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.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

There is something to be said about knowing that yours is the last voice to be heard before someone goes to sleep. It's one thing when it's because the person is lying there right next to you. And, while it's quite comforting to know that your children hearing "I love you" whispered in their ears as their sleep heads hit the pillow, it's somewhat obligatory.

But it's something altogether when another adult, who could, theoretically, choose darn near anyone else's words to be the last before another day choose to hear what you have to say before going to bed.

I used to think that being awoken to, "you look like an angel when you sleep" was an amazing thing to hear in bed, but I think I'm changing my mind about that. See, you almost have to say something to the person lying next to you in the morning that is complimentary, especially if you ever want them to wake up in your bed again.

But to know, that, regardless of distance, circumstances, etc, that another person is making the effort to make sure to speak to you, as if the day isn't over without one last "good night", even though the conversation can be simple and mundane, but it isn't enough to just recap the day silently to yourself, means something.

When you get to end the day with a warm feeling and a smile knowing someone else cares, and when the simple salutation you hear from his voice makes a horrible day seem not so bad, well, that's special.

Buona notte, il mio principe delle biciclette e del mare. Sognerò di voi una volta di più.