4/29/07
in the obscurity
I have decided on a new rule: I am no longer allowed to post to this blog while I'm sick. My entries end up being way too dark.
4/28/07
psycho(logy)
There is a song written by Sting whose lyrics I often feel are very... applicable:
I've spent too many years at war with myself;
the doctor has told me it's no good for my health-
To search for perfection is all very well,
but to look for heaven is to live here in hell.
I've spent too many years at war with myself;
the doctor has told me it's no good for my health-
To search for perfection is all very well,
but to look for heaven is to live here in hell.
4/27/07
a long-winded Post-(Post)-Script
My post below (admittedly kinda over-the-top, even for me) is making me think about the nature of hatred, and fear, and intolerance, and racism, and all of the other negative -isms.
Some thoughts:
1) I can thank those generations of students for my healthy liver function and relative lack of facial wrinkles.
2) When one particular group of people has caused problems for you over the course of many years (or, as in the case of the Middle East, since the beginning of recorded time), it becomes easy to understand how hatred and misunderstanding can arise, and become cemented into a culture, or into a person's heart. And it's difficult (as that person) to not want to retaliate. I certainly retaliated against those students; in elementary school, I spent hours cleaning student-generated garbage off my street, and dumping it in piles on their porches. I felt bad about it, but I thought (in my elementary-school-aged logic) that it was what they deserved, and that it might teach them a lesson, get them to think about what they were doing. Of course, it probably just pissed them off, and made them more likely to deliberately throw their beer cans on the ground. Vengeance (as much as I love that movie) does not help anyone, and indeed only succeeds in widening the gaps between people.
3) In the same vein, I’ve found that approaching someone in anger [about a problem], or even with the self-righteous intention of ‘teaching them a lesson’ or 'helping them to be more self-aware', is much less productive than approaching them in love, and also ends up feeling pretty crappy. At first, there's a sense of exhilaration; the relief of having gotten something off your chest. But then (for me, at least) it quickly sours, often becoming a feeling of embarrassment at having exposed my own negative emotions and lack of control so publicly. And it usually makes the other person feel pretty crappy about themselves too, and often defensive or hurt (and therefore completely closed to the possibility of having any kind of personal revelation or positive learning experience).
Here endeth… today's sequence of fever-induced thoughts.
Some thoughts:
1) I can thank those generations of students for my healthy liver function and relative lack of facial wrinkles.
2) When one particular group of people has caused problems for you over the course of many years (or, as in the case of the Middle East, since the beginning of recorded time), it becomes easy to understand how hatred and misunderstanding can arise, and become cemented into a culture, or into a person's heart. And it's difficult (as that person) to not want to retaliate. I certainly retaliated against those students; in elementary school, I spent hours cleaning student-generated garbage off my street, and dumping it in piles on their porches. I felt bad about it, but I thought (in my elementary-school-aged logic) that it was what they deserved, and that it might teach them a lesson, get them to think about what they were doing. Of course, it probably just pissed them off, and made them more likely to deliberately throw their beer cans on the ground. Vengeance (as much as I love that movie) does not help anyone, and indeed only succeeds in widening the gaps between people.
3) In the same vein, I’ve found that approaching someone in anger [about a problem], or even with the self-righteous intention of ‘teaching them a lesson’ or 'helping them to be more self-aware', is much less productive than approaching them in love, and also ends up feeling pretty crappy. At first, there's a sense of exhilaration; the relief of having gotten something off your chest. But then (for me, at least) it quickly sours, often becoming a feeling of embarrassment at having exposed my own negative emotions and lack of control so publicly. And it usually makes the other person feel pretty crappy about themselves too, and often defensive or hurt (and therefore completely closed to the possibility of having any kind of personal revelation or positive learning experience).
Here endeth… today's sequence of fever-induced thoughts.
seeing red
My boss is taking a vacation day, so I'm at work, despite the fact that I feel like total crap, have a fever and chills and wish I could just be home in bed.
So, I will comfort myself by rambling randomly along on my blog….
I recently had an annual physical with a new primary care physician, and she asked me a ton of questions about my health and my history... routine fare, of course, but as I was answering 'no' to all her questions, I found myself thinking again about why it is that I've never once been tempted to try drugs or cigarettes, why I don't find stories about the antics of drunk people very funny, why I feel uncomfortable in bars. Through the years, there have been people who have concluded that I must have a prudish, puritanical conscience that won't allow me to 'let go' and 'have fun'. But really, my dislike of all things druggy stems from the fact that I was brought up in a 'drinking' college town, and that I developed, at a very early age, a hatred (and I don't use that word lightly) towards out-of-control college students and all that they stood for. And this, of course, includes all substances, legal and otherwise.
The students wander around Oneonta in packs every evening when the weather is good (every weekend when it's not), breaking off the tops of our picket fences, having loud arguments at 2am that wake up the whole street, walking through everyone’s yards, trampling flower beds in their drunken urgency to get from one party to the next. They throw down cigarette butts everywhere, leave empty plastic beer cups and bottles on your lawn, smash empty gin bottles on the sidewalk. Furthermore, they do unconscionable things like adopting kittens in September, keeping them for the academic year, and then putting them out on the street when they leave to go home in May, having no more use for them.
And the worst part, from my perspective growing up, is that they were old enough to know better. I was six, and I knew better. I could not understand why anyone 3 times my age would know less than me, and why there would be so many of them; more and more every year, and none of them ever learning from their mistakes; none of them ever maturing. (That’s the sad thing of living in a college town; you’re constantly stuck with people at the same maturity level; the students never get older; you never get to see them become mature adults; all you get is a fresh crop of headaches with every incoming class). And it was confusing, because I’d met many of them in person, and I could see that they were decent people at the core, so I concluded that their drinking and partying must have literally caused them to lose their minds, to lose all sense of who they were and what they believed in; I couldn’t think of any other explanation for what I witnessed on the streets at night.
And oh, how I hated everything they did! I hated it when they stole my Big Wheel; I hated it when they took my brother’s stroller and we found it a week later, mangled, and hanging on a street sign four blocks away. I hated it when they cornered my siblings in the park and threw snowballs at them until they were screaming and crying for help. I still hate it, even now, when they keep my father, who gave 31 years of his life to teaching and counseling them, from being able to sleep, night after night as spring creeps towards summer, because they’re standing on the street outside his window yelling and arguing with each other.
...And it made me even sadder when I met my neighbor on the sidewalk last week; she was kneeling on the ground, using a power drill to repair her fence; she gestured at the new boards, and then over at a For Sale sign on the lawn, and said "These damn students, they break my fence every weekend, and I just can't take it anymore. We're getting out!" It's just too bad.
Anyway, I vowed to myself, at the age of six, that I would never ever EVER let myself be ANYTHING like any of those students; that I would never let myself lose sight of my real, serious Self and become a rampaging, irresponsible, [drunk], lunatic 'college student'; not even for one minute. And, to date, I’ve kept that vow.
(I will leave for a subsequent entry my discourse on the irony of what I do for a living.)
So, I will comfort myself by rambling randomly along on my blog….
I recently had an annual physical with a new primary care physician, and she asked me a ton of questions about my health and my history... routine fare, of course, but as I was answering 'no' to all her questions, I found myself thinking again about why it is that I've never once been tempted to try drugs or cigarettes, why I don't find stories about the antics of drunk people very funny, why I feel uncomfortable in bars. Through the years, there have been people who have concluded that I must have a prudish, puritanical conscience that won't allow me to 'let go' and 'have fun'. But really, my dislike of all things druggy stems from the fact that I was brought up in a 'drinking' college town, and that I developed, at a very early age, a hatred (and I don't use that word lightly) towards out-of-control college students and all that they stood for. And this, of course, includes all substances, legal and otherwise.
The students wander around Oneonta in packs every evening when the weather is good (every weekend when it's not), breaking off the tops of our picket fences, having loud arguments at 2am that wake up the whole street, walking through everyone’s yards, trampling flower beds in their drunken urgency to get from one party to the next. They throw down cigarette butts everywhere, leave empty plastic beer cups and bottles on your lawn, smash empty gin bottles on the sidewalk. Furthermore, they do unconscionable things like adopting kittens in September, keeping them for the academic year, and then putting them out on the street when they leave to go home in May, having no more use for them.
And the worst part, from my perspective growing up, is that they were old enough to know better. I was six, and I knew better. I could not understand why anyone 3 times my age would know less than me, and why there would be so many of them; more and more every year, and none of them ever learning from their mistakes; none of them ever maturing. (That’s the sad thing of living in a college town; you’re constantly stuck with people at the same maturity level; the students never get older; you never get to see them become mature adults; all you get is a fresh crop of headaches with every incoming class). And it was confusing, because I’d met many of them in person, and I could see that they were decent people at the core, so I concluded that their drinking and partying must have literally caused them to lose their minds, to lose all sense of who they were and what they believed in; I couldn’t think of any other explanation for what I witnessed on the streets at night.
And oh, how I hated everything they did! I hated it when they stole my Big Wheel; I hated it when they took my brother’s stroller and we found it a week later, mangled, and hanging on a street sign four blocks away. I hated it when they cornered my siblings in the park and threw snowballs at them until they were screaming and crying for help. I still hate it, even now, when they keep my father, who gave 31 years of his life to teaching and counseling them, from being able to sleep, night after night as spring creeps towards summer, because they’re standing on the street outside his window yelling and arguing with each other.
...And it made me even sadder when I met my neighbor on the sidewalk last week; she was kneeling on the ground, using a power drill to repair her fence; she gestured at the new boards, and then over at a For Sale sign on the lawn, and said "These damn students, they break my fence every weekend, and I just can't take it anymore. We're getting out!" It's just too bad.
Anyway, I vowed to myself, at the age of six, that I would never ever EVER let myself be ANYTHING like any of those students; that I would never let myself lose sight of my real, serious Self and become a rampaging, irresponsible, [drunk], lunatic 'college student'; not even for one minute. And, to date, I’ve kept that vow.
(I will leave for a subsequent entry my discourse on the irony of what I do for a living.)
second question of the week
(prompted by the first question of the week)
...and what is up with the "known as Best Foods west of the Rockies" thing on mayonnaise?
East: Hellman's / West: Best Foods
East: McCormick / West: Schilling
East: Edy's / West: Dreyer's
There must be more, too, that I've forgotten or am not aware of. But it's weird.
...and what is up with the "known as Best Foods west of the Rockies" thing on mayonnaise?
East: Hellman's / West: Best Foods
East: McCormick / West: Schilling
East: Edy's / West: Dreyer's
There must be more, too, that I've forgotten or am not aware of. But it's weird.
question of the week
why do they sell real mayonnaise in plastic jars, and fat-free miracle whip in glass jars?
4/26/07
Thursday afternoon
In between posting Perkins loan deferments and requesting refunds for overpaid accounts, I went to the back room to re-heat my morning coffee (yes, I drink about one cup a day... all day) and poke around for any goodies that might have been left back there by some generous officemate, for general consumption by anyone looking for a snack. (Here I must confess that I'm more likely to deplete the supplies of said goodies than to contribute to them, but... people put up with me anyway because I'm nice to work with.)
...So it was with joy that I spotted a plastic take-out container filled with cookies, sitting on top of the Accounts Payable file cabinet. The cookies were of the pseudo-shortbread variety, made cheaply with some sort of lardish shortening rather than butter, extruded through some torturous device so as to form attractive potato-chippy ridges along their lengths, and finally dipped in colorful sprinkles that (from the way they left a greasy film on the roof of my mouth) were obviously more wax than chocolate. I am, however, not above eating such disgusting things, provided they contain a certain amount of sugar; and these cookies did. In fact, they also contained a delightful filling of dehydrated, gooey raspberry saucy stuff; so stiff that when I bit down on one side of the cookie, the body of it crumbled into my mouth, leaving a sort of raspberry ledge sticking out of the other half. Yummm... a perfect gross-cookie-eating experience!
But it was the raspberry filling that caused me to pause, and realize suddenly that I have always had a love-hate relationship with raspberries: I love raspberry filling inside cheap greasy cookies, yet I dislike having raspberry sauce dribbled over my cake. I love chocolate truffles with raspberry filling, yet dislike solid chocolate with raspberry flavoring. I love fresh raspberries, but cannot bring myself to eat frozen ones. I long for fresh rolls smothered with butter and raspberry jam, but cannot stand the taste of raspberry jam on muffins. Good on peanut butter sandwiches; bad on scones.
Is it the berry that's fickle? Or is it me?
...So it was with joy that I spotted a plastic take-out container filled with cookies, sitting on top of the Accounts Payable file cabinet. The cookies were of the pseudo-shortbread variety, made cheaply with some sort of lardish shortening rather than butter, extruded through some torturous device so as to form attractive potato-chippy ridges along their lengths, and finally dipped in colorful sprinkles that (from the way they left a greasy film on the roof of my mouth) were obviously more wax than chocolate. I am, however, not above eating such disgusting things, provided they contain a certain amount of sugar; and these cookies did. In fact, they also contained a delightful filling of dehydrated, gooey raspberry saucy stuff; so stiff that when I bit down on one side of the cookie, the body of it crumbled into my mouth, leaving a sort of raspberry ledge sticking out of the other half. Yummm... a perfect gross-cookie-eating experience!
But it was the raspberry filling that caused me to pause, and realize suddenly that I have always had a love-hate relationship with raspberries: I love raspberry filling inside cheap greasy cookies, yet I dislike having raspberry sauce dribbled over my cake. I love chocolate truffles with raspberry filling, yet dislike solid chocolate with raspberry flavoring. I love fresh raspberries, but cannot bring myself to eat frozen ones. I long for fresh rolls smothered with butter and raspberry jam, but cannot stand the taste of raspberry jam on muffins. Good on peanut butter sandwiches; bad on scones.
Is it the berry that's fickle? Or is it me?
4/19/07
I know what he means, but... what the hell does he mean?!
In a statement released by the White House, Bush applauded the court's move as a major step toward "building a culture of life in America."
4/17/07
irony
Being a somewhat anxiety-prone personality, I have occasionally contemplated taking anti-anxiety medication. I have, however, hitherto rejected the idea, as the thought of being on any kind of daily medication makes me feel anxious.
4/10/07
pounding the pavement? -politics&pow(d)er
My cousin Sherry just mailed me a newspaper cutting of the following:
Ecuador - July 1967
"During a recent local election campaign in Ecuador, a pharmaceutical firm ran the advertising slogan: 'Vote for the candidate of your choice, but if you want well-being and hygiene, vote for Pulvapies.'
When the votes were counted, the costal town of Picoaza, population 4000, had elected Pulvapies - a foot powder - as mayor, and voters in other municipalities had marked their ballots for the deodorant as well.
The national electoral tribunal is grappling with the problem, and dozens of defeated candidates are threatening to sue the company."
Ecuador - July 1967
"During a recent local election campaign in Ecuador, a pharmaceutical firm ran the advertising slogan: 'Vote for the candidate of your choice, but if you want well-being and hygiene, vote for Pulvapies.'
When the votes were counted, the costal town of Picoaza, population 4000, had elected Pulvapies - a foot powder - as mayor, and voters in other municipalities had marked their ballots for the deodorant as well.
The national electoral tribunal is grappling with the problem, and dozens of defeated candidates are threatening to sue the company."
4/7/07
rites of storage
"I used to think that it was buying a house, or having a baby, that would make me feel like an adult", my friend Janice said to me today, "but now I've decided that it's when you realize you need an extra freezer."
4/4/07
my congratulations to Mr. Bush
I generally cannot find anything good to say about our country's current leader. And, as I am a person who enjoys saying good things about people, this fact pains me. It creates a feeling of Lack, of Discontentment, of Perpetual Disappointment, in my daily life.
Therefore, imagine my Bliss and Utter Joy when I opened my datebook earlier this week, and discovered that Our President has finally done something Clever! He created the chance for a Moment of Miraculous Revelation, of Comic Conjunction, in all of our lives!
Which is, of course, that in the little square in my datebook labeled April 1st, I found two smaller entries in green type:
Daylight Savings Time Begins
April Fool's Day
Therefore, imagine my Bliss and Utter Joy when I opened my datebook earlier this week, and discovered that Our President has finally done something Clever! He created the chance for a Moment of Miraculous Revelation, of Comic Conjunction, in all of our lives!
Which is, of course, that in the little square in my datebook labeled April 1st, I found two smaller entries in green type:
Daylight Savings Time Begins
April Fool's Day
musi(c)ngs
I have music playing in my head all the time. Non-stop. Like, almost 24/7, for my whole life. Oftentimes, I sing or hum along to it; whatever happens to be playing at the time. Unfortunately, I've found that this generally annoys people. Especially if I do it while they're trying to tell me all the details about the amazing thing that happened to them yesterday.
It sometimes annoys me too, if I get stuck on a particular song. And even more so if I don't know the whole song, so that just a piece of it loops, over and over, like a record with a skip.
But most of the time, I'm glad for the music. And quite often, it's a source of inspiration and an aid to introspection. I can usually tell that I'm supposed to pay special attention if the song in my head isn't one that I'm really familiar with, isn't one that I have in the living room on a CD, isn't one that was on the radio in the store yesterday afternoon when I was buying yogurt. When I get a song like that, randomly selected by my subconscious, I generally try to stop and listen to the lyrics. They're usually telling me something important.
This morning, and yesterday morning, my mind has been playing a B-52's song that I've only heard a couple of times. It’s repeating like a mantra:
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without wings without wheels
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without anything but the love we feel
It sometimes annoys me too, if I get stuck on a particular song. And even more so if I don't know the whole song, so that just a piece of it loops, over and over, like a record with a skip.
But most of the time, I'm glad for the music. And quite often, it's a source of inspiration and an aid to introspection. I can usually tell that I'm supposed to pay special attention if the song in my head isn't one that I'm really familiar with, isn't one that I have in the living room on a CD, isn't one that was on the radio in the store yesterday afternoon when I was buying yogurt. When I get a song like that, randomly selected by my subconscious, I generally try to stop and listen to the lyrics. They're usually telling me something important.
This morning, and yesterday morning, my mind has been playing a B-52's song that I've only heard a couple of times. It’s repeating like a mantra:
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without wings without wheels
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without anything but the love we feel
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