I am surrounded by amazing people

I really am. When I think about the diseases, the illnesses, the strife and struggles of so many people in my circle, I'm amazed at how much they have survived. They are pillars of strength. Beacons of their family. Some have faced death straight on, and by the grace of God, their family, and all they had in them, beat odds and walked away. Has life been easy for them after? No. (Why should it have been?) But they go on. They inspire.

They amaze me.

Does anyone have any concept of how impossible it is to be surrounded by such people? And, yet, at the same time, impossible to walk away? To not want to be in their midst? But to know you are simply too small to be there?

By comparison, it seems like what is enough to just make me throw up my hands and scream, "Uncle!" is so ridiculously miniscule compared to what these incredible people have gone through. What kind of a shallow, discontented monster am I to be ready to throw the towel in over something so inconsequential in comparison!

I'm a selfish rube.

I'm told to appreciate what I have. But how can you appreciate what you have when it's not what brings you joy? It's like giving chocolate to a drowning man. Yes, chocolate is incredible. And most people would be ecstatic to be handed a box of chocolate. But the man is drowning. What the hell is he going to do with chocolate? No matter how high the quality?

There are days, like today, when I am clearly not worthy to be in the presence of these people. I am completely undeserving. I'm a stupid, pratty peon.

I wish there were a way I could transfer what they see as valuable to them. They'll appreciate it far more than I ever will.

What 2009 taught me...

1. Just because you are related by blood, you are not family. In fact, good reason to sever any and all ties.
2. Trust no one. Least of all your feet.
   
3. When your gut tells you it's safe, it's not.
   
4. Go back to 1992. Do not leave. Whatever you do.

Fini.

18 is supposed to be for life...

18 years ago, right now, give or take a minute, a bottle of Western Loganberry Clearly Canadian sparkling water fell out of my hands and onto the Commons floor. 18 years ago, right now, I was wearing a cranberry sweater, white turtleneck, favorite pair of jeans, my "shit-kicker" army boots, my black trenchcoat, a black backback, a burgundy hand-tooled leather purse, hair pulled back and still damp, but I felt naked and raw surrounded by a room full of people staring at me, watching my every move. Making sure I was breathing. For a moment, I wasn't. For a moment, my heart stopped.

18 years ago was the last time I could sing "Silent Night" without crying.

18 years ago was the last time Christmas carols were beautiful to me.

18 years and 1 day ago, I had my last conversation with him. And the last words that escaped my mouth were said in anger, but felt with love.

18 years ago, I had to tell my closest friends, aside from him, that he was gone. I'd become a verbal pall bearer.

18 years ago was a day that was supposed to be the highlight of high school for me. It was supposed to be the biggest event of my senior year - bigger, to me, than prom or graduation.

18 years ago was the last day that I thought snow was beautiful.

18... 18... 18... this doesn't add up. 18 is supposed to be for life.

Encouraged or Discouraged

On my other blog, ricalivestrong.blogspot.com, I'm chronicling my efforts as a LIVESTRONG Leader and LIVESTRONG Challenge particpant aiming for the Ride For The Roses. (What is the "Ride For the Roses"? From the LIVESTRONG website: What is Ride for the Roses Weekend?
Ride for the Roses Weekend is a celebration of LIVESTRONG's most enthusiastic supporters. Team LIVESTRONG participants who raise a minimum fundraising level of $10,000 by October 1 at 9 a.m. CST are invited participate in Ride for the Roses Weekend (held in conjunction with LIVESTRONG Challenge Austin) October 22-24, 2010) Why am I shooting for the Ride For the Roses? Two very good reasons. First, I want to raise as much money as possible for a charity I believe in. But, secondly, it's the only way that I can afford to attend. I can't afford the airfare, nor can I afford the hotel.

To make things even more "interesting," my son has decided to join me. Which means that he, too, would need to qualify in order for us to afford the practicality of participating in the Austin Challenge.

Through an AMAZING turn of events, a fellow (and far more established blogger, Eldon "Fat Cyclist" Nelson), wrote a humorous letter to Johan Bruyneel, the Team Director for Lance's new Team RadioShack, requesting consideration as a new team member. Johan responded, with what seemed to be a near impossible feat - to raise $25,000 for LIVESTRONG and $25,000 for the World Bicycle Relief in less than a week. Fat Cyclist did it in less than 3 days. $50,000+ raised in less than 3 days.

Don't get me wrong - I am NOT begrudging him his victory. Not one bit.

But, my goodness. How amazing would it be for me to be able to do that? To be able to tell my son (and daughter, who'd be coming with my comp-guest pass (she's not riding, therefore, she wouldn't need to earn her own Ride for the Roses incentive), that we could take it easy for the rest of the year?

Epiphany

For years, I've wondered about the notion of "only the good die young". In my life, I've known amazingly good people who have died too young. (One of whom, I'll be remembering very soon on December 15.)

Why is it that the "bad" outlast the good? And how do we know if there is a hell?

I think I figured it out.

The "good" die young to leave the "bad" behind. And hell is having to live out life without their presence. Hell isn't fire and brimstone and demons and pointy tails. It's the constant questions of "why them and not me?" It's "what's wrong with me, that they never stay?" "If I'm so great, so amazing, so strong, why am I always the one left behind? What did I do wrong and how can I fix it?"

The fact that those answers are never given is hell. You will die never having those answers.

That's the definition of hell.

Who knew that one of my favorite blonde jokes would, indeed, be my greatest undoing...

"How do you keep a blonde in suspense?"

Kristallnacht: Night of Broken Glass

There's a story in my family about my grandfather. Memory doesn't serve me on whether or not it, in fact, took place on Kristallnacht, or I always think about it around Kristallnacht because of the imagery. Either way, it's one that I always think of today. But I don't think it's ever been put down. So I'm doing that today.

My grandfather's name was Baruch Wasser. Most people, however, knew him as Bernard Wasser. In all the pictures I've seen of him, he reminds me of Telly Savalas, only with a softer expression in his face. I'm not sure he ever had hair. He had eyebrows, that I can see. He was born in Prussia, and raised in an Orthodox family. He was a talmudic scholar, and part of a very loving family. In his early adolescence, however, the Russian armies were forcibly inducting young boys, Jewish boys, into the army. It was certain death and, despite the implications of what it meant, his father sent him away, knowing it was likely neither would see each other, or speak, again. And, so it was.

My grandfather ended up working on my grandmother's family estate. They were a very wealthy, well-respected, non-Jewish German family. My grandmother was an athlete. She was a horseback rider, and was on the Olympic gymnastics team. She was slated to win gold for Germany, and, knowing her and her determination, she would have, had she not dropped out in protest of Hitler turning that year's Olympic games into a propaganda opportunity.

My grandfather, and grandmother, became part of the resistance. There are many stories about how they, together and independently, worked against the Nazi regime. Let's leave it at the point where my grandfather was being actively sought after by the Gestapo.

He had, eventually, begun a business in the textile industry in Berlin, and had a small apartment. Many of his colleagues and clients, Jewish and non-Jewish were, in fact, assisting him with the resistance. And, unanimously, they all loved my grandfather, as he was an exceptionally kind man.

By this time, my grandfather still had very high regard for the level of observance he was raised with, but he wasn't actively Orthodox. The times weren't conducive to it. It was also a safe presumption that, at this stage in his life, his father had long passed away.

One night, in the middle of the night, my father was awoken by a figure at the foot of his bed. He looked up, and it was his father, shaking him, in yiddish, telling him, "Baruch," to go to shul. "Get up, get your talit and tefillin, and GO TO SHUL."

"But, it's the middle of the night!" Why he was arguing with the ghost of his father in the middle of the night telling him to get up and go to shul, I couldn't tell you, but he resisted, and ultimately listened. He took his talit, his tefillin, and went to the closest synnagogue. Of course, this was breaking curfew, and risking his life to go to a Jewish synnagogue, but, when your dead father comes back to tell you to do something, no matter how resistant you were at the beginning, you do it.

He went, recited the Shacharit service, and went back to his apartment. Well, almost...

As my grandfather approached his apartment building, one of his friends ran out, grabbed him, and pulled him into an alley, embracing him, as though he, himself, had seen a ghost.

"Bernard! Oh, Bernard! Thank goodness! You're alive!!!!"

"Yes... of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You mean, you don't know? You didn't run?"

"Run? Run from what?"

"Bernard! The Gestapo just raided your apartment! Get out of here!! RUN!"

And, so he did.

The Web Site Manager/Project Manager's Prayer

Our Webmaster who art in Heaven,
Hallowed by thy URL and Twitter Handle,
Thy cyberspace come,
My will be done,
Online and IRL.

Give us, this day, our coffee intravenously,
And punish all those around us severely for their trespass,
As we will forever curse at them that trespass against us and our processes.

Lead us straight into temptation,
And deliver us from our inherent, yet witty, evil.

For thine is the Kingdom of Bug-free pages, non-existent typos, and glorious user-experience,
Forever and ever.

ISP On High, grant me the serenity,
To accept changes that I have demanded be changed,
Courage not to strangle those that mangle my requirements and copy and all things are must be changed,
And the wisdom to know the difference between competent and incompetent vendors and freelancers.

And let us say, AMEN!

We aren't supposed to be here, today. (Reflections - Part I)

That's what the Rabbi said today. We aren't supposed to be here. We're supposed to be anywhere but here.

But we were standing in the gloriously warm sunshine, on an unusually stunning and beautiful day. The grass was bright green. The leaves were gold and amber and fire and dancing in the breeze. We were gathering together. We were unified. People from all over, all walks of life were here. It was incredible!

But, he was right. We weren't supposed to be here today. We were supposed to be at work. Playing with kids in the park. Scrambling the halls of a school somewhere. Wrestling with bundles and shopping carts at Costco. Getting our nails done. Playing squash. Going on a hayride. Flying to that very important place. Anywhere but here.

It's not that we should never be here. It's inevitable. But certainly not now. It was clearly too early. Not that there is ever a good time to say goodbye. Not that there is ever a good time to say goodbye to flesh and blood.

Nor is there ever a good time to watch a parent bury their child. A wife bury her husband while holding their infant son.

Although, tell that to that precious baby, who relished the attention, laughed with delight, clearly without comprehending the gravity of the day, and the fact it was the last time he'd be in the physical presence of his father.

His mother understood, though. From the rushed, hurried eulogy she gave, that was amazingly interesting, but difficult to understand with the speed of her speech, clearly not wanting to share these stories, and having to hurry before keening, to having to brace herself in the embrace of her older in-laws to keep upright, it was very clear she understood the gravity. Perhaps understood is the wrong word. She clearly comprehended.

You never understand something like this. There is no understanding in death. There is comprehension. There is acknowledgement. But no understanding.

It's a remarkable thing to see a boy cry past the age of being a toddler. Even when we, parents, tell our little boys it's ok to cry, society intervenes and teaches them otherwise. It's difficult to see a grown man cry. It's incomprehensible to describe what it's like, however, when you see a man your father's age sob and weep like a baby, like his grandson, in fact, bowing his head, lip quivering as a child's may when they fall and bonk their head, and weep into the arms of his living sons and daughter.

As a mother, we are the emotional center of the family. We know that we have to be strong, however, when no one else can be. And we mourn later. We weep later. At least we try. It's our job to take care of everyone else. Our children, our spouses, our parents, our friends, our guests, our... everyone. Today was no different. I watched as a mother thanked the officers that served with her son in the local coastal auxilliary who spoke at his funeral, shaking their hands, trying to be courteous and gracious. Until what was happened around her hit her, once more, and, she went from standing upright, shaking their hands from a distance, to collapsing into their strong embrace, allowing her to compose herself, sob into their uniforms, catch her breath, and continue down the crowd, attending to those that needed attending.

I felt I had to be there. I wasn't a close family friend. In fact, I hadn't seen my friend, whose brother passed away, for years. I didn't even really know her brother. I'd known of her brother. His brilliance was somewhat legendary. Of all her brothers, I had seen him the least. He didn't poke his head into her room, or try and annoy us when we were getting our homework done before "Rap with the Rabbi". But she was a good friend to me during very difficult school years for me. She helped me with homework. She never played the vicious games most of my classmates did at my expense. So how could I not attend? Besides, only 2 of us from a class of 18 people that spent 9 years of our lives together could attend. Again, how could I not? Did she recognize me? I think so. Her father didn't, but that's ok. I wasn't there to be seen or recognized or reunited. I was there to be part of the collective energy, to be another face, another body another presence to reestablish a world that seems unfair and unkind. I couldn't help but feel like an outside, though. I kept my distance. I watched. I listened.

Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya (Reflections Part II)

You really don't know what you have until it's gone. Or, in this case, who. And I never had him. I didn't know him. But I really wished that I had.

Strange to say about the person whose funeral you're attending, isn't it? I wish I'd known him. Based on what I learned about him at his funeral, I wish I'd known him. I really am struggling with the ironic and, possibly, inappropriate thought that I'm sorry I didn't know him. Is that dumb? Perhaps.

In some ways, obviously, I know him. He was my friend's oldest brother. He was an example of the brilliance that alumni of our school share. Well, I knew of him.

I learned today, however, we had a lot in common, and I really would have liked to have known him in life. I know people like him. I am in the process of "revamping" the friends I have in my life - upgrading, in a sense, and he's the type of person who is near the definition of who I am looking to befriend. (I know, this must be as strange a blog entry to be reading as it is for me to be writing, let alone to be thinking. At least we share that.)

In some ways, I know him without knowing him, too. There was a moment, today, as I was scanning the attendees at the funeral for familiar faces when I saw two faces, well, not faces, backs, that were familiar but did not belong. Two men in uniform. But not just any uniform. Not just any military uniform. A specific branch of the military. A branch most people wouldn't recognize. But I knew it immediately. Those blues are distinctive to me. And, as my wandering mind referenced the person I associate with that uniform, the words describing the deceased started to ring way too familiar.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a wee bit overwhelmed with the connections my clearly damaged synapses were making. Neurological sparks were flying, and I closed my eyes and ran through an exercise. I didn't listen to the specific name. I listened to the stories. I kept shaking my head in disbelief.

Whose funeral am I at, right now? Because, except for the age, the company he worked for, etc, I had the distinct feeling I was at someone else's funeral. Who, ironically, should have been attending someone else's funeral today. (Which makes this moment even weirder, but thus I digress.) I was listening to eulogies for one person, that would fit another like a glove. I kept trying to shake it off, thinking, "Look, you're just making up these connections. You just want these words, these revering stories to fit this other person. Stop it, you're being stupid." I'd shake it off, mentally, and then I'd listen the the eulogy.

And it would happen again.

It was the strangest thing.

Was it because Jonathan was the kind of person that I wanted to get to know because I'd already gotten to know someone like him? And what I was hearing reminded me of the other person? Or did these two have a ridiculous amount of commonality?

Either way, the net result was the same. I was left terribly sorry I didn't know Jonathan in life. But clear that I might be able to get to know him, through his family, in death, while helping do what he wanted - to be remembered for his zest for life, appreciation for unconventional challenges, and generosity. I may have a venue for his spirit to live on to share.

And I was left with an even greater appreciation for someone else. Because I realized I already heard his eulogy today. There is no need for me to hear it a second time. Because I've lost him once, I kind of lost him again today. And I don't want to lose him once more.

There are no words

There are no words to describe the exhaustion, fatigue and overwhelming overwhelm that has come over me. I sleep, and it gets worse. I stay up, and it doesn't matter. The cloud that followed me, and only rained on my head before has become a foggy shroud.

I function... I go to work, get my job done, get my ideas together, get the day-to-day done... colleagues are none-for-the-wiser. I don't really see myself as having a real family, so they are as oblivious as I choose them to be, which is pretty oblivious, as I really could care less what they think.

The people that I do consider my family aren't really. And those that I did, well, I don't think that I can.

I find that what I relied on being familiar is in fact, nothing but cardboard cutouts. That I clung to locations and places and things as being "rocks", when they crumble in my hands when touched and sift between my fingers.

Nothing "real" around me was real in the first place, was it?

And that which isn't real, is?

My office is my home. My home is more draining than my office. My desk, my computer have become my bed, and my bed, which I haven't been able to sleep in for months, is a tomb.

Everything good is now tainted. Every hope I had for myself is now a haunting. Invaded by memories and wishes of him.

Yet another reason I just want to curl up under a rock and cry

There is no place that is safe. Home, work, the past, the current. Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, the internet. Bars, restaurants, the grocery store, the private beach.

I have no place to be safe.

Not even in my mind.

The minute that I feel like it's ok to come out, I'm reminded of why I went back under in the first place.

And God only help me if I come out, happy, and ready to take on the world. That's when it hurts the most.

They are out there.

The predators.

The wolves in sheep's clothing.

The naysayers.

The scum.

The bullies.

The cheaters.

The oblivious.

The loves ones.

The entrusted.

The protectors.

The haters.

The manipulators.

Women.

They are all out there, waiting to pounce. Just waiting for the moment I set off the trap.

Can I get away before I get stabbed? Rarely.

They change names. They change their approaches. They change faces.

They get older. They mature.

But they are still the same.

It's still them.

They are out there.

They are in here.

There is no escape.

I am a leaf

Cold weary...

In the dead of winter, an ember lay dormant. I resisted. I resisted with what little I had within me.

I rejected it. I turned it away. But, as we revolved closer to one another, I grew tender to it. And I let it inside.

Spring started with a promise. A boost from within, a wave of warmth and light from an unexpected, yet familiar place shot me into the sun.

I was strong. I was firm. I was young again. A new spirit that was so familiar, but had gone missing surged through my veins.

I brightened from dull drums.

Come Summer, the youth and vigor wore off a bit, but I was still strong. Strong as always.

I had a mission. I had a goal. I had to prove worthy of that ember. Of that youth. Of the messenger that embedded itself in me in Winter. That brought new life to me in the Spring.

I was a flag of power. Of fighting. Of determination.


But then that ember turned away from me. It withdrew from within my now thin skin. And I began to crumble.

Slowly. That vibrant color that shone from within me in Spring, that signaled joy in Summer, fades. I see that warmth, that light, what made me feel alive disappearing into a cold distance.

You are turning away from me.

And it's killing me, bit by bit. Cell by cell.

I ache every time another molecule falls apart.

I'm hanging by a thread.

The exact thread I was dangling from when you found me almost a year ago. When you begged me to let you enter my world.

I can't hold on much longer. I want to. Or do I?

I only want to hold on for you. In hope that you'll return. That, when the cold and the bitter winds slash your face, and tears are forced from you... when you need a source of warmth... shelter... that you'll remember the cozy comfort of my embrace.

But it's getting colder, dear friend.

Without you, the gales strip me of what little I have left.

If I let go, where will I go? How can I not fall and rot away?

If you return, what will be left of me? Will you even remember? Will there even be a trace? A bare tree with no sign of where I've gone?

Will the breeze that fanned your heart a year ago in mine be kind to me? And sweep me North to you? So that I may be an ember in your heart?

Or is that too much to ask?

I can't let go. Not yet.

I don't know where to go if I do.

But I don't know, this late in the year, if I have the strength to hold on.

Please, tell me what to do? I've held on for so long for you.

I'm afraid to Fall.

Fiction

Write about a boy who made you believe in yourself without even trying...
Who could climb a spider's web into the heavens
and drove you to do the same.


and then clipped the thread.

but demanded you keep climbing.


who kept gliding up that silken fiber as effortlessly as a seagull riding the wind.




Write about a boy who was made of gold and earth...
who was capable of dazzling with wisdom beyond comprehension
who taught you
things no one ever could make you understand

and made you believe that you, too, could learn things previously a mystery


and then closed the book.

dashing your confidences


and moving onto the next untapped mind.



Write about a boy that could fly on two wheels
who made mountains crumble, seas part with rubber and steel
whom you could feel with every stroke

haunting in the wind rushing through your hair


a voice telling you to move forward, not to quit


who, at the end





wasn't there.




Write about a boy no one really wanted to understand
who begged for someone to love him as he was.

who wanted so badly to be a star
for whom you'd give up the limelight


who gave of himself for everyone

but you


(but you DID love him for who he was)
(and you DID give up the limelight)
(and you WANTED him to be a star)
(and you never made him beg)

and then shoved you into the pit

begging and pandering for shallow and empty praise



from anyone
from anyher



but you


and made you watch in awe, wanting to genuinely applaud.

yearning to make him see that you meant everything you said
to make him feel what you felt

so he could believe that you really believed the way you believed in him
so he could believe in himself the way you really believed in him

so he could believe



but he left your hands bound.



Forever silent
Forever blind
Forever not ever.

Checks and balances

Figures. Absolutely figures.

Somehow, in this world of ours, we're supposed to believe that the scales will balance themselves. And, perhaps, the positives will outweigh the negatives by a touch. And, of course, we see many instances of where life is not fair. Where the meek never inherit the earth. But we believe that all will turn out well in the end, that our struggles and efforts have a purpose, otherwise why continue?

The Secret/Law of Attraction teaches that what we put out into the universe is what we receive. That if we are negative, we attract negativity. If we are positive, we attract positivity. But that, and here's the catch, if we radiate positivity because we are afraid of negativity, the universe may pull an "oops" and deliver the negativity.

Murphy's Law dictates that whatever can go wrong, must go wrong.

Karma (depending on whose interpretation), in its simplest form holds that deeds, positive and negative, are reciprocated at some point equally. For every action, there is a reaction. If you give, you will receive in the same spirit and in kind.

And then, we have the final authority on the subject: The bumper sticker: Sh*t Happens.

I breathe a sigh of relief when people that I've gotten to know are blessed after what seems to be a curse, no matter how small or temporary. Drew got positive feedback about his health the other day, while going through awful treatment. And he's surrounded by amazingly supportive people. Another friend is going through a similar treatment course, but finally found the love I know he'd been looking for for as long as I've known him. Debra & Sooz found love when they least expected it and had given up. Jodi, Sara & Sigal are mommies of bouncing, joyful babies. Lisa finally realized her dream of becoming a National, nay, Senior National Sales Director, and Regina made Director (finally!).

Now, I really have to wonder which direction this universe is sending me. What cryptically cruel chord are you playing for me when you give me a day like yesterday... Happy Bubble Day... I win a contest (the prize and sponsor should have been the kind of obviously, corny foreshadowing that I'd usually see in a TV show and scoff at how obvious it would turn out) and then, well... the bubble-bursting tack? Now, I really have to wonder if I can "trust my feet" as I was told I could do many years ago, hiking up an impossible climb. Somewhat tainted advice upon which I'd moved mountains recalling.

But, perhaps it's the time of year, as well, that makes this weigh so heavily on me. The Law of Rica's Universe is that this is the time of year when hopes always seem to be dashed. When I'm faced with my greatest fears realized. Matters of the heart, home, finances. It varies year to year.

And it's the time of year that I'm reminded of what is most important to me. What is the crux of my existence. Finances - while they can cause great distress, they are merely a means to an end. Home? Home is nothing without matters of the heart.

Matters of the heart. The earth may revolve around the sun, but my soul revolves around a very, very battered and fragile heart. I know. Shocking to most of you, yes? This brazen, bold, outspoken, "fearless" (hahahaha), determined force of nature has a chink in the armor. It is a very guarded, walled up open wound. I can feign its exposure to most, but actual revelation? I can count on one hand to whom I've opened up. (And, I know, several of you are thinking, "You mean, with me?" And the answer? Most likely. Sorry. I gotta be honest.)

Trust. Security. Safety. I've been promised all of those. Given hope to feel all of those things. And have had each one irreconcilably broken. And there are those with whom I *almost* felt that Holy Trinity, but even rarer that I actually felt them. Like drinking instant Sanka, and then, just once, tasting pure, caffeinated Kopi Lewak. And, consequently, being asked to forget the taste that, months later, still linger on the tastebuds and have been patiently saving up to taste once more.

And why this time of year?

It all starts with this:

Who shall have rest and who shall wander...
Who shall be at rest and who shall be tormented,

I sit and listen to the translation of Unetaneh Tokef on Rosh Hashanah and wonder if this will be my year to rest. And to be at rest. I don't mean in a lounge chair. I don't mean all the events/activities that I'm involved with to settle down so I'm not running around like a chicken with my head cut off all the time. (Which, by the way, is my natural state.)

I'm talking about a restlessness that seems to have begun since the day I was born. The cruelest trick in the universe is to produce a Gemini and leave them alone, without their twin, their mate. It's like living life like a 3-legged greyhound being asked to, nay, forced to race and win.

And now, as it seems is the case every year, on Yom Kippur, I'm going to be forced to sit through another reading, the reading that is my greatest fear possible, with that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that generations ago, Rabbis wrote strictly to torment and mock me. A talmudic, "nanny, nanny, boo-boo - you can't get us back, because we're long dead... pbththththth."

FAILURES OF LOVE

For confusing love with lust,
and for pursuing fleeting pleasure at the cost of lasting hurt.

For using others as a means to gratify our desires,
and as stepping-stones to further our ambitions.

For withholding love to control those we claim to love,
and shunting aside those whose youth and age disturbs us.

For hiding from others behind an armor of mistrust,
and for the cynicism which leads us to mistrust the reality of unselfish love.

I don't dread these words because I believe that I did any of these things. But because I feel like the butt of a variation of that old joke, "Hey, did you know that a man is mugged every 10 seconds in NYC? And boy, is he mad about it!" The re-write, "Hey, did you hear about that chick, Rica, for whom people confuse love with lust, who use her to pursue fleeting pleasure, causing her lasting hurt? Who gets used to gratify others and is the happy, energetic stepping-stone to further their ambitions? From whom love is constantly withheld to control, and is shunted aside? Who, now, hides, no, cowers from others behind an armor of mistrust? Who has developed a cynicism superficially, AND YET, deep down in her heart, STILL BELIEVES in the reality of unselfish love, but, more like the way she believes in unicorns? And, boy, is she mad about it! But she doesn't know any better, so she still chases after it!"

So, if you're at services, and you see me squirming in my seat as we approach this section, you'll know why. (Yes, YOU.)

The question is, why is it that whenever I make the effort, I end up spinning my wheels, but never earning the jersey? Or pull my hamstring?

How do you...

Ah, I can't tell you how many times a day I start a thought or sentence with, "How do you... ?"

"How do you replace a pedal that's snapped off your bike?"
"How do you clean the stains on the coffee dispenser, when all the tips you've read online still don't work?"
"How do you treat road rash without tearing up?"
"How do you get MS Project to allocate time the way you want it?"
"How do you get Outlook to synch with your Optonline account?"

Now, these are boring, task-oriented "How do you" questions.

Then, there are the deeper questions...

"How do you tell someone that, while you appreciate their passion for their religious choices, you really don't want to receive daily evangelical statements, without insulting them?"
"How do you ask the questions you've been dying to ask, that for your own sanity, you need the answers for, when you're not sure the other person is ready to ask? And if you ask, you'll kill the whole deal?"
"How do you know for sure you're in the clear with one business matter, when you've been assured on the phone, you're in the clear, but you receive documentation in the mail that says otherwise?"
"How do you convince a chief executive that they are making a really bad decision because they don't understand the situation, when you've explained the situation and the reasoning, without risking your job? And it's just their lack of experience in your field of expertise?"
"How do you try and explain to your kids that, no matter how badly they want to do something, it's absolutely not in their best interest, and the other party really is a wolf in sheep's clothing? And, when you have the ability to prevent any and all interaction, how do you do that without being the bad guy? (I mean above and beyond the usual bad guy)"

If only there were a "Book of Answers." I bought one, actually, for a friend, but, sadly, I know the trick of the book, and the fact that the answers are somewhere in me. Which, unfortunately, I know is true.

But once, just once, I wish I didn't have to look inside, face my fears/demons/what-have-you, and just flip to a page and have clear instructions as to what to do.

Why is it that...

…there is always some moron who chooses to answer the cell phone, and conduct a conversation, in a public bathroom?

… one bra strap always slides off your shoulder when you least want it to – and it’s never the same side, nor is it the same situation repeating itself, so you can’t correct it?

… fruits and juices have to be promoted as being healthy and containing vitamins, nay having vitamins added, when, by their very nature, they are healthy and contain vitamins?

… the day after the office management company tells us that they take pride in reducing random solicitations, 3 sales people stroll into the office, selling their wares?

… though I don’t like water, we feel the need to add vitamins and flavors to our water? Natural flavors? Is it fair, then, to still call it water? Isn’t it just your daily vitamin ground up and mixed into your water so you don’t have to take the pills? Or, I dunno, juice?

…  it’s always the people that I look up to the most have no clue how wonderful they are?

Torn

(Whilst reading this note, please play "Torn", written by Anne Preven and covered by Natalie Imbruglia. It will enhance the experience, and explain the title... )

It seems, as I reflect on years past, that each year has had its own independent leitmotif. Last year, clearly, was a test in FAITH- would one individual's soul/spirit conquer their demons or not, would hard work, physical labor and optimism be enough to finish the house, would I survive the recession and have a job, etc resulting in the ultimate question - Do I have faith that it will "all work out".

This year's theme, however, is just as difficult to chew, but is emerging quite early on (usually, I don't even bother to reflect upon it until the following year). It's TORN. Just that - torn.

In some cases, when a choice has been put in front of me, and loyalty has been questioned, the choice has been relatively simple. While I may FEEL torn, the decision is obvious and can be made. A friendship, for example, that had some great positives, and I'd felt a level of loyalty to, as I was, in a twisted way, one of her only constants, had fallen apart when MY loyalty was questioned, and, after feeling temporarily torn, I was quite happy to walk away and never look back.

Career-wise, I was torn between taking on a role that I knew that I was way over qualified for, but for a company that had AMAZING prospects. Had the employment frontier been more promising, I would have been far more torn as to what I would do.

For whatever reason, this year, I have been far more double-booked than usual. So I've been very torn as to what event I would attend, and what I would pass on. I'm not one to say no (and, you weisenheimers, keep your comments/mouths shut on that subject... you know who you are.)

But these are relatively simple situations - lest you think I've only been superficially torn.

Entire connections and relationships with people that I've known for years, and have held very closely, have torn me in twain, trying to figure out what the right thing is to do. One friend that I'd been close to since we were 14 put me in a position where I was so torn as to what to do, that I realized that no real friend would do that, so I walked away when the opportunity was there. Another relationship, which had serious issues to begin with, had me quite torn when the chance to part arose. After much debate (though, it may have seemed sudden to some, it really wasn't), I chose to part. Now, I'm torn if the residual friendship is worth trying to save, as this individual makes demands to go back to where we were, which is an impossibility. As steadfast as I am in my refusal to resort to what should never have been in the first place, I am torn as it would mean the end to a friendship that care very much about. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to be able to grasp this. So, while I'm still torn on the issue, I maintain the friendship, and we'll see if this is purely transition or not.

I've also been incredibly torn when it comes to institutions.

What do you do when you see an institution that is so important to family, to you, etc, doing the wrong thing? Or, when it is individuals within the institution causing the problem, who do not have the same dedication to the community the institution serves, at the expense of the institution?

Without naming names, I received a call today with regards to one educational institution that is paramount in my children's life. Apparently, through the misplacement of paper on THEIR end, despite receiving constant communication for the upcoming year, preparation, etc, being set up for fee withdrawals with the bank, etc, allegedly, their registration and, therefore, scholarship, has been "reassigned" and there are no spots for them. We're not talking about tennis lessons, either, folks. We're talking 90% of their day.

2 weeks before the program with said institution is supposed to begin, frankly, after a year of some real unrest with them where I was torn as to whether or not to explore other options (and I chose NOT to move the kids, for their sakes), now I'm presented with this.

Obviously, I am working to resolve the matter.

But now I'm torn in a new light - how the hell do I approach them? I'm torn between calling everyone that I know that has ANY affiliation with the school and saying, "FIX IT!!" or trying to nicely negotiate or saying, "the hell with you" and scramble, for the next couple of weeks, to find an alternative (knowing there really isn't one, especially for my son.)

What would you do?

I'm all out of faith
This is how I feel...
I'm wide awake
And I can see
The perfect sky is torn
You're a little late
I'm already torn

It's Been a Hard Day's Week...

To say that this week has been challenging is an understatement. Losing a friend and colleague, learning about it and other news via Facebook status messages instead of human contact, disappointments in people I've thought highly, etc has just worn me thin. Well, perhaps a poor choice in words, there. Yet another frustration added to the list. Hard work gone unpaid.

I'm worn out, and my Monday hasn't even finished.

Death does that to me. Too many retreats back into the past, too many reminders of loss, songs swirl around in my head making for a most sombre soundtrack, etc. And it makes me realize to whom I'm closest, with whom I feel safest, etc, and I have to fight the urge to cling, steadfast, with every ounce of my being, and shield them from the unforeseeable to knowing that even when I do that, I can either smother them myself or be sideswiped by the reaper.

Insomnia is back, and this time, with a vengeance. At least, before this week, waking up at 4:30 am was out of a strange boredom. As of the other day, it's now accompanied by strange dreams with these most terrifying undercurrents. Even when the plot itself isn't horrific, the tension is awful.

Thank goodness for reliefs.

Perhaps neither family, nor friends, can comprehend what the hell makes me tick. How one thing can aggravate anxiety and how another can calm it. It's inexplicable. One friend can call, hang out and chat with me and make it worse, but another can be a jerk, and make it better.

I wish I could explain.

But I can't. So don't try to understand. Just go with me.

Frankly, right now, I'm too tired to.

Moments like last evening, when I can escape into the past, better times, simpler times, with just a drink, a good meal, and friends that bring me back to another place, and shed some light on a hopeful future, could last the rest of my lifetime, if I could make it so.

There was nothing more that I wanted but to hit "pause" on the remote of life and just freeze things, and continue to play in slow motion before life had to change the channel back into a Monday frenzy of commuting, teleconferences and, ah yes, facing mortality once more.

As I said to a friend, I pray that the next funeral that requires my attendance is my own. To bear the thought of having another friend, another loved one torn away is, well, unbearable.

So, I raise a glass to those of you quirky, odd characters in my life, that, even by being (pardon my French) royal assholes, can find a way to make me smile during times like these, intentionally or not. If you achieved that this past week, you are a gift.

With Friends Like That...

I'm going to do what I probably shouldn't but, I'm sorry, but I'm tired of this.

Yes, I have an absurdly big friends list. And, no, I don't speak to every one of you on a regular basis. I know many of you on many different levels, sometimes it's appropriate to be in regular contact, sometimes it's not. Sometimes, it's appropriate to banter, sometimes it's not.

And, yes, sometimes it's appropriate to "unfriend" someone, in real life, as well as on Facebook. BUT, I am a FIRM believer that, when you have a problem with someone, and it's an issue that is important enough to you to warrant even CONTEMPLATING ending a connection with them, you TALK ABOUT IT FIRST. And I don't mean by snide comments, or lighthearted banter online on your profile or in your comments. Correct me if I'm wrong, but common netiquette dictates that, if it's done in a public forum, it's meant for general consumption, and, therefore, can't be anything THAT serious, or to be taken THAT personally.

Now, when dealing with the casual, lackaday cyberbuddy, with whom you have a rather superficial "friendship" on Facebook, and something rubs the other the wrong way, it would be NICE to have a note saying, "Hey, I didn't like that. I don't want to be friends with you anymore," and then the "Remove Friend" button gets clicked. And, if it's someone really inconsequential, just click the "Remove Friend" button without the note. Realistically, it's the latter that gets done, and that's just fine.

HOWEVER...

When dealing with a REAL LIFE friend, or, better yet, a friend you have known for more than 5, nay, 10 years... someone with whom the facade of, "do I tell her she has spinach in her teeth" has been lifted for more than a decade... who, golly, I don't know, was a MEMBER OF YOUR WEDDING PARTY, a childhood friend, or one of your closest friends for almost 15 years, at whose wedding you danced, decides to take a comment too seriously, doesn't ask, "did you mean it this way?", and, despite you saying, "I think you took that comment the wrong way," continues to beat you up for it, YOU DON'T UNFRIEND THEM WITHOUT THE BENEFIT OF AT LEAST SAYING, "You know what? That really hurt. LET'S TALK ABOUT IT."

Yes, I know, my humor can be full of barbs. I'm rather barbaric this way. And I can take it just as much as I can dish it out, mind you. And, if you cross a line, or rub ME the wrong way, I will let you know, as quickly and directly as possible NOT to beat you up, but so that the hurt doesn't fester and I end up being madder than I was in the first place.

But it's just WRONG, plain and simple, to NOT address it at all, but instead, take the proverbial "toys from the playground and go home." Especially when it's a genuine friendship. Certainly not without the benefit of an EXPLANATION.

So the question is, were these friendships real in the first place? Did I ever really know these people as well as I thought I had? And, therefore, did I have the right to entrust them with my friendship, my good intentions, my shoulder, etc, for 10-30 years? (Not that I'm old enough to have known ANY of you for 30 years, of course. Being 29, and all... )

It's amazing how some people are so myopic and self-centered that they can so easily bypass YEARS of devotion, loyalty, love, effort, bending over backwards and sacrifice that I've made for them over a stupid string of characters in cyberspace. Is their memory REALLY that short? Should I, if we were REALLY friends in the first place, have to remind them of hours of driving, days off from work, in some cases, putting my own life on hold for MONTHS, in some instances, for their benefit? I don't keep a running tally, mind you, but when you sit back and think, "wow - let me reflect on the years I spent with this person, was I such a terrible friend to them that I really deserved that?" those things that you have done for the other come up, and then you sit and think if those efforts were reciprocated.

And it's a wonder why so many people treat each other with such little concern or care anymore. Is it really worth being a "good" person, or "good" friend, anymore?

It seems that the better a person or friend you are to someone else, the more likely that person is going to turn on you and drop you like a used tissue when it's convenient for them.

So, is the answer, then, for me to treat all of you like trash?

I really don't know anymore.

(BTW, if you're tagged, it's not because you're one of the people addressed above, but you know of whom I'm speaking).

Is life a thorn? Topsy Turvy in all the wrong places…

“Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Nay, count it not a whit! THIS Wo-Man is well done with it; Soon as SHe's born, SHe should all means essay, To put the plague away…”

You know it’s time to throw in the towel when your life, either as a whole or in specific areas, starts to reflect a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta too closely. Specifically, when it reflects the darker/tragic operettas and/or characters. These pieces of entertainment are supposed to be farcical - far removed from real life. A mockery of theatrical vehicles. One of the downfalls of the medium is that too often, the shows deal with caricatures, not real people. Not real life. And, yes, my life is just that. A modern day G&S tragedy. G-d forbid, my life be trapped in The Mikado, or HMS Pinafore, where all is well with the world at the end. No. I’ve become Poor Peg, but in real life, where no Murgatroyd can return from the dead, and the second act is pure fantasy. Phoebe, without Wilfred. Jack Point, sans the fun and laughter. And I don’t even know why.

Indeed, I have a song to sing, O… and for worse reason than dear Jack Point. That jester, at least, lost out to a noble lord.

There is a fine line for us performing artists between life and reality. I think anyone who has ever taken theater seriously has found themselves, at one point or another, becoming a character they are portraying offstage. Whether it be by picking up their mannerisms, quoting them in real life, or finding yourself falling for a co-cast member because your characters have fallen for one another, it happens. But, at some point, you snap out of it. Rehearsals end, and you return to your normally schedule broadcast. The blurred line between reality and theater fades along with the last curtain call.

But how sick and twisted is it when you realize that you have somehow become a character from an operetta that you haven’t played for years? That there is no contextual reason for you to have a parallel path, other than sheer, dumb luck?

Cheerily carols the lark, indeed. Mad, I, yes, very, but why? It’s actually no mystery. I keep playing the role of Mad Margaret, only I’ve never done it onstage fully. I am Mad Margaret. Only without the relief Jack gets at the end of Yeomen. I’m stuck in replay.

And, yes, I fear that as this recurring typecasting in the Ruddigore of life, I will eventually be left chasing after insects, pulling my skirt over my head, and becoming, more and more, the town joke.

This violet yearns to be a rose. But she can’t grow the thorns. She can’t transplant herself. She’s never appealing enough. She’s never delicate enough. She is too tender. She’s never enough to deserve being part of a Cytherean posie. There is nothing Cytherean about her. She’s a short, stumpy, fat-rooted weed, instead. Her flowers are short lived when plucked. She has a single layer of simple petals. She’s an open book from bloom to fade. Unlike the rose, the perfect rose, who is strong, and upright, beautiful, desired and long-lasting, she gets tred upon. She’s worth no more than grass, and at that, grass is held in a higher regard. Even the grass gets tended.

But she’s stupidly stubborn, and keeps growing back. She gets weeded, but doesn’t know any better. All she knows how to do is fight through, year after year. She finds the strength to grow from nothing constantly, just to be stepped on throughout the next season. She’s not long enough, not extraordinary enough, not fragrant enough, not special enough to be included, to be taken in, to be desired. She’s barely noticed. She gets mowed. And yet she keeps coming back. Because she’s too stupid to stop. And she keeps this asinine hope alive that some time, it will change. But it never does. She’s genetically flawed.

But alas, the cruel awaking…

I wish I’d never done G&S. I wish I’d never been cast as a mezzo. I wish I’d never studied Yeomen. I wish I’d never learned how to sing. I wish I’d never learned how to act. I wish I’d never known any better.

Ignorance would be blissful. I wish I were never born to be aware. To know what was being missed out on. To robotically just go through motions instead of feeling anything. To not give a damn.

What was the Tin Man thinking?

Enemy Mine

After much reflection, I’ve concluded that truly our own worst enemy is within, and not outside of us all. Does that mean that I am my own worst enemy? For the most part, no. But, surely, the enemy is close to us – within our “Circle of Trust”. The theory of “keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer” is only to our advantage when we purposely bring them in. Not when they are discovered to be so near to us.

Example: Down the drain…

I’m sure this will come as a great shock to many of you, but after years of denial and closeted behavior, I can no longer hide my addiction. I’ve lied to family and friends, I’ve done it at the workplace, and, yes, I’ve even done it in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter if there is a crowd, I’m in a public space, and it’s far worse when I’m home alone – even when the kids are there and in bed. I’ve ignored the kids for the sake of my addiction, and I’ve missed their requests for attention to feed my hunger.

I’m addicted to my cell phone. And, since the invention of web-enabled cell phones, and now with my Blackberry, it’s terrible. I go everywhere with it. I can’t turn it off. I panic when it’s not with me. So, of course, I bring it to the bathroom stall wherever I go, lest I miss THE call I’ve been waiting for. (No, there really isn’t any call that I’m waiting for. Or is there? I don’t know… what if there is? And I miss it…) Anyway… so today I had a business meeting at the hotel next door. As I was being wined and dined, the need to visit the “little girl’s room” struck between the tea and my sandwich, and I excused myself, grabbing my Blackberry with me. Typically, I put the Blackberry in my purse, which hangs behind the door. But, as I biked to work, I had my backpack, and I left it at the table with my colleague. So, as I often do, I put it on top of the toilet paper dispenser. This one had a nice flat top. As I was done with my “other” business, the automatic toilet flushed, and I had an epiphany.

Those damned automatic toilets are a Blackberry addict’s worst enemy. Far worse than the handheld laws, sticky fingers, or those bogus “Don’t use your cell phones here because they mess with our equipment” signs. WHAT IF that toilet paper holder were ROUND, as many are, and I didn’t find that “sweet spot” to balance it on? WHAT IF, as I got up hastily, to turn to manually flush, not realizing it was an automatic flush, I knocked the cell phone down? Into the toilet? As if that weren’t bad enough on a standard toilet, could you IMAGINE what would happen if the toilet THEN FLUSHED? Especially with some of the smaller models of phones? I snatched my cell phone away, looked to the heavens, and thanked my lucky stars I had the sense to find a flat surface, swearing never again to forget a purse or leave something to safely contain my cell phone whilst on the head.

Example 2: A little bit of this… a little dash of that…

Last night, I went to sleep as usual. This morning, I woke up sniffly, sneezy and with a stuffy head. Truly, allergy season hit, and with a vengeance. My car was slathered in yellow schmutz, and, what is usually a mild case of a sniffle for an hour annual became a royal pain, especially on my 5 mile ride into the office, passing by all the lovely, flowering, allergen-riddled flora on High Ridge Road, deeply inhaling all the contaminants I could. During my lunch meeting at the Sheraton, my nose was dripping so badly, that I decided to walk an extra block down Summer Street to CVS and pick up some Claritin or something.

Of course, thanks to brilliant marketers and brand managers near and far, the options for medicines are as endless as the grains of sand on the seashore. And, when your head is stuffed, you need simplicity, as in “Mongo, take box. Good. Good, Mongo”. So, after finding 2 opened boxes of CVS-Sudafed substitutes, I decided to go to the pharmacist, give her the two open boxes, and ask her opinion. She looked at the boxes, shook her head, and said, “Unbelievable! Second time this week – and… yep! A couple of sheets are missing… “I looked at her quizzically as I just thought some careless fool accidentally opened the boxes, not that it was part of some sort of crime spree, and asked her what she’d recommend. She said, “Claritin-D, or the CVS version, but you can’t get it on the shelves. You have to get it behind the counter up front.” Ok… so I guess that, because it’s now allergy season, the po’ folks who can’t afford allergy meds have to steal it, so they keep it behind the cashiers. No problem…

I stroll up to the cashier, and ask for the Claritin-D – whatever is cheapest. The lady behind the counter says, “What’s it for?” I tell her, as though my drippy, fire-engine red nose isn’t tell-tale enough, for my allergies. She said, “Ok. Be sure to get the 10-pack, not the 5-pack, because you won’t be able to buy more for a few days.”

Huh. How did she know what I had, or didn’t have, in my bank account? So I ask for the 10-pack, and begin the check out. First, she rings up the two other items I was picking up. Then she swipes the Claritin-D under the scanner. I look at the total, and see that the price isn’t showing. SWEET! Computer error – I’d better swipe my debit card before she realizes the mistake!

“Can I see your ID?”

“I assure you, I’m over 21,” I retort, while showing the license through the window in my wallet.

“No, please take it out. I need to scan it. Federal law.”

Hello, Big Brother? I take the license out of its happy home, and sure enough, she scans it. Up on the screen comes up what looks like an agreement comparable to what Lucifer may offer up in exchange for your soul.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t a prescription – do I need to sign this?”

The cashier laughs and says, “THEY need to monitor all sales of allergy meds.”

“Why? Are they being rationed?”

“Well, kind of.”

*Scooby Doo – HUH* escapes my mouth, met with the cashier’s laughter.

“It’s the crack.”

Now, wait a second. That’s my line when I do something stupid, if I’ve played the blonde card too often. I laugh and ask her what the real reason is. She looks me dead in the eyes and restates, “It’s the crack.”

WHAT? You see, apparently, people are stealing and hoarding Claritin-D and similar drugs because they contain something (that she wouldn’t repeat to me) in order to process crack. So, the Federal government is having stores regulate how much you can buy at once, or within a certain timeframe, and requiring not only the presentation of a valid ID, but scanning it to TRACK PURCHASES. And, since one of the other items I purchased contained another “gem” of a product, she had to wait to see if I was on “THE List.”

What a shocker, I wasn’t, and since Blackberry addictions are unrelated and not Federally criminal, I was able to take my Claritin-D and scurry back home, looking over my shoulder, frightened by who else was keeping a mindful eye on me.

Impulsion

Due to a number of situations in my life, at the moment, I find myself thinking about certain impulses we have, why we have them and what to do when we are advised that following our impulses are the worst thing you can do.

Take, for example, quizzes and surveys online. Some people find them stupid and trite. And, while I find that they hardly represent my personality, or are the exercise of a grown adult, I find the idea of turning away the opportunity to answer a question irresistible. Whether it's a question of my favorite salad dressing, my first prom date, who was the first person I spoke to today to those stupid telesurveys from Quinnipiac College et al, I can't say no. I'll say, "Don't add me to your distribution list," and other such disclaimers. But I can't say no to answering the questions. Why is that? Am I such an exhibitionist that I need to do that? That I have that few people to speak to day to day that it's the closest semblance to a conversation that I can have? Is it that compulsion not to leave any open ends unanswered?

And then, there is that stupid sense of disappointment when you've invited someone to fill in the survey, as you did, because you want to see how they answer, and they choose to ignore the survey. Now, of course, 90% of the time, you know how the person you've invited is GOING to answer. And, yes, some of the time it is becaues you send it to someone who means something to you to ensure that they feel about you the way that you feel about them. (For example, when asked, "Who is the first person you thought of this morning?" had BETTER be answered recipriocally, or else a huge wave of depression may crash.)

I find myself filling out these surveys ad nauseum. I'll stop for a while, and then I wonder if I'm hurting the feelings of the person who sent them to me in the first place. Do I mean that much to that person that they want me to chime in? Will I be disappointing them if I don't respond, just as I am disappointed when people I invite don't answer? So, of course, I can't hurt their feelings, and I fill out more surveys.

Each one of these surveys, by the way, starts with the same disclaimer - BE HONEST. Hmm. Be honest. What if you can't be honest, as your impulse requests? Ever find yourself starting to answer honestly, but then you pause, thinking, "What if HE doesn't feel the same way that I do? Am I going to look like an ass? Will it embarass him if I answer honestly?" So, then you can't answer honestly. You answer slightly honestly. You use innuedo, insinuating him (or her), without naming names, hoping that he will be the only one to figure out its him. But then, OY!, someone else figures it out. And then comments on it, exposing your clever ways. Which makes it worse. So what do you do? Do you learn your lesson and never respond to another survey?

Oh, hell, no. Why? I don't know. Which is why I'm writing this blog.

Now, here's another exploration on impulses. You are in a situation where you regularly would follow your impulses. But, historically, whenever you have, everything goes awry. You find yourself being advised by friends, and by your gut, not to follow your gut, even though your gut tells you to do one thing or another.

So your gut ties itself up in knots - do this, but don't do this, because by virtue of the fact that I'm telling you to do this should tell you that you shouldn't do this. &*%($#&*(%$(&#!!!!!

What if the impulse that you are supposed to ignore is the impulse NOT to do what your gut tells you to do? And, if not following your gut is supposed to relieve stress and turmoil in your life, why does it create MORE stress in your life because of the amount of effort it takes NOT to do what you want to do?

BUT, if you DO what you want to do, you can easily make the situation even WORSE.

Argh.

Signing off for now...

Your Friendly Neighborhood Cat Chasing Its Own Tail and Choking On The Furballs...

The one thing in my life that is like clockwork...

As has been the case for the past couple of weeks, I woke up at 4:30 am on the dot. Like a Swiss-precision watch, the eyes open, the clock blinks "4:30" in my face, and I'm left staring at the ceiling, the wall and unable to get back to sleep. By 4:45, I'm on the computer trying to waste away some time and bore myself to sleep by randomly surfing the web, throwing down ideas for a project or two that I want to do.

Mind you, this is typically after falling asleep prematurely, and without being able to get what I need to get done before bed. Part of this is my own fault, as I get overwhelmingly tired by, around, 10 pm, decide to change into my PJs and rest a bit in bed. I can't exactly help it - the fatigue can get quite all-consuming. So, I just sit, figure, "I'll just rest my back/digest dinner/whatever," and then, 5 1/2 hours later, I awake. As though it were 9:00 am with the sunshine streaming in my eyes from the window and a full cup of coffee. I'm alert, I'm perky, and I am not going to be able to sleep for hours. I can turn off the lights, lie down, throw the covers over my face to block out any light and sounds and force myself to reduce my oxygen intake by stifling myself, but, inevitably, before Queen Mab can have a chance to present a dream, I'm sitting up, staring into the dark, aware of too much around me.

The root of this torpor torture? I have absolutely no clue. None, whatsoever. No simple resolution. Warm milk, herbal tea, counting sheep, blindfolds, hot compress, you name it, it hasn't worked.

So, now, I'm on the computer, watching the TV news, where I learned of the death of Travis the Chimp (which sounds ridiculous, but I am actually, personally, familiar with Travis in Stamford), trying to figure out why Linda Schmidt, Fox 5 news reporter, is reporting on the story at Stamford Train Station, many miles away from Rock Rimmon Road, where the attack took place and the chip lived. At least she should be at Stamford Hospital, where the victim of the attack is still recovering.

But you see what I mean? It's now 5:03 am, I've been up for less than half an hour, and this is what I'm reduced to. Watching a neighbor saying that he'd rather take the chimp out for a drive than his own nephews. I'm sure Aunt Macari is seething. And, me? I'm the idiot typing this story up on my blog.

Idle

Being idle is a horrible state to be in. Blank thoughts, inaction, apathy and atrophy... feeling purposeless... a general state of "meh".

In several conversations this week with friends, a few themes came up, all related to being stuck in stasis.
- What is it that I want to be when I grow up?
- When I am overstimulated/overbooked/overworked, I can accomplish anything. But when I have all the time in the world, I accomplish nothing.
- ROI isn't just reserved for business, but life in general.
- Without an "end product", I see effort as pointless.

And, here's what's really annoying. I can "eliminate" distraction from me all I want. However, the pain of a creative mind is that I'll find new distractions. I can invent them out of thin air.

If something doesn't "stick" soon, if I don't have a "purpose" during the daytime hours, I think I'm going to completely disintegrate into a pile of salt.