIGHT HERE!"
And yeah, yeah, I'm 48 and single and have no kids and short and if I come across as belligerent, it's because I've been marginalized by the media, am unrepresented in pop culture, and am so freaking tired of struggling to find friends who aren't in a hurry to be boring, and one guy - ONE MATURE UNMARRIED GUY who finds me interesting and not scary, but DAMMIT, I WILL AT LEAST SEE THE GODDAMN BAND.
So it was with surprised elation that as I prepared to give the two guys all kinds of bitchery, I heard the woman next to me call out, "OK, Guys, let's keep it moving!"
"Yeah," I chimed in. "Move it along!" And they did. The woman and I smiled at one another.
"What about that opening act?" I asked. "I felt like I was looking at a freshman English major singing about her sad life."
"OH MY GOD," said the woman,. "NO kidding! I wanted to say, 'Here honey, here's the Patsy Cline songbook. Study.'"
"Go sing your sad songs in Branson," said another women, who was with the first. "Oh my God, was that really mean?"
"Yes," said another, drunk, woman near us. "But it's so true."
We all nodded in agreement.
The band came on. If you're unfamiliar with Fountains of Wayne, they are a pure pop powerhouse. For someone like me, it's an adrenaline rush that turns the dance button all the way ON. There wasn't much room around me, but I managed to dance my ass off nonetheless -- I can be very kinetic in small spaces. I danced and jumped and sang along.
And then I noticed that I was the only one. I looked around at all the married couples standing politely. The women who clearly came for their husbands (because God forbid anyone's spouse do anything that verifies that they are an actual separate person). Two women in the couples to my left were actually having a conversation during the show.
As the show went on, I screamed and whooped and danced as they played one favorite song after another. And I saw the looks the women gave me. Disapproving? And the surreptitious, smiling looks their husbands gave me. Wistful? Mocking? Who cares.
As I danced, deliriously happy, it occurred to me that this was a perfect metaphor for my dissatisfaction: I'm always dancing alone, especially in Chicago.
I met Kevin afterward, and he was wearing on his neck a temporary tattoo I'd gotten him for fun.
"It was given to me by a cool friend of mine," he said. I made as if to kiss it, and he jerked away.
Dancing alone. Can't even be playful without people weirding out.
I don't even know what the point of this post is. I'm frustrated. I'm antsy. I'm ready for a change before my coping skills make me as mediocre as everything around me. This is not the life I want. I want to find people who understand that the secret to being happy is to take risks, that taking a chance and disliking something is more of a victory than avoiding risk and the possibility of surprise. Most of all, I don't want to stop being that kind of person, and I worry that I will be if I don't do something big soon.
The show was old out, and I was pleased to see that many of the audience members were around my age. FoW has been around awhile, so that's not surprising, and I was happy to be surrounded by what I saw as like-minded peers. Although as always it was couples, since most people my age seem incapable of traveling in any herd smaller than two.
The opening act was a young woman with with an aggressive vibrato who wailed about Feelings. After she left, I found a spot a little closer to the stage. A woman stood beside me. Two men walked by, and paused in front of us.
OK, a word here about being five feet tall. Being five feet tall means that when it comes to concerts, clubs, movie theaters, parades -- you get the idea-- being around other people always involves dealing with idiots who think you paid good money to look at their shoulder blades. It means that when I sit in a theater, some tall asshole always plops down in front of me despite other seats being available. It means I have to stand on the foot rail and pull myself up by the edge of the bar top if I want to be seen by a bartender. I means if I want to see a band as well as hear them, I have to get to venues early to get a spot at the front, which means I have seen more shitty warmup bands than I care to mention, all while drinking nothing so that I don't have to use the restroom and lose my stakeout.
And after all this, there is always some loser who just steps in front of me as though I were invisible. And that's when I get all Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. I get all, "What, you think I'm funny? I amuse you? I'm like a clown?" And then I start jabbing kidneys, and glaring and "Hey! I'm standing RIGHT HERE!"
And yeah, yeah, I'm 48 and single and have no kids and short and if I come across as belligerent, it's because I've been marginalized by the media, am unrepresented in pop culture, and am so freaking tired of struggling to find friends who aren't in a hurry to be boring, and one guy - ONE MATURE UNMARRIED GUY who finds me interesting and not scary, but DAMMIT, I WILL AT LEAST SEE THE GODDAMN BAND.
So it was with surprised elation that as I prepared to give the two guys all kinds of bitchery, I heard the woman next to me call out, "OK, Guys, let's keep it moving!"
"Yeah," I chimed in. "Move it along!" And they did. The woman and I smiled at one another.
"What about that opening act?" I asked. "I felt like I was looking at a freshman English major singing about her sad life."
"OH MY GOD," said the woman,. "NO kidding! I wanted to say, 'Here honey, here's the Patsy Cline songbook. Study.'"
"Go sing your sad songs in Branson," said another women, who was with the first. "Oh my God, was that really mean?"
"Yes," said another, drunk, woman near us. "But it's so true."
We all nodded in agreement.
The band came on. If you're unfamiliar with Fountains of Wayne, they are a pure pop powerhouse. For someone like me, it's an adrenaline rush that turns the dance button all the way ON. There wasn't much room around me, but I managed to dance my ass off nonetheless -- I can be very kinetic in small spaces. I danced and jumped and sang along.
And then I noticed that I was the only one. I looked around at all the married couples standing politely. The women who clearly came for their husbands (because God forbid anyone's spouse do anything that verifies that they are an actual separate person). Two women in the couples to my left were actually having a conversation during the show.
As the show went on, I screamed and whooped and danced as they played one favorite song after another. And I saw the looks the women gave me. Disapproving? And the surreptitious, smiling looks their husbands gave me. Wistful? Mocking? Who cares.
As I danced, deliriously happy, it occurred to me that this was a perfect metaphor for my dissatisfaction: I'm always dancing alone, especially in Chicago.
I met Kevin afterward, and he was wearing on his neck a temporary tattoo I'd gotten him for fun.
"It was given to me by a cool friend of mine," he said. I made as if to kiss it, and he jerked away.
Dancing alone. Can't even be playful without people weirding out.
I don't even know what the point of this post is. I'm frustrated. I'm antsy. I'm ready for a change before my coping skills make me as mediocre as everything around me. This is not the life I want. I want to find people who understand that the secret to being happy is to take risks, that taking a chance and disliking something is more of a victory than avoiding risk and the possibility of surprise. Most of all, I don't want to stop being that kind of person, and I worry that I will be if I don't do something big soon.
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