Dear Britney,
Receiving a letter from a 35 year old woman probably surprises you a bit, since I don't exactly represent your fan base... although, after writing that, I'm not sure what your fan base IS, exactly. It used to be little girls and hoardes of middle aged men who didn't even know that you had a singing career, because I'm pretty sure that they watched your videos with the sound turned off, and now that I've said that I'm going to apologize because that mental image actually makes me want to poke out my mind's eye with a stick ...
Let me start over.
Ms Spears, I have been observing your career for some time now, and I must say that I find you fascinating. Not so much your music, though quite a bit of it is very catchy (I've found that it's excellent to work out to, because it tends to work for me in a bouncy, dance-y "stay on this treadmill for another 20 minutes? No prob!" kind of a way -- so thanks for that), but more as a, shall I say, cultural phenomenon.
This is probably not the most flattering analogy ever, but I tend to think of you as a zoo animal, or a museum piece. Before you get offended (which, actually, it might be too late for -- I'd be pretty upset if someone just told me I reminded them of an animal in a zoo, unless it was a PRETTY one, like a tiger or a giraffe. You're like a tiger. Not an elephant), please let me explain: Your image was so carefully cultivated from day one that it was like no one ever really saw you. They saw what they were supposed to see. Hot, cheeky, innocent (but not really) Youth with a capital Y that was sexually (but not politically or intellectually) empowered. I kind of got a kick out of your people who claimed that they weren't in favour of sexualizing your image or portraying you as Lolita, because part of the package that IS Britney is the sassy "I know this is naughty, but isn't it FUN" expression on your face as you dance about in a school girl outfit. Or red vinyl. Or with a giant, scary snake.
The point is that I pretty much believe that you are kind of the definition of everything that is wrong with American culture as it treats little girls. You ARE the dream of the pageant mom as she teases her 3-year-old's hair and glues on her false eyelashes -- you're who she wants her baby to be. (By the way, are you super glad you have boys? I bet you are.) And like every pageant mom who claims "No, she LIKES it!" I think your "people" -- parents, manager, etc -- saw the potential for what you could become and sold it to themselves, the public, and you as "It's what she LOVES to do. She WANTS to perform."
Can I just say? I'm all for empowering the dreams of little girls, but come on. At some point most little girls want to be a variety of things. Policewomen. Astronauts. Occasionally, they want to be ponies. Most moms don't run with those (and can you imagine? Policewoman? Get her a gun! Astronaut? Get her a space suit! Pony? Build her a barn! Silly, right?) but an enterprising parent with dreams of her own and a good eye for beauty might be willing to whore out her little girl in a socially acceptable way for the right price. (I'm sorry if you object to that term, but you should REALLY rewatch some of your earlier videos or listen to your lyrics. I'm also sorry that it's socially acceptable to sell child sexuality for profit.)
Anyway. Back to my point. (I do hope you're still reading...) Here's what I think: you attained fame at the height of the mainstreaming of the sexualization of female children in America. Totally not your fault, as you were just in the right (or wrong, depending on your standpoint) place at the right time. I can prove it too. As you have gotten older, you've fallen out of favour -- and you did it when you started doing (admittedly, kind of weird) autonomous things. You shaved your head. You put on some weight. You were acting like a person who didn't quite know what to do with herself. You know what surprised me? That people were surprised that a girl who posed half naked and provocatively on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine as a teenager with her mother's blessing kind of had a meltdown.
You know what else surprised me? That people objected that when you started your comeback, you did it with a video where you were a stripper. By the way, I kind of loved that. I know the concept probably wasn't yours, but I liked the in-your-face, I-know-this-is-how-you-view-me-so-let's-all-be-honest-here aspect of it, as though you were saying, "Oh, THIS is how you like me. Fine then."
But of course, people had issues with it -- because, again, it was okay for you to be blatantly sexual (but coquettish) when you were a little girl, but as an adult woman, people found it offputting. Interesting, right? And, you know, disturbing. Because the arc of your career teaches us some really horrific things about girls and women in our culture. It teaches us that it's okay to sexualize children. It teaches us that it's okay if a pretty young girl is used as a pawn in the name of entertainment. It teaches us that, once a woman goes outside of the bounds that have been imposed upon her, it's okay to use her as fodder for ridicule. It teaches us that when someone is clearly melting down in public (as you seemed to be) and struggling, it's okay to treat her with scorn. At least, that is, until she gets half naked and provocative again in a way of which we can approve.
It teaches us that we have NOT come a long way, baby.
Anyway, I see that you've made another comeback. I've read positive reviews of the new cd. Good for you. I hope it all works out for you, in the long run. I really do. Even if in some ways, I feel like you're a representation of everything I hate about the entertainment industry and society as a whole, I also know that you've been a playing piece in a very sad and ugly game. So -- good luck to you, Ms Spears.
Sincerely,
~D.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
You Can Hear It, If You Know How to Listen
Yesterday, I picked up my glasses and realized that they were dangerously close to falling apart. A screw had worked nearly all of the way out on the right side and it was on its way to becoming a situation. "That's no good," I thought, and I went to my toolbox and pulled out the set of tiny screwdrivers and set about fixing them; it was no easy task when you realize that I'm nearsighted and can't see to fix my glasses without wearing my glasses, which is clearly not possible, but the fact that I had the right tools made it a bit less difficult.
I can hear what you're thinking: You, the current president of the Clumsy Girl Society, have a TOOLBOX? And it has TOOLS in it?
Well, yes. And ... yes.
My father gave it to me.
I've written about my mother, but not as much about my father. Partially because I don't think he'd enjoy it, and partially because I don't ever know exactly what to say. My father really wanted a son and instead found himself with two daughters. He wanted athletic children and got one with asthma and one who was much more interested in dance than she was sports. Despite this, my sister and I both played little league and he coached, because coaching was what dads do. I think he enjoyed coaching. I didn't enjoy playing. When I got old enough to choose something else, I went with music and drama. My sister also did her own thing.
My father is also outdoorsy. He likes to hunt and fish. I liked to fish, but my dad didn't like to take me because in addition to liking to fish, I have a habit of falling down. Or in the water. Or out of a canoe. Not only does this scare fish, but it has a tendency to lead to potential drowning. My dad really wanted to fish for actual fish rather than fishing his silly daughter out of the drink. He didn't think it was fun to go for a walk in the woods when there was a good chance I was going to come out needing crutches. So we didn't go. I learned to stop asking if I could tag along.
When I was a teenager and in my early 20s, my relationship with my father became more strained. We are both strong willed, and our wills often pull us in opposite directions. Neither of us likes to give way. When I was younger, I often said that we didn't get along because my dad is a difficult man. This may be true, but as I look at it now, I am able to see that I am a difficult woman. I also see this: all he ever has wanted was the best for me. All he has ever dreamed of for both my sister and I is that we live in safety and happiness.
So he wasn't good with the words, I think now. So he still does things that drive me completely crazy and his temper is unpredictable and he's ridiculously stubborn. Have I looked in a mirror lately? Isn't it about time that I recognize that I do things that drive him completely crazy and am sometimes a little erratic and "ridiculously stubborn" is an understatement when it comes to me?
He's not good with words, my dad. I think that perhaps this is a result of living in a house with three women who almost seem to share a secret language. My mother and I frequently finish each other's sentences. My sister can say two words to me and it will trigger an entire private joke that only she and I would understand. The three of us talk a lot. Perhaps he never felt like there was anything to say. Perhaps he never had the chance to get a word in edgewise.
It's not a perfect relationship. But it's one that has progressed. And if I don't hear my father say very often that he loves me, I know that he does.
I know because he shows me through doing, rather than saying. That's who he is. When I was a kid, every time he paid the bills and bought me shoes -- which he did ponderously, thoughtfully, wanting to make sure my feet were protected and supported in something sturdy (even though I still never looked where I was going) -- he was saying that he loved me. The time he sat with me when I was having a terrible asthma attack and talked me through it. When I was getting divorced and he came and helped me move out of my house. All of those things were how he told me, even when he didn't say the words.
And when he made me a tool box and carefully filled it with tools that he thought I might need. A hammer. Wrenches and pliers and tape measures and stud finders and, yes, a set of tiny tiny screwdrivers that I can use for things like -- well, like repairing a set of eyeglasses.
They were all ways to say "I love you".
I have finally learned to listen.
I can hear what you're thinking: You, the current president of the Clumsy Girl Society, have a TOOLBOX? And it has TOOLS in it?
Well, yes. And ... yes.
My father gave it to me.
I've written about my mother, but not as much about my father. Partially because I don't think he'd enjoy it, and partially because I don't ever know exactly what to say. My father really wanted a son and instead found himself with two daughters. He wanted athletic children and got one with asthma and one who was much more interested in dance than she was sports. Despite this, my sister and I both played little league and he coached, because coaching was what dads do. I think he enjoyed coaching. I didn't enjoy playing. When I got old enough to choose something else, I went with music and drama. My sister also did her own thing.
My father is also outdoorsy. He likes to hunt and fish. I liked to fish, but my dad didn't like to take me because in addition to liking to fish, I have a habit of falling down. Or in the water. Or out of a canoe. Not only does this scare fish, but it has a tendency to lead to potential drowning. My dad really wanted to fish for actual fish rather than fishing his silly daughter out of the drink. He didn't think it was fun to go for a walk in the woods when there was a good chance I was going to come out needing crutches. So we didn't go. I learned to stop asking if I could tag along.
When I was a teenager and in my early 20s, my relationship with my father became more strained. We are both strong willed, and our wills often pull us in opposite directions. Neither of us likes to give way. When I was younger, I often said that we didn't get along because my dad is a difficult man. This may be true, but as I look at it now, I am able to see that I am a difficult woman. I also see this: all he ever has wanted was the best for me. All he has ever dreamed of for both my sister and I is that we live in safety and happiness.
So he wasn't good with the words, I think now. So he still does things that drive me completely crazy and his temper is unpredictable and he's ridiculously stubborn. Have I looked in a mirror lately? Isn't it about time that I recognize that I do things that drive him completely crazy and am sometimes a little erratic and "ridiculously stubborn" is an understatement when it comes to me?
He's not good with words, my dad. I think that perhaps this is a result of living in a house with three women who almost seem to share a secret language. My mother and I frequently finish each other's sentences. My sister can say two words to me and it will trigger an entire private joke that only she and I would understand. The three of us talk a lot. Perhaps he never felt like there was anything to say. Perhaps he never had the chance to get a word in edgewise.
It's not a perfect relationship. But it's one that has progressed. And if I don't hear my father say very often that he loves me, I know that he does.
I know because he shows me through doing, rather than saying. That's who he is. When I was a kid, every time he paid the bills and bought me shoes -- which he did ponderously, thoughtfully, wanting to make sure my feet were protected and supported in something sturdy (even though I still never looked where I was going) -- he was saying that he loved me. The time he sat with me when I was having a terrible asthma attack and talked me through it. When I was getting divorced and he came and helped me move out of my house. All of those things were how he told me, even when he didn't say the words.
And when he made me a tool box and carefully filled it with tools that he thought I might need. A hammer. Wrenches and pliers and tape measures and stud finders and, yes, a set of tiny tiny screwdrivers that I can use for things like -- well, like repairing a set of eyeglasses.
They were all ways to say "I love you".
I have finally learned to listen.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Welcome To Monday
5:00 AM: Alarm goes off.
5:00 and 13 seconds AM : Snooze. Muffled cursing.
5:05 AM: Cat begins licking face and frantically purring, as if to say: Treats? Please? MOMMA I LOVE YOU PLEASE GET UP AND GET ME COOKIES! NOW!
5:06 AM: Try to tell cat to get lost. Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump" Cat mistakes swatting motion for patting. Purring and face-licking becomes more enthusiastic.
5:07 AM: Notice that the cat doesn't have the most delightful breath. Consider rolling over. Dismiss it as much too much effort. Briefly acknowledge the pointlessness of the snooze button, sleeping is not occuring.
5:07 and 45 seconds AM: Fall asleep.
5:09 AM: Alarm goes off again. Cat jumps onto nightstand, meows expectantly, and knocks alarm to the floor. Cat makes alarmed noise and runs from the scene in fright.
5:10 AM: Get out of bed. Walk to kitchen. Give cat treats and refill water bowl. Look blankly at the coffee pot in an effort to try to remember how to make coffee. Give up. Get Diet Coke out of the fridge. Drink 1/2 can while brain struggles to engage.
5:12 AM: Make bed. Give self mental high five for setting out clothing the night before. Gather clothing and take it to bathroom.
5:13 AM: Shower. Realize you are mostly just standing there, half asleep. Decide that it's the effort that counts. Nearly step on cat, who thinks she should ALSO take a shower. For several moments, this doesn't seem weird.
5:14 AM: Realize that your cat is very odd. Try to say to cat: "Get out of the shower, you whack job." Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump"
5:25 AM: Get out of shower. Get dressed. Look at hair in mirror. Acknowledge futility of attempting to style. Put hair in messy bun. Take a moment to be thankful that you work from home.
5:30 AM: Drink remainder of Diet Coke. Decide that now have enough caffiene in system for coffee pot to make sense. Measure coffee. Turn coffee pot on.
5:32 AM: Remember to add water to coffee pot. Start coffee again.
5:33 AM: Open fridge door. Stare at food. Oranges: require peeling. Too much work. Bagels: Require slicing and toasting. Both potentially dangerous. Eggs: Just ... no. Cereal: Is not in the fridge, but then, neither is the milk that would be required to eat cereal. Try to say out loud "I need to buy milk". Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump."
5:35 AM: Have moment of gratitude that live alone and don't have to try to actually communicate with anyone other than the cat, since have become essentially nonverbal.
5:36 AM: Microwave premade breakfast sandwich. Pour coffee. Shoo cat, who is still all wet, out of kitchen sink. Cat jumps on floor and proceeds to chase tail.
5:46 AM: Realize that sandwich has been done for 9 minutes. Eat at counter, while drinking coffee and watching cat continue to chase tail.
5:56 AM: Cat finally catches tail. Takes hearty bite. Squawks in fear and runs to hide behind sofa, all the while looking for the vicious creature that bit her tail.
5:57 AM: Boot up computer. Cat runs into room and curls up on table beside desk. Meows approvingly.
5:58 AM: Log into work site.
6:00 AM: Welcome to Monday.
5:00 and 13 seconds AM : Snooze. Muffled cursing.
5:05 AM: Cat begins licking face and frantically purring, as if to say: Treats? Please? MOMMA I LOVE YOU PLEASE GET UP AND GET ME COOKIES! NOW!
5:06 AM: Try to tell cat to get lost. Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump" Cat mistakes swatting motion for patting. Purring and face-licking becomes more enthusiastic.
5:07 AM: Notice that the cat doesn't have the most delightful breath. Consider rolling over. Dismiss it as much too much effort. Briefly acknowledge the pointlessness of the snooze button, sleeping is not occuring.
5:07 and 45 seconds AM: Fall asleep.
5:09 AM: Alarm goes off again. Cat jumps onto nightstand, meows expectantly, and knocks alarm to the floor. Cat makes alarmed noise and runs from the scene in fright.
5:10 AM: Get out of bed. Walk to kitchen. Give cat treats and refill water bowl. Look blankly at the coffee pot in an effort to try to remember how to make coffee. Give up. Get Diet Coke out of the fridge. Drink 1/2 can while brain struggles to engage.
5:12 AM: Make bed. Give self mental high five for setting out clothing the night before. Gather clothing and take it to bathroom.
5:13 AM: Shower. Realize you are mostly just standing there, half asleep. Decide that it's the effort that counts. Nearly step on cat, who thinks she should ALSO take a shower. For several moments, this doesn't seem weird.
5:14 AM: Realize that your cat is very odd. Try to say to cat: "Get out of the shower, you whack job." Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump"
5:25 AM: Get out of shower. Get dressed. Look at hair in mirror. Acknowledge futility of attempting to style. Put hair in messy bun. Take a moment to be thankful that you work from home.
5:30 AM: Drink remainder of Diet Coke. Decide that now have enough caffiene in system for coffee pot to make sense. Measure coffee. Turn coffee pot on.
5:32 AM: Remember to add water to coffee pot. Start coffee again.
5:33 AM: Open fridge door. Stare at food. Oranges: require peeling. Too much work. Bagels: Require slicing and toasting. Both potentially dangerous. Eggs: Just ... no. Cereal: Is not in the fridge, but then, neither is the milk that would be required to eat cereal. Try to say out loud "I need to buy milk". Actual words uttered: "Mmrrpphgump."
5:35 AM: Have moment of gratitude that live alone and don't have to try to actually communicate with anyone other than the cat, since have become essentially nonverbal.
5:36 AM: Microwave premade breakfast sandwich. Pour coffee. Shoo cat, who is still all wet, out of kitchen sink. Cat jumps on floor and proceeds to chase tail.
5:46 AM: Realize that sandwich has been done for 9 minutes. Eat at counter, while drinking coffee and watching cat continue to chase tail.
5:56 AM: Cat finally catches tail. Takes hearty bite. Squawks in fear and runs to hide behind sofa, all the while looking for the vicious creature that bit her tail.
5:57 AM: Boot up computer. Cat runs into room and curls up on table beside desk. Meows approvingly.
5:58 AM: Log into work site.
6:00 AM: Welcome to Monday.
Friday, April 15, 2011
When You Only Have Yourself To Blame
I was talking with a friend about a former coworker. "I saw him while I was out last summer," she said, "but I totally pretended I didn't see him, because he used to be so awful to me."
"I understand," I said. "I ran into him at a party and the whole time he was talking, all I could hear was his voice in my head, screaming at me from his desk: 'DANIELLE! I CAN SEE YOU! PICK UP YOUR FUCKING PHONE!' and it made me not want to be there at all."
"It felt kind of rude," she admitted, "but I just couldn't do it."
I don't think it was rude.
I have come to the conclusion that you teach people how to treat you.
This works in a couple of ways. For example -- say you have a "friend" (and I'm putting this in quotation marks because someone who would treat you this way really ISN'T your friend) who thinks that it's great fun to put you down EVERY time you see her. It's always something with this one. She doesn't like your sweater. She thinks your new shoes are ugly. She thinks your hair looks stupid. The only way for her to feel good about herself is to cut you down.
And you wonder -- why does she always target ME?
To which I would say: Honey, it's because you LET her. You've taught her that it's totally fine for her to act like this because you put up with it. You have taught her that her behaviour is completely acceptable.
In a broader sense, think about it like this: everyone knows at least one person who tells very objectionable jokes. He thinks it's funny to tell racist, sexist, homophobic, appalling stories in whatever company he's in. Every time, you probably think: "Why does he do that? How can he think it's okay?" but you probably also don't say anything, right?
Look in the mirror and wonder no more. You (and everyone else around this guy) have taught him that it's okay with you and that his horrific behaviour is completely acceptable every time you didn't call him on it.
I'm not saying that you should be the behaviour police. I AM saying that you teach people how to treat you and how to act around you. It was a hard won lesson for me, which came at the cost of more than one romance and some broken-beyond-repair friendships until I finally realized -- if I don't want to be treated like a doormat, perhaps letting people wipe their feet on me sends a bad signal.
Right?
The other way in which this works -- the one where I don't think my friend was at all rude to avoid our former associate -- is this: your actions directly impact the way the people around you think of you. It's not just about standing up for yourself when you're being mistreated, or when you see or hear someone acting in a way that you find objectionable. It's also about using your own behaviour in a way that will allow people to react to you positively. If you're kind, if you're thoughtful, if you're considerate -- people respond well to that. If you're demanding, rude, boorish, and agressive to the point where people actively fear you -- which is the case with our former co-worker -- then it should come as no surprise when someone is uncomfortable in your presence.
I'm just saying.
"I understand," I said. "I ran into him at a party and the whole time he was talking, all I could hear was his voice in my head, screaming at me from his desk: 'DANIELLE! I CAN SEE YOU! PICK UP YOUR FUCKING PHONE!' and it made me not want to be there at all."
"It felt kind of rude," she admitted, "but I just couldn't do it."
I don't think it was rude.
I have come to the conclusion that you teach people how to treat you.
This works in a couple of ways. For example -- say you have a "friend" (and I'm putting this in quotation marks because someone who would treat you this way really ISN'T your friend) who thinks that it's great fun to put you down EVERY time you see her. It's always something with this one. She doesn't like your sweater. She thinks your new shoes are ugly. She thinks your hair looks stupid. The only way for her to feel good about herself is to cut you down.
And you wonder -- why does she always target ME?
To which I would say: Honey, it's because you LET her. You've taught her that it's totally fine for her to act like this because you put up with it. You have taught her that her behaviour is completely acceptable.
In a broader sense, think about it like this: everyone knows at least one person who tells very objectionable jokes. He thinks it's funny to tell racist, sexist, homophobic, appalling stories in whatever company he's in. Every time, you probably think: "Why does he do that? How can he think it's okay?" but you probably also don't say anything, right?
Look in the mirror and wonder no more. You (and everyone else around this guy) have taught him that it's okay with you and that his horrific behaviour is completely acceptable every time you didn't call him on it.
I'm not saying that you should be the behaviour police. I AM saying that you teach people how to treat you and how to act around you. It was a hard won lesson for me, which came at the cost of more than one romance and some broken-beyond-repair friendships until I finally realized -- if I don't want to be treated like a doormat, perhaps letting people wipe their feet on me sends a bad signal.
Right?
The other way in which this works -- the one where I don't think my friend was at all rude to avoid our former associate -- is this: your actions directly impact the way the people around you think of you. It's not just about standing up for yourself when you're being mistreated, or when you see or hear someone acting in a way that you find objectionable. It's also about using your own behaviour in a way that will allow people to react to you positively. If you're kind, if you're thoughtful, if you're considerate -- people respond well to that. If you're demanding, rude, boorish, and agressive to the point where people actively fear you -- which is the case with our former co-worker -- then it should come as no surprise when someone is uncomfortable in your presence.
I'm just saying.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Tales from an Accident Prone Life, Episode 2: Stairs. So Vicious.
I was recently stunned to find myself speaking with someone who uttered the phrase, "I've never actually fallen down the stairs."
I mean, I suppose that I knew that such people existed, but I didn't think I would ever MEET any of them.
I am an old pro at falling down stairs (and, on occasion, up them). If falling down stairs was an Olympic sport? I would have gold medals. Many, many of them. Schoolchildren across the land would know my name. There would be books written about me. I'm sure I would have been on both Oprah AND Larry King. And possibly the Today Show, where Matt Lauer would have realized that he just couldn't live without my sparkling wit and frequenltly bruised shins.
But alas, falling down stairs is NOT an Olympic event.
It's just something I do. A lot.
You may be asking yourself, "How many times could one person actually take a header down a flight of stairs?" I don't actually know the answer to that question. I used to keep track, but after reaching about, oh I don't know, 25 times, it was just embarassing and nonsensical to keep counting.
It also occured to me that perhaps keeping track of my mishaps was part of the problem. Maybe, I thought, I should stop focusing on the part where I launched through the air and landed in a heap on the ground. Maybe instead I should give myself little pep talks. Something like "Look! Halfway down and we're still on our feet! This is amazing!"
Except that even with the MINDFUL walking, my affirmations often sounded more like this: "Look! Halfway down and we're still --- aaarrrghhh YAAAAAAAAARP OOOOOOOF" thud.
It's a problem.
It's a problem because I can't AVOID stairs. I live on the second floor of a elevator-less building. There are stairs in my mom's house. There are stairs in many of my favorite places. (Museums. Aquariums. Shopping places that I enjoy. Amusement parks.) Sometimes, the stairs ARE my favorite place. (Hello, Musical Stairs at the Boston Museum of Science! You're STAIRS! But I heart you! At least if I fall down YOU, it will sound cool!)
It's also a problem because -- well, because I have an overactive imagination and I've decided that the stairs are out to get me. It's not that I'm clumsy, graceless, and inattentive. OH NO. It's a stair conspiracy. And, unlike clowns, which are RIDICULOUSLY frightening and possibly more lethal than zombies (don't let the makeup fool you, kids), you can't tell someone that you're afraid of stairs because it sounds stupid. Stairs look innocent. They're not actively trying to eat your brains (like zombies) or juggle their way into your good graces so that they can kill you, skin you, and bury you in their backyards (like clowns). They're just hanging out in an architectural way. Looking like an efficient means of travel between floors. "Oh, you need me to go downstairs and get that book for you? No problem. I'll take the stairs."
And the next thing you know ...
Bam. You're on the floor and the stairs have viciously struck again.
That could TOTALLY be it.
Or, you know, I could just pay more attention to what I'm doing. There's that.
I mean, I suppose that I knew that such people existed, but I didn't think I would ever MEET any of them.
I am an old pro at falling down stairs (and, on occasion, up them). If falling down stairs was an Olympic sport? I would have gold medals. Many, many of them. Schoolchildren across the land would know my name. There would be books written about me. I'm sure I would have been on both Oprah AND Larry King. And possibly the Today Show, where Matt Lauer would have realized that he just couldn't live without my sparkling wit and frequenltly bruised shins.
But alas, falling down stairs is NOT an Olympic event.
It's just something I do. A lot.
You may be asking yourself, "How many times could one person actually take a header down a flight of stairs?" I don't actually know the answer to that question. I used to keep track, but after reaching about, oh I don't know, 25 times, it was just embarassing and nonsensical to keep counting.
It also occured to me that perhaps keeping track of my mishaps was part of the problem. Maybe, I thought, I should stop focusing on the part where I launched through the air and landed in a heap on the ground. Maybe instead I should give myself little pep talks. Something like "Look! Halfway down and we're still on our feet! This is amazing!"
Except that even with the MINDFUL walking, my affirmations often sounded more like this: "Look! Halfway down and we're still --- aaarrrghhh YAAAAAAAAARP OOOOOOOF" thud.
It's a problem.
It's a problem because I can't AVOID stairs. I live on the second floor of a elevator-less building. There are stairs in my mom's house. There are stairs in many of my favorite places. (Museums. Aquariums. Shopping places that I enjoy. Amusement parks.) Sometimes, the stairs ARE my favorite place. (Hello, Musical Stairs at the Boston Museum of Science! You're STAIRS! But I heart you! At least if I fall down YOU, it will sound cool!)
It's also a problem because -- well, because I have an overactive imagination and I've decided that the stairs are out to get me. It's not that I'm clumsy, graceless, and inattentive. OH NO. It's a stair conspiracy. And, unlike clowns, which are RIDICULOUSLY frightening and possibly more lethal than zombies (don't let the makeup fool you, kids), you can't tell someone that you're afraid of stairs because it sounds stupid. Stairs look innocent. They're not actively trying to eat your brains (like zombies) or juggle their way into your good graces so that they can kill you, skin you, and bury you in their backyards (like clowns). They're just hanging out in an architectural way. Looking like an efficient means of travel between floors. "Oh, you need me to go downstairs and get that book for you? No problem. I'll take the stairs."
And the next thing you know ...
Bam. You're on the floor and the stairs have viciously struck again.
That could TOTALLY be it.
Or, you know, I could just pay more attention to what I'm doing. There's that.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Strongly Worded Letters
Sometimes, I wish that there was a way to write a strongly worded letter to every person who deserves one.
Like this:
Dear Guy In My Apartment Complex With the Motorcycle:
I love a motorcycle. I really really do. I've been known to ride on the back of a bike with great joy. So I'm very excited for you that the weather is turning and you can ride yours.
I'm less excited that, in your exuberance, you like to rev your engine two or three times out of sheer joy when you come home. At 11:30 PM. Parked under my bedroom windows.
Don't make me come out there.
Sincerely,
Formerly Asleep and Now Wide Awake
Or this:
Dear Fellow Air Traveller:
There is a reason that right now, you are freaking out at the flight attendant and I am not. Would you like to know what it is? I would be MORE than happy to tell you.
I PAID ATTENTION TO THE TSA REQUIREMENTS.
So when they said ONE personal item that fits under the seat? That's what I've got.
When they said ONE specifically sized carry on? I realized that MY carry on was too big. I also know that JetBlue will allow me to CHECK an item. For free. So I checked it.
So while you are struggling with your THREE -- yes, three -- bags, NONE of which fit under the seat, and fighting with the flight attendant as though somehow your inability to comprehend the reality of air travel is HIS fault, I am very valiantly fighting my own personal battle to grab one of your bags, march to the skywalk, and chuck it out of the airplane, because from where I'm sitting? You're holding us ALL up. And that is not acceptable.
Sincerely,
The Woman Sitting Next To You Who is Really Trying Not To Tell You Off, But Slowly Losing Her Ability To Filter Her Thoughts
Or, perhaps this:
Dear Boston Red Sox:
What. The. Hell?
Sincerely,
Mike Lowell is RETIRED and He Plays Better Than Y'all
Like this:
Dear Guy In My Apartment Complex With the Motorcycle:
I love a motorcycle. I really really do. I've been known to ride on the back of a bike with great joy. So I'm very excited for you that the weather is turning and you can ride yours.
I'm less excited that, in your exuberance, you like to rev your engine two or three times out of sheer joy when you come home. At 11:30 PM. Parked under my bedroom windows.
Don't make me come out there.
Sincerely,
Formerly Asleep and Now Wide Awake
Or this:
Dear Fellow Air Traveller:
There is a reason that right now, you are freaking out at the flight attendant and I am not. Would you like to know what it is? I would be MORE than happy to tell you.
I PAID ATTENTION TO THE TSA REQUIREMENTS.
So when they said ONE personal item that fits under the seat? That's what I've got.
When they said ONE specifically sized carry on? I realized that MY carry on was too big. I also know that JetBlue will allow me to CHECK an item. For free. So I checked it.
So while you are struggling with your THREE -- yes, three -- bags, NONE of which fit under the seat, and fighting with the flight attendant as though somehow your inability to comprehend the reality of air travel is HIS fault, I am very valiantly fighting my own personal battle to grab one of your bags, march to the skywalk, and chuck it out of the airplane, because from where I'm sitting? You're holding us ALL up. And that is not acceptable.
Sincerely,
The Woman Sitting Next To You Who is Really Trying Not To Tell You Off, But Slowly Losing Her Ability To Filter Her Thoughts
Or, perhaps this:
Dear Boston Red Sox:
What. The. Hell?
Sincerely,
Mike Lowell is RETIRED and He Plays Better Than Y'all
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Lucky
I said I would blog the whole time I was on vacation. Apparently, that was an inadvertent lie because I didn't blog yesterday. Not even a little. Which I totally could have, but I was having fun with my mother, and I thought saying "Hey, Mum, would you mind holding that thought while I go on the interwebs to tell all the people how much fun I'm having with you?" would be mighty rude.
And my momma didn't raise me to be rude.
I would like to take a moment to say this: I am very, very, blessed to have the relationship I have with my mother, and I know it.
My mom has been my staunchest ally and my perpetual partner in mischief. I love it when I convince her to do something silly or goofy and she tries to make a stern face and pulls a fake frown, shaking her head while the corners of her mouth turn up in supressed mirth. I love it when we're driving anywhere further than two hours and, about forty minutes in, she says "Barry Manilow sing along!" and we bust out the Ultimate Hits and bellow out "Mandy" at seventy miles per hour. I love it when she has to do something she doesn't particularly want to do but says "Whee!" at the end as though that might make it fun. (As in: "I get to clean up a hairball now! Whee!")
I love it that she thinks I'm amazing, even when I'm not (sometimes, especially when I'm not) and thinks that everyone else should think so too, even (and again, especially) when they don't.
I love it that she thinks a cup of tea will fix any problem (she might be right) and that she can recite Pretty Woman from memory ("You shouldn't neglect your gums!") and that she fights with me sometimes, but fights FOR me all of the time.
My mother is a total rock star, and every day that I don't see her, I miss her. I chose to move back to New Hampshire knowing that, on some levels? It was going to be horrible, because it meant that I would see her very infrequently. Some days, I feel like moving was a selfish choice, because it was all about me.
(For the record, she doesn't think that. But there are days when I think it.)
I'm fortunate to have her, and to be able to spend this time with her, and I'll probably cry when I have to go home because I'll have to go back to missing her.
But I'm here now.
And that makes me lucky.
And my momma didn't raise me to be rude.
I would like to take a moment to say this: I am very, very, blessed to have the relationship I have with my mother, and I know it.
My mom has been my staunchest ally and my perpetual partner in mischief. I love it when I convince her to do something silly or goofy and she tries to make a stern face and pulls a fake frown, shaking her head while the corners of her mouth turn up in supressed mirth. I love it when we're driving anywhere further than two hours and, about forty minutes in, she says "Barry Manilow sing along!" and we bust out the Ultimate Hits and bellow out "Mandy" at seventy miles per hour. I love it when she has to do something she doesn't particularly want to do but says "Whee!" at the end as though that might make it fun. (As in: "I get to clean up a hairball now! Whee!")
I love it that she thinks I'm amazing, even when I'm not (sometimes, especially when I'm not) and thinks that everyone else should think so too, even (and again, especially) when they don't.
I love it that she thinks a cup of tea will fix any problem (she might be right) and that she can recite Pretty Woman from memory ("You shouldn't neglect your gums!") and that she fights with me sometimes, but fights FOR me all of the time.
My mother is a total rock star, and every day that I don't see her, I miss her. I chose to move back to New Hampshire knowing that, on some levels? It was going to be horrible, because it meant that I would see her very infrequently. Some days, I feel like moving was a selfish choice, because it was all about me.
(For the record, she doesn't think that. But there are days when I think it.)
I'm fortunate to have her, and to be able to spend this time with her, and I'll probably cry when I have to go home because I'll have to go back to missing her.
But I'm here now.
And that makes me lucky.
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