Jaded

The usual afternoon exhaustion crept over me at about 2:00. I could feel the weight of my eyelids as the sounds of the TV on my desk began to merge with the workplace white noise behind. Time to stand up and walk around or I'd soon be waltzing with Albert Einstein at my high school prom.

After fishing around in my purse for a couple of bucks, I hiked to the vending machines upstairs. There was a rush of delight as I spotted the 3 Musketeers, quickly tempered with an expectation that the machine would likely take my money and give me no candy. Or the wrapper would get caught on the dispenser and the candy would not fall. Gotta risk it. I put in my dollar after carefully flattening all four corners and entered "131" for the 3 Musketeers. The lever began to turn....and hung up!! Damn it!....Wait....it started turning again...my candy bar fell....then it kept turning! A second candy bar fell! WTF?? Did I just get two candy bars for the price of one? I looked around with a sort of half-smile on my face, completely shocked that fortune actually smiled on me. Cool.

I then turned to the soda machine, and once again, carefully flattened my dollar before inserting it. I heard the Diet Dr. Pepper make it's way down and land with a rather loud thunk. I tried to retrieve it but the bottle was in there at an odd angle. As I fiddled with it, I realized that there were two drinks in there! Again?!

I don't understand. This doesn't happen to me. The way the world works is that BAD things happen to me, not fortuitous twists of fate. Never does anything come to me from the universe without my having to work my ass off to get it. Not even very small things. If a strange, random event occurs in my life, it usually is to my detriment. Very often to the specific detriment of my financial stability. But, out of nowhere, I actually got something for nothing.

I pondered this while walking back to my desk. Then a very sad thought came to me...what a shame that I am shat upon so often that something as simple as a vending machine malfunction in my favor made me feel like a lottery winner. What a shame that I have come to expect misfortune to befall me. I'm an optimist, really. I've weathered some overwhelming pain, sadness, fear, loneliness, frustration, helplessness....and survived with a smile on my face, for the most part.

Even a puppy with the sweetest nature will become hand shy after being hit enough times.

Well, however small, fortune DID smile on me, so I'll take it. The next time my toilet spontaneously overflows, or my car jerks, or my cat gets sick, or the Town of Wendell threatens to charge me $200 for my grass being 1 inch too tall, I'll think fondly back on this day. The day the vending machines at work cut me a break when I've had so much difficulty catching one anywhere else.

Stock Footage of Fat Torsos

At least once each day I see this video in a newscast. People walking down the sidewalk, shot between the neck and knees. The camera is focused on one person, or two if a couple of overweight people happen to be walking together. There is usually at least one fanny pack in the series of shots. Women are typically shot walking away from the camera to illustrate what a fat ass would look like, men are generally shot walking toward the camera to illustrate the classic cheeseburger beer gut. Sometimes you may get a bonus "muffin top" shot of a woman in too-tight jeans and a too-short shirt, still shot from behind.

Many different types of stories can be backed with this type of footage. Obviously, any story related to obesity or weight loss, but there are so many more! Any stories about weight-related ailments (cholesterol, diabetes, cancer), stories about the fast food industry, studies of certain prescription drugs and their side effects. Hell, maybe even stories about fat people having fat pets.

Here are just a few reasons I hate the use of the fat torso footage in a newscast:

1) It's boring. Not only is the same type of footage used over and over, but the EXACT same footage is often used over and over.
2) It has no informational value. I'm pretty sure we all know how to identify obesity.
3) It's mean. The people in these videos are being treated as though the only significant thing about them is their weight. As a former fat person (I once weighed 60 lbs more than I do now), I wouldn't want to suffer that humiliation, even if my head was cut out of the shot.
4) It's lazy. No, not the people in the video. The people putting together the news story. Yes, I get that it is easy to fall back on predictable stock footage like this to meet a deadline, certainly in favor of spending time on more relevant stories....but that's the point, isn't it? The stories that include this footage are usually filler material and not terribly newsworthy anyway. We'll see the footage again next week when a new study comes out saying that people who dieted while wearing orange shirts tended to lose 15% more than those who dieted wearing red shirts.

Oh, well. I guess using this tired, irrelevant material in a newscast is preferable to filling time with endless discussions of what the president's dog had for breakfast. Maybe that story could be illustrated with fat dogs shot below the neck. Now that, I would watch.

Happiness Is...

Happiness is... a warm puppy. That's what Charles Schultz said. I'm not a dog person, so that warm puppy thing doesn't necessarily do it for me, but I get his point. True happiness is found in simplicity. Simple pleasures. This is the kind of happiness characterized by contentment, calm, security and freedom.

My life has been so complicated lately, well, for several years now, that any moment of happiness shines like a little piece of glitter catching light. A little piece of glitter on a vast, dark, dirty veil, the edges of which are impossible to distinguish at this point. I take note of each little sparkle because they are so few, and I think about other sparkles I can seek. Here are a few of the things that make me feel that kind of happiness:

Happiness is...a warm cat snoozing in my lap.
Happiness is...a cup of Community Coffee.
Happiness is...eating fruit right off the vine, still warm from the sun.
Happiness is...my nephew's smile.
Happiness is...my grandmother's biscuits.
Happiness is...a salty sea breeze.
Happiness is...napping under a ceiling fan on a hot day.
Happiness is...the smell of crawfish boiling.

There are more. Sometimes I don't know what they are until I experience them again. So often they are things that transport me back to childhood, or at least the feeling of childhood. The contentment, calm, security and freedom of childhood. That Charles Schultz was a smart guy.

Sigmund Freud & Giant Squirrels

I had an interesting Facebook Wall conversation not long ago about crazy dreams and possible Freudian interpretations of said dreams. If the giant evil squirrels chasing me had been trying to have sex with me, we may have been more successful in our analysis.

I've always had bizarre, scary, disturbing dreams. Some of the dreams I had as a kid are as vivid in my mind as real memories, sometimes more so. I barely remember my sister cartwheeling through the living room and breaking her collar bone at 8-years-old, but I will never forget that huge green, dripping, blob alien standing in my bedroom door saying, "...beedy, beedy, beedy, beedy." I can still feel how I felt at that moment...absolute terror. That nightmare terror that paralyzes you, preventing you from moving a muscle no matter how hard you try to get up and seek refuge in Mama and Daddy's room. Frozen so that you can't even scream, even with every cell in your body trying to will it so.

I still have dreams like that. Night terrors, I guess you'd call them. No more aliens, though. Now they more often involve someone breaking into my house to kill me or demons swirling around my bedroom. They still create the same physiological response as that alien. That paralysis. Even when I wake up, the physical feeling of the nightmare may have a grip on me for a while. Lucky for Dream Girl here, not all of my vivid dreams are scary. Some are just weird.

Last night was one of those "streams of unconciousness" dream nights, as I like to call them. A lot of random things loosely strung together. Here are a few highlights:

Scene One - The Pregnant Eating Binge. I was pregnant (obviously). Huge-ass, eat everything in sight and don't give a f**k pregnant. In this state, I had gone to one of those fundraising events, like the Chocolate Festival for Komen, where a whole bunch of vendors let everyone eat desserts at their booths. Accompanying/enabling me was my usual partner in these events, Anita. We were eating everything in sight and she just kept bringing me more. I really would like to get my hands on that one particular cookie-brownie combo thing.

Scene Two - The Stray Cat. I don't really remember the setting, but I stumbled upon a very tiny black kitten who was in need of some care. I spent some time in that struggle every animal lover faces at some point. "I can't really take in another pet right now, but I can't leave it to fend for itself. He needs to eat. He needs to see a vet. He needs a bath. He needs...me."

Scene Three - The Snake. This is a very mild version of a recurring snake dream. Usually, the snake is huge. This time it was very, very tiny. Thinner than my pinky finger and only about a foot long. Rather than wrestle it in an attempt to kill it (as I usually do), I carried it around with me a bit before finally deciding to step on its head.

I don't know if dreams really mean anything. I think they probably do. At least for me, they usually seem to be the result of my brain processing emotions, memories, and any random bits of information that have entered my head. Freud probably over-analyzed the meaning of dreams and ascribed more significance than warranted. Even so, I wonder what he would have said about Scene Four....I'm just gonna keep that one to myself.

Dancing Queen

I approach most endeavors from a decidedly humble perspective, particularly my art, convinced that no one will like it but me. Having realized that such an attitude is stifling, I now just put it all out there. After all, not every stroke of Picasso's brush was genius, right? Surely Hemingway penned a lot of crap before The Old Man and the Sea finally emerged. The creation of art can be a slow, ugly process. Last night's dance rehearsal must have been a fine illustration of this point.

We learned the big kick line number (for Raleigh Little Theatre's production of Cabaret, for those of you who don't know what I'm up to these days). I always feel a little lost and out of my element learning choreography because I've never danced. What the hell is 2nd position?? If ignorance makes me feel like a fraud, then doing dance moves designed for 6-foot Amazons (I am 5' 3" on a good day) makes me feel deformed. Difficulty contorting my body into the warm-up positions isn't a good sign of things to come.

I managed to actually do most of the choreography reasonably well. Most of what I did not do well will get better once it is all memorized. I know this now that I've had a good night's sleep and doped with too much ibuprofen, but I sure as hell didn't feel that way while doing that one particular kick, spin, circle, kick, spin, run, hold hands, goose step series. At one point I thought, this must be what it feels like to be inside a dryer with a bunch of other people. Spinning, dizzy, pain as arms, elbows, legs, asses slam against everybody else. Did I just lose a toe?? Everyone needed a hug by the end of rehearsal. As I took off my dance shoes to put on flip flops, I noticed the imprint of a heel on top of one foot. When did that happen?

Near the end of the evening, I noticed the choreographer laughing while talking to the director. I told him that laughing at us doesn't help. He enthusiastically said that he was not laughing at us. He said he is giddy with delight at how great the number looks and how well we are doing it. I'm gonna choose to believe he wasn't just blowing smoke up our bruised asses. Apparently this ugly process is getting us to a beautiful work of art.

Wet Buzz

The struggle was epic. Due to the slight chill in the house, the extreme exhaustion from the previous night's work, and the sweetness of both cats snuggled up to me, getting out of bed seemed like the worst possible choice. As a result, I have been preoccupied today with various forms of caffeination.

I have never had an addiction to a traditional drug. Can't relate to the physical and mental need to self-medicate in that way....or can I? Isn't addiction marked by an inability to function "normally" without your fix? Always planning how to get the next dose and negotiating the obstacles to get there? Pondering different delivery methods if your preferred form is not readily available? Check, check, check, check....I'm an addict.

I've had a cup of coffee this morning and am now sipping caffeinated water, wondering if I have a dollar in my purse to get a Diet Dr. Pepper this afternoon. I feel actual pangs of jealousy and resentment when someone tells me they went to Starbucks without me. (I have called my significant other a bastard numerous times for this offense, and he deserved it every time.)

Conventional wisdom states that the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Done. I guess the next step would be a desire to recover. I'll ponder that as I wait for my grande triple skinny vanilla latte.

Break, Broke, Broken

"I can't catch a break."

A phrase that just came to me. Or rather, broke over my head and caused me to have a breakdown.

I have already passed the point of going broke: legal fees, vet bills, mortgage I can't afford, upkeep on an old house, pay cuts, car repairs, income tax bill...I could keep going. The harder I try to break out of the constraints of living paycheck to paycheck, the harder the universe seems to push back.

I'm tempted to make a break for it. Abandon this life entirely and run away, although I'm not sure how much sanity and freedom that would buy me. I'd probably trip over my own feet and break my leg.

Explosive Diarrhea

"The promise of a new day..."

That phrase sounds so....promising. It evokes thoughts of the sun peeking over the horizon, birds chirping, strains of Vivaldi's Spring floating in the background as you stretch to greet the grand potential of the day to come. But promises, however positive the connotation may be, aren't always heralds of good things to come.

I awoke with Sam the sick cat meowing directly into my ear. Unusual behavior, but his sickness of late has prompted odd behaviors from him that aren't necessarily significant. This behavior was significant.

The next hour was spent on my knees, scrubbing the floor, gagging, lighting candles, scrubbing the cat, crying to the heavens, "Why?!? Dear God, no! How could there be more?!!" Poor Sam was doing his best to get it all in the litter box and clean himself up (as evidenced by the 5-foot long skid mark on the carpet he used as toilet paper), but it just kept sneaking up on him.

I am not looking forward to seeing what wonders await my lunchtime return home.

Makeup

I like being a girl because I get to wear makeup. That's not the only reason, but a big one. Makeup is designed to pump up the positive and minimize the negative. I told a coworker once how lovely she looked and her response was, "Oh, yeah, I'm sick. If you ever see me made up like this, it's because I'm trying to look healthy." Makeup is a literal mask we can put on for the world, hiding reality.

In reality, my skin tone is uneven. Allergies cause chronic darkness under my eyes. My eyelashes are light colored and kind of disappear into my face. Easy enough to fix with foundation, concealer and mascara. Those same items can also hide how much crying I did the day before, how much drinking, how little sleep. Top it off with some lipstick and a smile, and the world never has to know. I do like being a girl.

Crazy Cat Lady

There was a time when I cast a slightly judgmental eye on those who spent thousands of dollars on their pets. Pets aren't people. They aren't really our children. They keep us company for the time they are here, then we get another one. Now, I'm one of those people.

I spent the better part of an hour this morning caring for my sick cat, Sam. A pill, 2 syringes full of antibiotics, steroids, then forcing a slurry of pureed chicken down him. The poor beast is covered in pink and brown goo. The tab keeps running at the vet...$1,400ish so far. Why am I doing this??

I'll tell you why. Because that sweet fur ball kept me sane during one of the worst moments of my life. Through the process of separation and divorce, Sam was a constant reminder that there really is unconditional love in the world and that I am not alone. There was a period of time when the only happiness I felt was while he snoozed contentedly in my lap. He just loved me completely, without judgment, and expected nothing in return.

So, sweet Sam deserves to have me make a few sacrifices to get him through this. Yes, I will likely be eating macaroni and cheese from a box for the next 3 months, but that's ok. I kinda like mac and cheese out of a box.

Self-indulgence

Oh, the pressure of creating the introductory post...as though it's of any consequence or interest to anyone but me. Even so, if the purpose of this is simply self-gratification, and it is, then that's a weighty enough reason to ponder every word. Turn each phrase just so...

I begin this blog with a particular phrase bouncing around my head. Something I've heard time and again.

"A writer must write."

I've always fancied myself a writer, but I don't write. Not really. Well, maybe some, but not how I want to write. Nothing that's any sort of expression of myself. Just crafting the thoughts and ideas of others into clear, concise and persuasive copy. A good outlet for a writer, but devoid of my own voice. So, here I am.

Maybe I'll have some interesting things to say, maybe not, but perhaps you'll at least like the way I say it.

Or not.

After all, this really is just about me.