We had a little weather fiasco today...storms, hail, lighting, tornadoes, flooding...I was waiting for locusts and 7 horsemen, but alas, it seems God may not be tired of us just yet.
My typically level-headed father, bless his heart, was freaking the fu@k out. I think this sprung from the fact that he was at home in Florida watching DVDs of the TV show "24". It just had him all wired up. He was alternately watching the show, monitoring the weather satellite on his laptop, and speed-dialing me to make sure I was okay and give me updated information. I wanted to tell him if I needed an update, I could just turn my head to the left. It's all right there out my window.
But I decided not to burst his adrenaline-laced bubble.
So he calls about a half-hour into tornado warning #94 to tell me I need to "get downstairs, pronto!". I live on the second (and top) floor of the most shoddily constructed apartment building you've ever seen. No, seriously. Two weeks ago part of one of the concrete steps literally crumbled beneath my feet as I went downstairs. I may not be as lean as I once was, but this is supposed to be CONCRETE. Naturally, my Father now wanted as much shoddy construction as humanly possible between me and a swirling, sucking, 150MPH vortex.
I decided to call my friendly apartment managers and inquire after our Disaster Plan. Every building in Texas has a designated "shelter", but I've been remiss in asking about ours. Do you know what our Assistant Manager, Jeannie, said when I called? She told me to get to know my downstairs neighbor. THAT'S your plan, lady? Make new friends?? That's a Girl Scout motto, not a plan! You only get to call it a "Plan" if it requires 5 or more minutes of dedicated thought.
Jesus. It's going to be a long Spring in tornado alley.
Not surprisingly, my phone call with Jeannie was interrupted by another directive from my very alert father. "Get upstairs! You need to get upstairs now! I've been watching the satellite, and it's the flooding that's going to be your biggest problem! Flooding is what kills the most people!" I let him know that, while I appreciate the statistics, I am a fine swimmer. It's the flying I'm not so good at. Think I'll take my chances down low.
Did I mention I miss home? I can handle a little rockin' and rollin'. It's being sucked up by a giant Hoover and deposited somewhere east of the Mississippi I can't hack.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
I'll Have One McDoucheBag and a Diet Coke, Please
I was going to go on a date with the Snowboarder. Really.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
Well, technically we were going on a hike. So I guess it was more of an activity likely to include flirting…then again, if one of us turned out to be significantly more beastly than the other, likely not.
I stalled until the very last moment to get ready. Of course. That’s my ingenious way of ratcheting down the pressure. Don’t think about the date, don’t fuss over it. Which works well until the very last moment when I realize I have forgotten about it and am about to be late. Then pressure hits critical mass and I fly around the house trying on layered clothing, random beanies from 1995, and other bizarre items that have no place on a first date – or really anywhere in 2008. All the while I frantically send text messages that I’m stuck in traffic, whilst chugging down coffee, and hunting for the last lint-covered piece of gum in my purse. Makeup happens in the car (sorry fellow drivers! I'm that woman!). By the time I arrive I’m flushed red, getting honked at and flipped the bird by other drivers, and I’m a complete mental circus.
Yet somehow, this whole routine persists.
My sister said something profound to me the other night. Profound in the way only a sister can say, in the way you immediately tell her to fu@k off, but then realize she’s right and you’re an idiot and you’d better pay attention. I lamented my struggle with Mr. Ohio, to which she said, “Hang on, Mr. Ohio? I thought we were done with him?”
I sighed and relayed the new developments. Told her about my epiphanies and revelations. “He’s a great guy and I like him. Do you know how rare that is? Can’t it work out for me, just this once? Why does it have to be so difficult and painful?”
I could literally hear the roll of her eyes. It was as if I was a kindergartner, she was my teacher and I was eating Playdough. Again. “When you’re ready to be done with this, you will be. You’ll stop wasting time. You’ll spend 6 seconds on Mr. Ohio and realize he’s a douche bag…not 6 months.”
Hey, screw you. It’s not as simple as that…I really LIKE him, and we click…
Oh.
Shit.
Hang on a minute. Something got caught in my mental wheels - a little fiber of good sense. I don’t like it, but nonetheless, it glows with real-ness like the headlights of an oncoming truck. Just because I like him, it doesn’t mean he’s not a douche bag. Or at least acting like one, which might as well be the same thing.
Awww crap.
Oprah’s “Aha! Moment" happens. I see flashes of the things I’ve been doing, putting up with, and perpetuating for 6 months. No, for 28 years. Everything becomes so clear. I’ve been choosing this? Well of course I have, or it wouldn’t be happening! I'm free to walk away and date a nice guy who’s totally into me at any moment. But what am I doing? I'm hanging on to this box of broken parts.
Fortunately, once beyond the shame, these thoughts are incredibly empowering. Unfortunately, these thoughts are the precursor to actually having to do something about your shit.
There’s a platitude about holding on to destructive things because they serve a purpose in our lives. It’s not my favorite platitude but, if you’re noticing the trend here, grownup thinking never is. It's the mental and emotional equivalent of eating my vegetables…and I’ve been on a McDonald’s drive-thru diet. Wish me luck, it’s not gonna be fun.
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