Short Straw

Whenever my inner dialogue starts playing, I am assured of two things:

1.)    Something is happening where there are too many possible reactions to the ridiculousness that I have to test possible responses via virtual role-play in my head before responding.

2.)    I will have a glazed look on my face and I am assuredly giving a subtle and seemingly attentive nod to whomever it is that is the source of said ridiculousness.

You know how on Jeopardy the music is playing and Alex Trebek walks across the stage to his position of not quite prime time authority and then the camera flashes to the contestants? Today I had a moment where I suddenly saw myself behind a neon trimmed podium in an ill-fitting, somewhat dated navy skirt suit (already sounding pretty hot, right?) and a slightly askew hairstyle. When it comes time for Alex (in my inner dialogue, Alex and I are on a first name basis and he tells me he finds me quite charming) to introduce me to the audience and home viewers, he says “I understand that you once fell off a skate board and skinned your ass…why don’t you tell us about that”.  Ummm, yeah… that’s not awkward or anything.

Anyway: Blah, blah, blah…it’s time to play the game. Alex reads off the categories and I am eagerly poised:

Explanatives That Rhyme with “Chuck”
Shit That’s None of Your Business
Things That You shouldn’t Do While Driving
Shit That’s Not My Problem
Things You don’t Want Your Mother to Know – EVER
Mystery Smells

I won the backstage coin toss (shocker, I know. It’s my inner dialogue. If you lose in your own head, then you need more than a pill and a friendly chat with a well paid professional to manage your psychosis). “Okay, I’ll take ‘Shit That’s Not My Problem’ for $500”… and let me just tell you that if Alex Trebek had been in my bedroom when I opened my eyes this morning and asked me to select my category, you would think I would have chosen this as the theme for my day. Because that’s how it went. All. Day. Long.

Phrase of the day: This is so not my problem.

Only I just said it in my head and smiled at everyone. Because, let’s be honest: screaming at everyone to just shut the hell up only makes you a part of the problem and Alex would be very disappointed.

White Line

The mall is kind of a surreal place. Windows brimming with seemingly beautiful things that will inevitably take up space better suited for something else or maybe nothing at all. Clothes that never look the same on you as they do in the window and things that once placed on your shelf will likely draw little attention. Things that are pretty, but aren’t real. The truth is that some of the most real things are the least pretty, and you won’t find them on display behind plate glass.

I like to be by myself and, in case you hadn’t already gathered, I’m not a huge fan of the mall - which is frequently brimming with people.  Ironically, I’m not a huge fan of most people either. I really should just stay away. All that aside, I have recently taken to seeking what is classified as “designer” duck tape. It turns up on the oddest of places and I found myself there. The mall. Not the oddest places. Actually, there is some truth to that, too… ANYWAY…

Whilst perusing, I detoured into an “imports” shop that seemed like the kind of place where I could probably buy a bong if I knew who to ask for. I picked through chunky knitted mittens, incense, and an odd assortment of other items. I was eventually approached by a girl who worked there wanting to know if I needed help. “No thanks. I’m just poking around.” She turned to the girl who had come in behind me and said, “Speaking of poking around, I’m getting my face tattooed”. To which the other girl responded (very casually, by the way…) “With what?”

At this point I’m eaves dropping and feigning disinterest. THIS is what she said:

“A white line down the middle of my face”.

I won’t lie. These girls are what I would classify as “Alterna-teens”. Hair, boots, stockings… I could go on and on.  I’m generally indifferent to how people dress or style their hair. I have no aversion to piercings or tattoos. My hair, once upon a time, tasted the rainbow…so-to-speak…

A white line.

A single white line.

What, I wonder, could the significance of that be?

A line in the sand? Parting lines? Could it be merely for shock value? An ornamental item like an obscure coffee table book placed for the purpose of creating conversation?

She had my attention.  Not in the same way you notice a pregnant woman, a nun, or someone playing music on the street. It was like seeing something broken that you forgot you had. You don’t really know or remember what happened to it, but you know that something did happen and now it’s walking around living a metaphor that receives little understanding.  That’s not to say that all displays of “self expression” are indicative of something psychologically significant. I truly believe that all people are damaged in some way whether they deal with it quietly in their own mind or in a way that the world can see.

So, I left the store and then the mall; and I am still thinking about the white line. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I am tormented by this encounter so much as I am confused. As to whether or not this is something worth remembering, I really don’t know. We don’t have to understand what other people do, but there are times that it would make life easier.

The Unsavory Cashier

A recent internal dialogue with myself went a little something like this:

Black coffee. Maybe some cream.

Crap.

The cream is bad.  *GLOP*, *GLOP*, *GLOP* in the cup bad.

Ok.

No coffee.

New Plan.

So this is the way my day started. Theoretically, this is probably a good thing. It can only go up from here, right?

I mean, if I had gently awakened to coffee that had lovingly ground its beans and placed itself in a French press to steep to perfection, what the hell would I do after that? (Obvious dismay that coffee could do this aside, of course).  And seriously? I don’t even know what to do with the chunky milk horribleness. There is no way to transform that into a charming sentiment. There is no in-between on milk. It’s either good or bad and this was very, very bad. I promise.

I try very hard to be a “glass half full” kind of girl. If I can only find one of my shoes, I would likely say something to the effect of “at least I have the other one”. But that, my friends, is bullshit. Sometimes you just have to see things how they really are regardless of how you feel about the state of your glass or the whereabouts of your shoe. The reality of it is that having one shoe is really the same thing as having no shoes at all because you can’t wear just one shoe. I mean, I guess you could, but most people probably wouldn’t. So what does having a half full glass do for you? It may leave you wanting something more, but it moistens the palate.  But what does a half empty glass do for you? It leaves you thirsty.

Yeah.

Drink that up – chunks and all.

So there you are, walking around wearing one shoe, parched, bitter, probably nauseated and being a generally unappreciative hag. Doesn’t that make you feel pretty, ladies?

And I know how much I LOVE spending time with people like this. I may be cynical, but I’m not miserable. Being a cheerleader to someone who is content to bask in self-pity is exhausting and frankly, a complete waste of effort. Specifically, MY effort.

So what. Shoes are a highly overrated commodity in this country. Go barefoot. Don’t try to cheer the un-cheerable – you know who these people are and they know we’re talking about them.

So, in closing, we have all had (and will have) to deal with things that we would rather not. That happens. But let’s form a united front and agree not to be horrible to people around us, especially innocent strangers who inadvertently stumbled into your unsavory moment. Smile. Be nice. Fake it. They don’t know about your chunky coffee or your missing shoe and just want to get out of the fucking store.  Ahem. Sorry.

So, I will be nice to you perhaps even when you are not very nice to me. However, I will not be the cheerleader who tries to right the wrong in your day and I WILL NOT be an outlet for your inexplicable nastiness.  Embrace the concept of moving forward. Make a new plan. Consider a career about a bazillion leaps away from customer service.

Saying the Wrong Thing

There’s really only so much I can say. I find myself running my mouth a bit these days. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who would fall into the category of a mouth runner/shit talker or whatever term you would like to apply to someone who tends to say too much. I think most people have those special moments where we say something and we instantly wish we hadn’t. I like to think of taking it back as speaking in reverse. But I’m the girl who thinks of vomiting as eating in reverse. It’s kind of the same principle, actually.

So why don’t I write more these days? Perhaps you’re familiar with the adage that if you don’t have anything nice to say you should not say anything at all? Now consider my silence.  Yeah. It’s like that.

Okay, okay…it’s not that I don’t have anything nice to say. Perhaps it would be better to say that I don’t have anything productive to say. For example, if someone who you find mildly irritating says something to the effect of “Hi, how are you today?” is it productive to say “I was managing this day much better prior to having been disenchanted by the mere sound of your voice”? 

No. It’s not. And knowing -  as they say -  is half the battle.

As for the other half of the battle, it’s about self control – Something I believe to be a highly overrated phenomenon. What has self control ever done for me? Well let me just tell you that I am the happiest I’ve ever been since I stopped saying what I think, eating what I like, and started keeping my hands to myself. Really. Everyone should experience the joy only self control can bring.

March

I decided on February 29th that March is for wimps. No blogs for March. March is entirely too pussified to handle me. It get's nothing.

Defining Faithful

It seems relatively uncomplicated to define faithfulness. You know: being loyal, honest, trustworthy and other such squishy sentiments. I fully support the premise of being faithful in all avenues of my life. The question is, what happens when you put your faith in the wrong thing?

Sure this is pertinent in such things as generic sun screen, the "miles until empty" notification on the dashboard of your car, and lucky number 34... but really... things can get far more jacked up than losing your ass on a bad bet and ending up walking home getting cooked by nature's broiler.

There’s no need to mentally prepare for an assault against your spirituality or lack thereof, but just know that I feel pretty good about how I live in this world and where I stand in the proverbial "end". See. That's all. This insight may come as a surprise to those who aren’t personally acquainted with me given my pension for referencing liquor, profanity and the relative side effects of the aforementioned. I neither condone nor recommend behaviour relating to the aforementioned, but I will tell you that I fully support the efforts of those trying to enjoy life.

Once upon a time, I met (sigh) a lovely individual whom during the course of a conversation said “you really have a lot of faith in me”. to which I responded “yes, I do”.  To be honest, I think the direct simplicity of my response was a bit much for noncommital ears. Not to say that I should have made something up or responded in a more complicated manner, but knowing that someone trusts you to get it right is a lot of pressure.

This is where faithfulness falters. Being faithful is different than being a fan of something. I am a fan of dark comedies, but am willing to deviate from this genre from time to time. Being willing to deviate from something that requires faithfulness causes me to challenge whether or not you are simply a fan. John Cuszak will not question my integrity if I temporarily lose my mind and think I need to watch a Jersey Shore marathon. He might not be impressed, but he’ll probably let it go.

I could make cliché references to adulterous behavior or “for better or for worse”, but really these ideas are not always applicable to faithfulness in the broader sense. The point is, having someone trust you to get it right is a lot of pressure, but faithfulness is being grateful for someone's effort even if things don’t go how it seems like they should. Good intentions should never be discounted. When you know someone is trusting you, you don’t have to act as though you’re honored, but at least know that something fragile is in your hands.

And when it comes to sunscreen... don't be a cheap ass.

Irony

There are some things that really are indescribable. You can string together a laundry list of adjectives that feel like they might be appropriate, but even when mashing them altogether, they seem inadequate. I knew a boy who said that he had seen sunsets that were so amazing that they made him cry. That in and of itself was a little much for me – I appreciate natures beauty as well as being sensitive and introspectivce , but I was left feeling a little conflicted by the thought of him falling apart over the setting of the sun. I’m not that cynical, but the sun DOES set every day, you know?

ANYWAY…

This morning when I was leaving for the day, I pulled to the end of the drive to my subdivision where it meets a relatively busy road across from a shopping complex that includes  (but is not  limited to) a Home Depot, a Pet Smart, and a Walmart. As I was beginning to get impatient waiting to turn left (who the hell do I have to write a letter to for a traffic light to be considered there?!?!?) when I realized that the sky behind Walmart was in the midst of fading from blue, to purple, to pink. The way the colors were moving as the sun was rising was fluid and somehow reassuring. The pastel pool before me was truly one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen… only it seemed to be happening along the roofline of Walmart.

What the hell? Right? If the Walmart Corporation could conjure a way to sell this amazing spectacle for eighty eight cents to the esteemed American Public, you know that it would. I was instantly imagining this amazing view being cheapened by a room full of corporate whores who wouldn’t dream of shopping in the establishment they spend their days pimping to the generally economically disadvantaged people who shop there.

I have been wondering throughout the day what I am to take from this? Beautiful things can happen in even the ugliest of places? Slow down and appreciate the little things? Even though you can buy an ass-ton of things for eighty eight cents inside of Walmart, the bottom line is that the best things in life really are free?

In the very least, it certainly is ironic to see something so striking behind something so dreadful. I sincerely hope this is not some kind of metaphor that I have yet to grasp. That would be most unfortunate.