Heritage Gone Tomorrow

DISCLAIMER:  The opinions expressed herein are strictly my own.  If you don't agree me, that's cool.  I'm not trying to talk you into anything.  Well, I still think you should get out and see more local theatre, but that's not relevant now.  Please don't berate me if you disagree with me.  You are entitled to your own opinion. Just keep your Tiki Torches at home.

 

I never really thought about it till the current shitstorm rained down, but I don't really get the concept of being proud of your heritage.

 

I am a straight white female American.  My ancestry is half Irish, one quarter Welsh and one quarter unknown, because my grandmother refused to discuss her family's past. (Unfortunately, not because it was juicy, but because my grandmother just didn't believe in talking much.)   I didn't choose any of this, it was all just an accident of birth.  If my mother had married the guy she was engaged to at the time she met my father, I would have been 150% Irish.  And as scary as that thought is, it still would have been just a random chance.  I don't feel any personal pride in the Irish or the Welsh, just because people with a lot of my DNA came from those places.  I love Ireland and Wales, because they're beautiful countries, but I love Italy too, and I can't claim any "heritage" from there.

 

If I'm proud of anything, it's the decisions I've purposely made.  I'm proud to be a mom.  I'm proud to be involved in local theatre.  I'm proud to be a cat owner.    I'm proud that I don't judge people by the color of their skin, or their sexual preference, or their selection of music genre. I'm proud that in spite of being emotionally ruined by a string of unsuccessful relationships, I can still cry with joy when I see people I love in love.  I'm proud that I still believe in this country and its  system of government, though lately that's been a tough one.   I'm proud that I choose not to believe in a mythical, misogynistic, homophobic immortal, who purportedly wrote one book over 2000 years ago that's supposed to be what we live by. (Come on, even Harper Lee wrote 2 books!) 

 

And I'm proud of my friends who  battled demons and won, even though I know every day is a struggle for them to keep on keeping on.  And I'm proud of my kids, because they are the best people in the universe, the end.
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But I'm not proud to be a Mick and a Leek, that's just the roll of the dice.  In the end, what counts is not what boat your ancestors stepped off of, but what path you choose to walk today.  I've certainly chosen to go down my fair share of deadends, but as my paths are growing shorter, I'm proud of where I'm walking now.


 

 



Musings on Being Old

I hate when people say, "You're not old."  Yes, I am.  65 is old.  I hope to be older, but 65 is still old.  I'm not pretending to be 25, so you don't have to pretend I am, either.

 

I have been asked why I don't hang out with people my own age.  The answer is because I'm not in preschool.  There may be a time when I get chucked into a home and they'll put me in the rising 85 year-olds (a small group, with a high drop-out rate), but for now I prefer to hang out with people with whom I have similar interests and who refrain from telling me I'm not old. 

 

I am still freaked out every time I look at my hands and they're the hands of an old person.  I'm used to the dark circles under my eyes and the impressive chin wattle, but I still wonder every time I look down, "Who stuck my mother's hands at the end of my arms??"

 

My quality of life diminished greatly after my divorce, and never recovered.  I no longer own a home, washer/dryer, and/or dishwasher.  I don't have or ever will have a significant other.  I have adjusted amazingly well to this; but I sometimes still miss having a washer/dryer. 

 

Many people get more religious as they get older, I've gotten less.  I never accepted the construct of heaven or hell, once I stopped believing in Santa Clause or Congress.  I like the idea of reincarnation, but I think it's entirely possible that once you're dead, you're dead.  I find that comforting.  At least I won't miss having a washer/dryer anymore.

 

I have accepted the fact that every day there will be at least one part of my body in pain.  It's kind of fun getting up in the morning (itself a plus!) and discovering which body part hurts today.  It took me awhile to get over the, "Oh my God, my elbow hurts, I have elbow cancer!" phase, but I thankfully have landed in the resignation phase, "Life's a bitch, and then you die."

 

It has also taken a long time for me to accept the fact that I will never be the person I want to be.  I will always have my demons.  At one point, I thought realizing why I have demons would make them go away, but it hasn't.  I just have to come up with coping mechanisms to learn to live with them, which I have.  In the words of the great Jack Nicholson, "This is as good as it gets."  This fact no longer reduces me to a sobbing, inconsolable pile of poo.  Most days.

 

Yes, I am rapidly spinning towards the end of my mortal coil, but I am beyond lucky/grateful to have  my amazing kids, their partners, and my grandbabies, theatre, and my loving theatre friends, and my cats.  Not bad for an old lady.

 

 

 

 



You Gotta Have Faith

You just did the other two faiths in your head,  didn't you??  Ha!  I knew it!

Anyroad, much like flipping your mattress every six months, or standing by your man, I don't think you really have to do what my title says.

Well, maybe you do, and that's cool, I'm not judging.  (Unless your faith is in murder or rape or Trump, you know, something disastrous.  Then I'm  totally Judgey MacJudgerson.)

There have been several times in my life that I have had religious faith.  Hell, in fourth grade I wanted to be a nun.  Which probably would have destroyed the Catholic Church as we know it, so maybe I should have followed through with that.  But in any case, all my forays into Religious Faithdom ended up with me doubting more and more any religious teaching whatsoever so that now I don't believe in any dogma and have two cats.  

I don't even have faith that that terrible joke worked...(it didn't, I'm sure)...but maybe that's what happens when you reduce your concept of "God" to a mythical creature like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, just not as generous.

I won't bother going into losing faith in our democratic process, or the judicial system, or beauty products, cause we all swim in that same bullshit sea, amIright?

But the loss of faith that strangely brings me the most comfort is the lack of faith in people. People REALLY suck.  While Santy didn't bring me the bike I wanted for Christmas and God didn't make Drake Tressler like me in 7th grade, the disappointment and heartbreak actual human beings have given me is what has put me in an emotional wasteland.  And I like it here.

Oh, I still cry when I watch Field of Dreams, my heart swells with love whenever I see my kids, and my friends are the best.  But 90% of my life I float along, aware of the stupidity, the meanness, the lack of compassion, and  I view it all as though I'm on a distant planet (I wish!  One-way ticket to Risa, please!).  I no longer subscribe to your religion, people.  Namaste.

It's calm here.  Bullshit still happens (have you read my posts about my job??) but it doesn't phase me.  Just a humorous anecdote to share over adult beverages.  I may not have the joys I had when I was still invested in people, but I also don't have the gut-wrenching pain, and I don't miss that at all.  I  have no expectations of life, and  therefore I am never disappointed.  

I'm sure this state I refer to as Faith Understandably Completely Knockered, (you figure it out) is probably largely due to age.  You naturally care less as you get older.  It's the creepy amusement park ride operator's way of telling you the roller coaster is slowing down, so just sit back and enjoy the ride.

Please do not read this rambling as a cry for pity or a "poor me" post.  I am in the best place I have ever been in my life.  I am proud of my accomplishments; I have weathered my tribulations (some of which are good stories, and I will write about them later); and I am still here and thriving.  Being faithless is the best thing that ever happened to me.  

How Did We Get to Here From There?

This morning:

 

Coworker:  They want to impeach our Governor.

Me: Sure, why not?

Coworker:  They should impeach our President.

 

I just walked away, cause I believe murder is wrong, and I didn't have my non-existent gun on me, but it really angered me.  I mean REALLY angered me.

 

I know I am surrounded by a bunch of knee-jerk conservatives, but I come from a long line of knee-jerk conservatives. 

 

In high school, I was an anti-war supporter during Vietnam.  I wore a black armband and refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance in homeroom.  My parents disapproved of my behavior, and thought the war was justified (even though it was being perpetuated by a Democrat and they were die-hard Republicans).  Their attitude irritated me and we had some heated arguments about it, but I never got really angry about it, nor did they.

 

Back when the Watergate Hearings were happening, my father and I had many discussions about Nixon.  In my father's eyes, RMN could do no wrong, despite the fact that before both our sets of eyes, we were watching the truth unfold.  But I never was angry at  daddy for his beliefs, even though I felt them to be wrong. 

 

When the Roe v. Wade decision was handed down by the Supreme Court, I don't remember a lot of  backlash.  There was no such thing, as I remember, as Pro-Life and Pro-Choice.  There were people who were totally against abortion and would never have one, but they didn't see anything wrong with women obtaining one legally under safe medical conditions, instead of in a back room with a rusty coat hanger.   

 

(You will notice I use the phrase "as I remember" a lot.  That's because in the early 70's  my diet consisted mainly of gin and tonics and random drugs, so I may have missed a lot of what was actually happening.  Good times.)

 

But my point is, in spite of the political/moral divisions I had with those closest to me,  we were all rational about our differences. 

 

Now every time someone disagrees with me, I feel a Hulk attack coming on. 

 

I am sure there are people more politically savvy then myself (which would include almost everyone except my cats) who have a logical, though long-winded, explanation for the reason there is a cloud of anger/bitterness/righteousness that hangs over our country and makes us all feel like going postal.  I probably wouldn't understand it, though, if I heard it.  Those years of gin/tonic/drugs have taken their toll.

 

But I do believe that all this almost palpable negativism is the cause for the rise of cute animal videos.  You have to do something to calm down so you won't kill your fellow employees.  I guess. 

 

The result of all this National Crankiness is that it makes me feel old.  I worked hard in my youth to stand up for what I believe is right, and we had a couple of victories.  For a while the country chugged forward with people still disagreeing, but generally just staying out of each other's way.  And now it's all gone haywire, and I find myself caught up in it.  If my coworker doesn't like Obama, that's her business and her right.  I mean, 'Murica, right?  Her random comment (inappropriate as it seems to me) about impeaching him shouldn't make me shoot red laser beams out of my eyes and reach for my phaser.  This is not me.  Has someone been spiking my PBR? 

 

But, hey, have you seen that YouTube of that cat in that box??  It's adorable!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Even If I Don't Fits, I Sits

With two notable exceptions, I have never fit in with where I am.  I was a ten-month baby, and in my mind, it was because along around 9 1/2 months I realized who I would be living with and was, like, "Whoa, these are not the droids I want."  (I was one of the early Indigo Children).  Anyroad, I ended up with them and always seemed like a stranger in a strange land.  I was definitely a part of the family unit, but I always felt like I was wearing a pair of undies that were too small and kept riding up my butt.

 

School was the same way.  Then I had a brief fling with theatre, but we broke up, because theatre wasn't into long-term commitments.  My first job in The Real World was with the FBI and I don't think I have to tell you my comfort level there.  (Though the NYC Office was cooler than the Pittsburgh Office.  I got to be in NYC for the birth of Disco, it was glorious.)  

 

My first notable exception was during my motherhood/wife-life phase.  Until the wife-life tanked, which led to the second notable exception when I got back together with my high school boyfriend, theatre; with the understanding that either of us could pull out whenever we wanted. (TWSS, but it should be noted that theatre broke up with me last year, and we got back together in August.)

 

ANYROAD, all of the above is just exposition to my point today, which is I don't feel comfortable in the current social environment.  I know I am not alone in this, thank Dionysus, but it hit home this morning when I  heard a woman in my office say, "I don't understand gun control."  Now, I don't know if she meant she doesn't understand how it works (or, actually, doesn't work), or if she doesn't understand why we need it.  But either way, I can't wrap my head around it.  Surely, she doesn't think it's okay for a mentally unstable human being to walk into a school and shoot people.  Doesn't she realize that stricter gun regulations may have prevented that man from obtaining a gun?  Why am I asking you?  You guys are on my side (I'm guessing)...you know this. 

 

But it's shit like this, and shit like people believing that Trump is an actual human being capable of national leadership, and not Zombie Hitler, that just make me want to crawl into a hole (although a comfy hole, with my cats and beer and Netflix) and never emerge. 

 

I thought we fixed this in 1970, people!  You mean I wore a black armband, refused to salute the flag and worshipped John Lennon for NOTHING??  

 

Well, it just proves, once again, that Star Trek was right...resistance is futile. And, if I have to accept the inevitability of assimilation, I supposed I can be comforted by the fact that I"ll get Jeri Ryan-like tits. 

 

But I'd rather people would quit shooting each other.

 

 

 

 



In Memoriam

When I was 15, I decided I wanted to be an actor.  My mother was aghast.  She was sure this would lead to me having sex all the time.  (She was always afraid I was going to be have sex all the time.  How wrong can you get.) Anyroad, my aunt thought me taking acting lessons was a wonderful idea and, wanting more than anything to please her new sister-in-law, my mother signed me up for Saturday morning acting lessons at the Pittsburgh Playhouse.

 

My teacher was Thom Thomas.  Thom was on the faculty of Point Park College (affiliated with the Playhouse).  He had graduated from Carnegie-Mellon and worked briefly in LA.  He was in the process of starting a summer theatre in Pittsburgh, The Odd Chair Playhouse.

 

It is no exaggeration to say that Thom Thomas changed my life.  He told me I had some ability.  He taught me the basics of theatre, including theatre etiquette, which is just as important as acting.  I worked at Odd Chair for seven years, attended Point Park because I wanted to continue studying with him, and grew from a lonely, insecure little girl into a woman who found her calling and her tribe.

 

A few years ago, we became FB friends.   I took that opportunity to express to Thom how much I loved and admired him and to thank him profusely for giving me a love for theatre, which truly made me into the Debbie I Was Meant to Be.

 

I'm so glad I did that.  Thom passed away  today, and I can't stop crying.  With the exception of my kids, no one has ever had such an enormous positive effect on my life.  In addition to being terrified of me becoming a sex machine, my mother was also convinced that I would commit suicide.  Perhaps I would have, if I hadn't met Thom... that's how important he was to me.

 

Rest in peace, my dear, dear, teacher, mentor,  and friend.  I'm sure I'm just one of many lives you rescued. 

 

 



There's no earthly way of knowing....

Hi, guy(s)!  Long time no blog.  I think about writing about something every now and again, but then I get all paranoid that I've written about that before, and I'm lazier than I am paranoid, so I don't check to see if I've written about it and just play solitaire instead.  It's my circle of life.

 

But now I'm reading Jenny Lawson's second book, Furiously Happy, and she's so brave and honest (and hysterical) in writing about all her demons, I figured I can afford to let my Senility Slip show a little under my Supposedly Perfect Journalistic Dress.  So if I've written about this before, fuck all y'all, I'm doing it again.

 

When I was younger, I thought I would handle advancing age better then I am.  I pictured Fred and me retired in a smallish, but exquisite cottage by the sea, with the kids visiting regularly and frequent trips to the British Isles and Europe.  Fred would putter in the garden and I'd meet my equally chubby aging friends in town for a champagne cocktail or two and witty repartee.

 

So I end up working forty hours a week at The Most Conservative Law Firm Ever, living in a lovely, though dilapidated apartment with two cats, scraping together the cash to see my kids a couple times a year,  and drinking beers at Rojo with a bunch of young actors.  I AM NOT COMPLAINING!!!  I love my life as it is now, and shit happens and this is where I am and I can't imagine  ending up  any other way and feeling so right about it.

 

No one's life turns out the way they expect it to.....that's how the game is played, figuring out what to do when you pull a Bad Luck card out of the deck.  I think, all things considered, I've weathered the shitstorms in my life fairly well, at least I've survived them all. 

 

But I guess I thought by now I'd be content, have all the answers to life  at my fingertips and radiate a Peaceful Worldwise Glow.  The only glow I radiate now is after one of the aforementioned evenings at Rojo.  And I know nothing, NOTHING!!!

 

I am still continually shocked, dismayed, horrified, surprised and freaked-out by pretty much everything that goes on in the world, except by my kids and my cats, because my kids are the Two Most Amazing People on the Planet, and....cats.  I fought in the Hippie Wars (1968-1972) to eradicate useless wars, racism, homophobia, and misogyny, and look out the window, people....THAT SHIT'S STILL HAPPENING!!!  Plus, we had the extra bonus of Richard Nixon shooting himself in the foot so politicians would then change their selfish, greedy ways, and well...see above sentence. It's disheartening.

 

But overall, I don't think I would go back and change anything I've done in my life.  (Except dating Bad Steve.  That was definitely my Life's Ultra Stoopy Moment.)  Because all those things I've done helped create what is rapidly turning into the Finished Product, and I'm pretty pleased with the result.  It's kinda like I started out with the intention to make Miso Soup and I ended up cooking Tater Tot Casserole, with extra cheese and bacon. 

 

I might not be as good for you, but I'm a helluva lot more delicious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



I Want to Be Alone (Sometimes)

There are many advantages to being a Semi-Recluse:

 

1.  You can do what you want, when you want

2.  Your domicile can be a Hoarders candidate, because no one sees it but you

3.  Your jokes are always funny

4.  You never waste time juggling events on your social calendar

5.  Being awkward with yourself is easier than being awkward with actual people

 

But since I am just in the Semi Stage of Reclusivity (great things take time), when I actually interact with people after a 3-4 day hiatus, it can be tricky. (I do interact with my co-workers on a daily basis, but I don't consider them "actual people".)

 

For example:

 

I have to mute my audible stream of consciousness. (I talk all the time at home, it amuses the cats.  I only hope they are recording my constant flow of wisdom for when they publish my biography.)

 

I have to wear a bra. 

 

I have to close the bathroom door.

 

I can't fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.

 

I have to keep my cursing to a minimum.  (Ha! Ha! JK!! If I quit swearing, people would think there was something fucking wrong with me.)

 

So far I've been able to make the transition pretty well.  I imagine, though, as old age arrives (approximately 37 minutes), it will be more difficult.  So if you see me walking the streets in my jammies, ranting about that time in college Martin almost got us arrested, just call Rojo and J Clyde to come and get me.  They know the drill.

 

 

 



Sorghum Lives

Since working in The South, I have been accused several times at various jobs of being rude.  When I worked in The North, (in Pittsburgh and New York)  I was never accused of this. 

 

There are three possible explanations:

 

1.  I was born with a latent CrankyPants Gene, which did not develop till I stepped over the Mason-Dixon Line;

 

2.  The intense Southern humidity triggered my genetic Irish predilection to drink beer, eat shamrocks and be a bitch-on-wheels;

 

3.  My concept of Business Professionalism and my Southern employers' concept of BP are incompatible.

 

(There is no right or wrong answer to this quiz.  Your opinion matters.  Personal mileage may vary.)

 

Due to my above-mentioned predilection to beer and my cats' love of food, I have had to adjust to SBP (Southern Business Professionalism) in order to maintain my present employment status, but it ain't been easy.  I believe in calling a spade a spade (but in the metal yard tool kind of way, not the racist slur kind of way), so if I have to put your call on hold for a millisecond while I transfer you I will say, "Hold on", not "Well fiddle-dee-dee, I hate it, but I'm going to have to put y'all on hold for a hot minute and I dooooo so apologize, but I promise it won't be but a sec, bless your heart!", cause I got shit to do. (Those WWF games don't play themselves!)

 

I've become pretty adept at the whole Sir and Ma'am thingy, although my inner child cringes every time I say it because when I was a kid, if I said "Yes, ma'am" to my mother she yelled at me (her favorite phrase being, "You little snot!").  She took that to mean I was being a SmartAss, which I probably was, but I grew up thinking ma'am was a derogatory term. 

 

I also have a sneaking suspicion (another Irish trait) that plainly speaking your mind might be considered fine and dandy for males but totally unladylike, bordering on sluttish, for females.  But, surely, in this 21st Century world of total equality, that can't be the case.  (Sarcasm is one of my favorite Irish traits.)

 

Well, as the old saying goes, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."...no, wait, wrong saying..."When in Rome..."--that's the one I was looking for.  I will never consider myself A Southerner, but I've managed to develop a respectable camouflage that's kept me afloat the last 35 years. 

 

Although I still don't care for Southern comedies and if you tell me to have a Blessed Day, I'm likely to kick you in your genitalia. Old habits die hard.

 

 

 

 



History, Herstory

Only time will tell what momentous events stand out in history.  For instance, it appears that the assassinations of Lincoln and Kennedy are big deals, while the assassinations of Garfield and....whatshisname, not so much.   McKinley!  That's who it was, McKinley.  But I think you get my point.

 

That even holds true with wars.  WWI and WWII are memorable, but almost no one talks about the War of the Roses anymore.  (Not even the movie.  Which wasn't bad.  Didn't see that whole chandelier thing coming.  Oops, sorry, spoiler alert!)

 

At the end of the day (I am using that phrase as a metaphor for when you're dying.  I thought I'd explain that for any Asbergery-types that may be reading this.), I think what really matters is your own personal history--the people and events that impacted you, helped define who you are and how you view life.   And sometimes historical events end up influencing that as well.

 

I was in high school when the Vietnam War protests started and, in my own small way, I supported the protest.  I wore a black armband to school and refused to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.   Rebel Lite.  I didn't get in trouble for this--I was a Theatre Kid, and everyone knows they're Weird.  My parents were confused, more than anything.  But then, they never understood me and didn't feel the need to.  They figured my liberal leanings were a passing phase, like when I was in seventh grade and thought I was John Lennon.  So they just let me alone.  Irish Parenting. 

 

Anyroad, those liberal leanings stuck.  I still believe in peace and equality, even if those things are as elusive as unicorns and a comfortable bra.  I just don't have the emotional energy to be vocal about it anymore.  Also, due to my current employment status, I have to keep my mouth shut so the kibble and beer may continue to flow at Maison de Debala. 

 

But of all the Momentous Historical Moments I might see in my lifetime, the one that would make me the happiest, (other than scientists determining that Hot Fudge Sundaes are an essential part of a nutritionally balanced breakfast) is if women were finally universally not seen as inferior.  That, all over the world, they could get any education and job they wanted.  They could wear whatever clothes they wanted, and feel free to say whatever was on their mind.  And that the entire world held the belief that a woman's mind, despite the fact that it is encased in a body that bleeds once a month, and pushes out tiny humans on occasion (or not), is every bit as intelligent and worthy of respect as the minds that are encased in the bodies with dangly bits between their legs.   That is my dream.

 

Hey, it ain't no MLK, but what do you expect from a Weird Theatre Kid?

 

 

 

 



Loathing of Fear in Birmingham

Preamble:  My subject for today's discourse is fear and I decided to look up some famous quotes about it.  I came across this gem:

 

Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it. - Bill Cosby

 

Sometimes the jokes just write themselves.....

 

Anyroad, I lost interest in research after that (why I didn't enter academia), even though I had to throw out a funny FDR joke.  (Again, writing itself.) 

 

Let us, dear reader ((s)??  No, that seems overly optimistic, I'll stick with reader.), harken back to an earlier time, right before the last election when campaign ads were blaring, "A vote for a Democrat is a vote for Ebola" and "ISIS is only one letter less than Obama.  Coincidence?  I think not!!", and other assorted bullshit.  And then the election happened and nobody talks about those things anymore, even though ebola and ISIS are both still around, and just as deadly.  But Fear served its purpose, so we can put it back in the closet, next to the dustbuster and the Murphy's Oil Soap.   Tale as old as time.

 

It's the selectivity of Political Fearmongering that bothers me.  It's okay to encourage fear of ebola and ISIS, two nasty buggers, for sure, but let's totally dismiss the growing threat of climate change, because to acknowledge that would acknowledge our dependency on foreign petroleum and all the delicious, delicious money pouring into corporate pocketbooks.  And, yes, sir, I DARED to use the word pocketbook!!  Harrummpphhh!!

 

Evidently, there is a Large Portion of the Population (aka Idiots), that crave Fear.  They will go out of their way to be afraid of something just to be afraid of something.  This would explain the viewership of TLC. 

 

For example, this morning at work a co-worker started moaning and kvetching that there is a threat of tornadoes this Sunday.  It's forecasted for South Alabama, BUT STILL!!!! THERE IS AN INFINITESIMAL POSSIBILITY THAT THE WEATHER IN BIRMINGHAM MIGHT BE NOT SO GOOD ON SUNDAY!!!!  AHHHHHHHH!!!  Thanks, Obama.

 

I realize that I live in the Land of Unicorns and Rainbows more than most people, but, please, stoopy hoomans, stop by for a drink and a piece of cake.  Just for a moment. And listen as the birds sing this happy refrain:

 

Shit happens.  Nine times out of ten you can't do anything proactive until the shit actually does happen and worrying about it beforehand will not help the situation when it does happen.  So chill out.  And be grateful for the all the awesome shit that you do have.  Cause tomorrow ISIS could drop an ebola bomb in the middle of a tornado and you'll be toast. 

 

And beware of Bill Cosby bearing drinks.

 

 



Blest Be the Sides that Blind

Everyone gets blindsided at some point in their life.  But sometimes it feels like I've made a career out of it.

 

I will not bore you with the list of blindsideries I've endured. You're welcome.  But, I would like to address the PTSDness of getting blindsided repeatedly. 

 

You would think that after the 2,309,583rd time of getting emotionally sucker-punched,I would have developed a kevlar-like attitude about it.  Just mumble a couple "fucking assholes" quietly to myself and carry on.  But my psyche is kevlar resistant, evidently, and instead each time I get BS'd, I soak it up like like a giant sponge and then squeeze that sponge and the pain from every other fish-slap-in-the-face moment surges forth.  Well, I don't care for that sentence at all, but let's pretend it makes sense and move on.

 

My latest episode of blindsiditude occurred yesterday at work, so you know it really wasn't a big deal.  More importantly, I know it wasn't  a big deal. Even as it was happening, I said to myself, "Self. This. Is. Not. A. Big. Deal."   And yet...after my reprimand, for the rest of the day I felt like a crushed turd dipped in garbage and thrown on the coals .  This is not a pleasant feeling.

 

My next step is to feel Outraged.  "Hey!", I yell at the Universe (aka my cats), "I'm 20 billion years old!  Can't I live out the few years I have left in relative calm??  I'm not asking for happiness, goddammit, I would just like a little peace!  Is that so much to ask??"

 

The answer, of course, is yes, it's way too much to ask.   Doesn't matter how old you are, the Universe is going to fuck with you until you're dead.  And maybe afterwards.  I'll get back to you on that one.

 

My final step is Acceptance.  The ole' "It's been a long time since someone made me feel like shit, I guess I'm due" phase.  It's sadly comforting.  The Circle of Life.

 

Oh, well, at least I might get a break before I get my ass ripped again.  But, next time, I'll be ready.  I'll let it bounce right off me and...yeah....Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

 

 

 

Tolerance and Repeat

I am a firm believer in different strokes for different folks.  Granted, sometimes other follks' strokes rub me the wrong way, but everyone's entitled to their own opinion, even if it is wrong. 

 

Case in point, one of the attorneys here had a group of attorneys from another firm (Point of Information:  what is the proper term for a group of attorneys?  A gaggle?  A murder?  A portfolio?  Discuss.) and they had a twenty-minute conversation on how the various founders of this firm made their money and how wonderful it was.  Now, I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me, so I'm very grateful that The Founding Lawyers made money, I just never think in terms of it being "wonderful". 

 

Elaine Stritch was wonderful.  James Garner was wonderful.  Some dude who started a company and made a shitload of money was just another dude who started a company and made a shitload of money. 

 

To me. 

 

But I guess a legion of lawyers gets as emotionally moved by the birth of an LLC as I do by Elaine's "Here's To The Ladies Who Lunch" or James' proposal to Sally Fields in "Murphy's Romance." 

 

I reserve my right to disagree with people who have opinions different than my own, but I don't have the right to yell or shoot at them because of it.  That's not Having An Opinion, that's Being an Asshole.  And nobody has the right be an asshole, though there seems to be an Abundance of Assholes in the world today. 

 

In my opinion.



May The Brute Force Be With You

When I was a kid, I got beat up a couple of times by twins (a boy and a girl, known as The Infamous Birch Twins.)  I was in fifth grade, they were in third.  "How humiliating," you mutter between laughs.  Not really, I just found it confusing.  As they pinned me against a tree and started pummeling me,  I remember thinking:

A. Why are they dong this?

B.  How will beating me up make them feel better?

C.  What the fuck??

The second time this happened, one of the neighborhood moms saw it and stopped it. And, being third graders, they really didn't inflict any noticeable wounds. But the whole incident left me bewildered.

You will notice, dear reader, that nowhere in this tale did I scream or cry for help or run and tell my mother. (Who, as we remember from The Legend of Cousin Ned, had the ability to inspire others to commit suicide.) The whole idea was so out of my realm of life-as-I-knew-it that I was in denial.

When I was a sophomore in college my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend threw me down the dorm hallway. (Granted, it wasn't just for shits and giggles, we had been fighting.)  Then, at least, I had enough self-preservation to call my parents to come and get me.  But I never confronted him about it, I just iced my bruises and never talked to him again.  The whole incident seemed so surreal, I chose not to deal with it.

So it's no wonder that when the motorcycle gang stormed our play in December and started beating the shit out of the audience and cast,  instead of getting out of the line of fire, like my friends were telling me to, I sat there, stunned, and thought, "Jesus Fucking Christ, really??? I am the wimpiest, most mild-mannered, peace-loving 61-year-old cunt in the Southeast and AGAIN someone's trying to beat the shit out of me???"

Okay, Karma, you've had your three chances.   Next time....NEXT TIME.....oh, hell, I'll probably just do nothing again.  The Wimp is strong with this one.

Playing Goalie

Whenever I hear anyone talking about setting goals, I feel guilty.  (Disclaimer:  I also feel guilty about global warming, the growing economic disparity, racial intolerance, child abuse, unneutered pets, and the Johnstown Flood.)

 

I  never really got the whole point of the thing.  If I set my goals too high ("Become tall."), I'll fail.  If I set them too low ("Get out of bed in the morning."), well, that's not really a goal, is it?  It's more of a lifestyle choice.

 

At this stage of my life, longterm goals have become irrelevant.  Twenty years from now, there's a large probability all that will be left of me is a name on some posters in the BFT lobby. If I am still around, then, okay, I'll go ahead and make "Get out of bed in the morning" an actual goal.  But don't expect much. 

 

 Rather than goals, I divide my life into two categories:

 

Stuff I Gotta Do

Stuff I Wanna Do

 

and try to create a balance between them.  Although, to be honest, the SIWD almost always takes precedence.  "Duh," you say.  But, here is my Cosmic Reasoning why Wanna times are better than Gotta times.  The Gotta times (work, housework, bill paying, etc.) pretty much  always follow a similar, predictable  pattern, while Wanna times (doing plays/improv, seeing my kids, hanging with friends, etc.) always are an unknown adventure and rarely turn out exactly the way I expect.   It's that World of Who Knows What Will Happen that turns life into Life, and, since my finite life is getting finiter every day, my goal is to scoop up as much Life as I can. 

 

Well, look at me...

Reflections on Reflecting

I have always admired people who had such strong beliefs that  they never questioned them; life would be so much simpler that way.  But, in the words of the great Charles Busch, "Ira, you are what you are!".  And I am not not one of those aforementioned folk.

 

My spiritual credo is nebulous, best summed up as, "I can't explain what I believe, but I'll know it when I feel it."  There are, however, a few truths I hold self-evident:

 

1.  That whole "Do Unto Others" thing makes sense.  If you don't want people to shit on you, don't shit on them.  If you do want people to shit on you, please move along...

 

2.  The whole "God wrote the Bible" thing does not make sense.  Unless he's Harper Lee (hmmm....), you think he'd want to cash in on the royalites of Bible II, Eclectic Boogaloo, with all kinds of modern-day rules we should follow.  "Thou Shalt Slaughter the Trans-fatted Calf and Fry Potatoes in it's Glorious Oil", stuff like that.  And maybe put a qualifier on the cloven-hooves ban.  "Oh, except for bacon, that shit's amazing." 

 

3.  I don't like guns. I'll go so far as to say I Hate Guns.   However, you have every right to own one... (*arches eyebrow*) Responsibly... and I won't give you a hard time about it.  So shut the fuck up about abortions and gay people.

 

4.  I sometimes only make sense in my own head.   (See #3, above).

 

5.  Most of life is spent treading water, with the occasional jump off the high dive and a rainbow through a waterfall.   It can be hard to accept that treading water is as good as it gets, but you should try, cause then it's easier. 

 

Obviously, the above does not constitute the Greatest Story Ever Told.  But, honestly, I don't think the Bible does either.  I enjoyed "To Kill A Mockingbird" a lot more.

 

 

 

 

 



Learn On Me

One of the interesting things about getting older is seeing how things have changed during your lifetime.  And for your timewaster today, I will use the example of education.

 

When I was a lass, we did not have Middle School, we had Junior High. I don't know why they did away with that nomenclature, maybe the thought was that Junior High sounded like a 7th grade pot party, instead of an institution of learning. To quote Blazing Saddles, "And they was right!"  In the future, kids will attend Ozone Enriched Brain Enlightenment Centers.  Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. (Which I learned in "Junior High", so there.)

 

In this antiquated Junior High, girls were required to take Home Ec.  (That's short for Economics.  I know.  It made no sense back then, either.)  In this class you learned two essential feminine life skills--asserting your independence and  making it on your own.  Ha! Ha!  Just kidding, girls can't do those things, we don't have a penis.  No, we learned to cook and sew. The first thing we learned to "cook" was a Grapefruit Basket. You slice a grapefruit in half, slice the peel around the edges and pull these cut edges up and tie with dental floss to make a "handle". Then sprinkle the grapefruit with brown sugar and broil it. Thereby ruining an otherwise perfectly good grapefruit. We also made a Doris Day-like apron and an ugly blouse. Mission accomplished.   To show you how affective (or effective, your choice),  Junior High was, I am today extremely independent and just fine on my own, but I can't cook or sew for shit.  Thanks, Junior Higher Education! 

 

I actually have a point here, other than bitching about my puberty, which is:  what is valued as necessary education changes through time.  All right, I get that.  But I confess to being stymied at the current trend to not teach cursive handwriting.  How are these future-adults supposed to sign legal documents?   Or accept Fedex packages of pot?  Maybe the Brilliant Educators of Today treat cursive the same way the Brilliant Educators of Yesteryear treated sex ed...eh, you'll figure it out.  But, in my dotage, it concerns me.

 

I guess I could broil a grapefruit to calm myself down, but I think I'll just wait for the Fedex guy. 

 

 



Another Post from Debland

One of the reasons I am where I am today (I would tell you where that is, but I don't want you stalking me.  Again.) is because of the skewed view I have of the world.

 

Take my job.  Please.  (Sorry, involuntary reaction.)  I realize that it is a Primary Law of Nature that people have to go around suing each other.  Wait, I don't actually realize that, I think it's stupid.  And here's my crazy, wacked-out theory why:  If you (or your company) do something wrong to someone, either accidentally or on purpose,  you should admit it, apologize and offer restitution.  The key phrase here is "admit it".  Taking responsibility for making mistakes appears to have gone the way of the steam locomotive and Teddy Ruxpin.  Why admit to doing something wrong and making up for it, when you can spend tons more money and time denying it and not?  That's what Jesus did, right?  ("That guy was alive when I got here, I swear, I never laid a hand on him!")  Totally logical.

 

But not to me.  Granted, I tend to apologize to everything, including inanimate objects.  I can't tell you how many chairs I've apologized to for walking into.  But, I also try to own up for the actual shit I do that hurts human beings and/or cats. Cause it's the right thing, if not always the easiest thing, to do.  And it's what I'd want someone to do to me.  Which, correct me if I'm wrong here, is what we're supposed to do.   As vivid as my imagination is, it is hard for me to picture a multi-millionaire waking up in the morning and saying, "Holy Moly, I wish someone would sue me today."  (That was a trick sentence.  The only actual part of that sentence which I cannot picture  a multi-millionaire saying is  Holy Moly.)  I don't live in that world.  I function in it, because I have to, but I don't live there.

 

Bad Steve used to tell me I was naive.  *Pause to appreciate the irony here.*  He's right, I am.  And proud of it.  Because as long as I subscribe to the "Do Unto Others and Unicorns Shit Rainbows" philosophy, I can keep on living in my undisclosed location where lawsuits don't exist and the cats say, "No problem" when I apologize.   It's lonely here, but the unicorn poo is beautiful.               

 

 



The Gays of Our Lives

I will be the first to admit, there are a lot of things I don't get:  younger, richer, dates...but right now I am totally flummoxed by the worldwide anti-gay sentiment.  Every time I read a headline about someone pitching a fit about homosexualty, I get this mental image of a medieval lord extolling the virtues of the feudal system.  "....and serfs?  Hell, serfs will be around FOREVER!!"  (Okay, you could get metaphorical here and argue there are still serfs today, what with an embarrassingly low minimum wage, but, remember, we're here to talk about The Gays, not our Tragic Economic Disparity.)

 

This current onslaught of foreign homophobia confuses me, because these people act like being gay is a new phenomenon, sort of like twerking.  "HUH??  We  never had homosexuals in this country until the Condensed Force of Evil that is the United States of America started letting them get married!   Now it's even spreading to the serfs!!"   Hey, Putinpants, homosexuality has been around since heterosexuality has been around, it wasn't invented by Oscar Wilde.

 

It reminds me of the early 1960's, when I was a kid, and everyone was batshit terrified that someone in some country somewhere was going to set off the nuclear bomb.  Although, in that scenario, the world would be destroyed.  If a gay bomb exploded, it would just leave the world more tastefully decorated. 

 

Is homophobia the new bigotry designed to bring the world together?  I mean, racism is becoming a bit passe and, frankly, it's hard to get worked up about about the inferiority of black people if you live in Switzerland.  But homosexuals!!  There's a group of Satan's Spawn we can globally despise! 

 

It is so. fucking. stupid.  And, perhaps because of the three previously-mentioned-in-the-first-sentence items I no longer get, I have very little patience left for the Devisive Irrational Controlling Knuckleheads Hiding Obvious Latent Evidenditiary Shit, if you get my drift. 

 

Much like other erroneous, outmoded ideas (the world is flat; bloodletting cures disease; Justin Bieber rocks), in time,  this fear-fueled bigotry will pass.  Then the search will be on to find a new undeserved minority on which to focus our irrational hatred!  Huzzah!  Long Live the 15th Century!! 

 

Or.... (call me crazy).... we could stop focusing  our energy on hating people and see what happens if we all try to get along.  There, at least I gave you one laugh.

 



And Now in Financial Muse...

There is a factoid floating on Facebook today that says it's costing the Russians $51 billion to host the Olympics and it only costs $2.5 billion to go to Mars.

Either way, that is a lot of money.  And both those things are really cool, I'm just not sure either project is getting the full bang for their buck here. The Russians have already been dealing with bad publicity and they will be left with a bunch of buildings and sports venues that will very likely sit idle till the next Revolution.  And going to Mars is exciting, but what can you do when you get there?  Other than Starbucks and McDonalds, I doubt if there's a lot going on up there.  Who wants to spend a week staring at a giant face?   

 To tell you the truth, my mind always boggles when it comes to money.  You all know  the Sad Saga of Bad Steve, so I won't bore you with it again. But when I finally realized I was never going to get any of the money back that I had "loaned" him, I was not as upset about losing the money as I was in realizing that he had never really cared for me, just my wallet.  It takes a lot longer for my heart to heal than it does my bank account.

I lead a very simple life and I like it plenty swell.  I have no dreams of owning a big house or retiring to to Sochi or Mars. Living paycheck to paycheck works just fine for me.    My biggest expenses are cat food, beer, and going to see my kids a few times a year.  And I wouldn't trade my kids, cats or beer for all the Mars Rovers in the world.  (Granted, there are probably only 3 or 4 Mars Rovers in the world, but you get my point.)

I suspect this sentiment is a common one in people "of a certain age" and explains the feeling I often get of being completely removed from society.  I just don't understand the expensive, greedy, power-driven, mean shit that people/corporations/governments/political parties/ religious organizations do and rather than try to comprehend it, I just want to sit on my sofa  and pet my cats.  (And, no, I don't mean that euphemistically.)

But that being said, it is breathtaking to hear the vast amounts of money people are willing to put forth for something.  And can you imagine what it will cost it when Mars hosts the Olympics?? Let the games begin!