Mutual Understandings.

At work, I share a bullpen-style cube with two guys, one 26 and one about 10 years older. Our area is surrounded on either side by two identical (in allotment, not population) stations.

While this communal workspace isn't ideal, it is necessary that I be in the middle of all of the action because it's really the only way I would ever know what the hell is going on. Placing me with these two dudes was strategic as well, because everyone knows that while I love my ladies, I do love them more from a distance.

When men and women co-habitate in this way, there are two behavioral outcomes that emerge: there are the activities that we decide we will force our cellmates to live with, such as perpetual blasts of foot deodorizer spray, talking somewhat maniacally to ourselves, and penis jokes. Lots of penis jokes. Then there are the ones that are better left for outside The Grotto. These include passing gas (unless, of course, you are the 26-year-old), clothing adjustments of any kind, and eating bananas.

That's about all I have to say about that. 

Graphic Violence.

Those who communicate with art,
Don’t think writing deserves any part.
They make my work tough,
Thinking imagery’s enough.
Ohh, each word they delete breaks my heart.

Fucking designers.

Fanning the Flames.

I'm 346 days in and I'm about to pull a fast one. Another one, I guess. I worked an 11-hour day today (which is a profound affront to my spiritual beliefs) and, before I left, I suggested an artistic solution to our problem, rather than a written one, because my brain was starting to feel like a toasted marshmallow.

What I'm trying to say is that I used all of the soft, sticky matter trying to respond to "feedback," and, as a result, I have nothing left to give. (I think my little diversion worked, though. Hehehe.)

While I pluck off the scorched bits, why not listen to some cool music created by the son of a really cool guy I used to work with. You can hear it here. And also here.

Exit Humanity.

Unless we're talking about spiders, typos, or an internet outage, there isn't much that scares me. I take in horror movies and books with eyes wide and palms warm and dry. I'm drawn to the genre I guess because it offers thrills and excitement minus any potential of actually being harmed. I love what peoples' deranged imaginations come up with, all the while knowing that all of it is just that: a product of the mind.

But yesterday I read a story that exceeded what any person could imagine. It seemed preposterous. Incomprehensible. It couldn't be that anyone could dream up such savagery. And I was right. Because, he, the author, didn't. He lived it. And, as he recounted back every minute of it, I sweated, I gripped the binding at both edges until my fingers ached, and I choked on the enormous swelling in my throat. When I finished it, I felt exhausted and shaken.  

The book was "Night" by Elie Wiesel. And if you ever want to be truly terrified, you should read it. Actually, either way, you should read it.  

Feast or Famine.

I was looking at myself in the mirror this morning, feeling frustrated that I can't find the will to drop the extra pounds that I've put on over the past year. There's nothing wrong with me now; I'm just a little rounder here and there, which may not be a bad thing. Except that I'm definitely not at that place that I was back in 2010 when I felt nothing short of perfect.

But perfect only in my reflection, I have to continually remind myself. Under the surface, I was sad, frustrated, & confused and had no appetite for anything--food or otherwise. It was not a good time to be me, unless I was trying on clothes or walking in heels. Even then, these were brief flits of comfort to a mind addled with emotional turmoil.

I managed to drag myself out of it and also recognize how important it was that this crisis happened in the first place. It forced me to act; to do; to change. And, in finding contentment with my life, I also found my way back to the joy of eating more than just air and self pity.

If being bone thin was a result of a malnourished soul, then maybe these extra curves signify a kind of satisfaction. And that actually tastes better than skinny feels. 

 
 

Ain't Misbehavin'.

If you've ever looked at trends in maternity clothes (and considering that 90% of my readers are men, I'd guess not), you'd realize that, until very recently, something has been very wrong. (Not that I've had any reason to, either. Let's just write it up under anthropological interest.)

High necklines, peter pan collars, delicate floral prints, and enough fabric to double as a tent in case of emergency seemed to indicate that absolutely nothing except the most immaculate of deeds created this condition. What?!

In more current times, a nice spandex blend stretched creatively over the proverbial breadbasket suffices--and is a much nicer homage to act of procreation. In my opinion.

If I can be honest, it is the permission to let my belly out in such a boastful and blatant way that has made me half consider baby making. Except there would be a baby and a belly not fit for anyone's eyes (knowing my unforgiving flesh) afterward. I'll have none of that.

Now that I am woefully off topic, I'll try to get us back.

The reason I was thinking about prudish maternity clothes is because the same phenomenon occurs in kitchen curtains. Last summer, I desperately combed sites and stores for a replacement of my current all-white coverings. And concluded that the window treatment industry has some shame issues that it needs to work out. The abundance of lace trims, crocheted borders, and pastel color palettes--and lack of anything other--suggests a conspiracy to censor the bacchanalia that goes on in my kitchen. I won't have any of that either.

I finally decided to make my own, inspired by the indulgent designers of tea towels:

They're loud and they shout: "Hey, let's make something!" As it should be.

Auto Frustrato.

We have one Fiat dealer here in town, and they seem to me to be unsure if they want to sell any of them--kind of like a reluctant garage sale host who decides his precious items are just for show right at the moment you've made an offer. Humph.

I drove up and down the parkway with the dealership lot clearly in sight, but an entrance to get in not. I started to wonder if this was really a dream. You know, the kind your subconscious sews together with pieces of your day's frustrations...

But, after my third revolution of Michigan turns, I saw what looked to be a way in, if I turned off the main road and drove in from behind. So I did so, a bit rushed since they only stayed open 'til 4:00 and don't have Sunday or holiday hours.

After I parked, I experienced what no one ever has: a car lot that's open for business without one salesperson on the ground. I wandered the lot alone, unharassed, yet I wouldn't have minded a little. When I walked into the unlocked showroom, it was empty. 

This was feeling more and more like a fantasy, as I stroked their hoods and whispered into their side mirrors--unnoticed and uninterrupted.

I left, finally. No closer to making a purchase. I don't think these ones are for sale...

 

New Rule.

I went to lunch today with a big group to celebrate a friend's birthday. We decided that the first person who checked his/her phone would have to buy the Birthday Girl dessert. Within moments, one person had already weakened and, when spotted, was followed by another, knowing she wasn't the first. A brief (but not at all serious) argument broke out and it was decided that we would all put our phones in the center of the table and leave them there until we finished our meal.

How many times did I forget and motion toward my purse to grab a quick peek? Three. Maybe four. With others, I could see their eyes darting in the direction of the row of phones. But, after a bit, nobody seemed to care anymore...as if we had been transported back to the early aughts when nobody did care.

We were all back on the grid the second we left the table, but, not so surprising, few of us missed out on anything.

I'm Afraid. So?

Today I deleted an email that's been sitting in my work inbox for several months. It was titled "Do Something that Terrifies You" and I saved it because it seemed to me to be a pretty good thing to try.

I am very good at thinking about doing things and talking about doing things, but it's the actual doing of things that I don't do very well. Sometimes when I say them out loud enough times, there's a certain pressure cloud that looms, reminding me that if I don't follow through, I'm creating a reputation for myself and to myself that I'm just a good dreamer. And also a fickle dreamer.

So, I deleted that email because I've decided that it's time to be terrified. And I've started saying things aloud about it, and taking ordered steps in the direction of my fears–even investing in my fears. Which will eventually drop me into a pit that I can't climb out of. And that's what I want, so I'm going to keep moving.

Just Say No.

I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but alcohol can sometimes lower your inhibitions. Surprising, right? And, do you know what else? One glass too many can turn an ill-advised act into a brilliant one. And render the inconceivable by day to probable by the time the hour hand is two marks past your normal bedtime.

How do I know this? A friend told me.

Ikigai.

I woke up this morning knowing it would be a great day.

I'm normally not this much of a zealot, and I'm actually more likely to be a hater than a lover when it comes to new albums from favorite bands, but I had pretty high expectations for the latest Daft Punk.

So, I was out of bed and downloading it from iTunes before the sun was up.

Then, after I showered, I put on quite possibly the awesomest pair of pants ever.

I drove to work in an electronic, Random Access Memories stupor, barely able to stay in my own lane because of the severe aural distraction.

Back to the pants. My friends and coworkers bowed before them with both awe and envy. I walked taller, and, maybe, struck a pose when I thought I could do so without seeming too obvious.

Later, I left work and headed to my dance instructor's 15-year anniversary open house. More Daft Punk on my drive to the studio. Pants still awesome. And, after I arrived, some amazing & inspiring performances from my fellow dancers.

I finished the night with an impromptu bevvie with one of my favorite chicks.

This is Ikigai. Music. Dance. Friendship. Joy. Love. (Oh, and fashion). The reasons I wake up in the morning.

 

O' No.

I just finished sorting through and uploading some old pics from our trip to England and Ireland back in 1996. Now it's late and I still haven't written a post, so I may as well tell you about my inexcusable behavior in Dublin.

We took a tiny plane over from England and landed with a couple days worth of luggage, which we carried through the streets until we found the cheapest place possible to stay. Our room was no bigger than a closet, with two twin beds that, when we tried to push them together, blocked the door so that it only opened about 10 inches. Just enough to squeeze through in the middle of the night when a trip to the priv down the hall was needed.

Complimentary breakfast, which was delivered with a bang at about 5:30 a.m. consisted of a hard-boiled egg, a hot dog bun, cold coffee, and possibly something fruit-like.

When I got done ignoring everything on my plate, I went down to the communal bathroom to shower and turned on the water to warm it up. After about five minutes of slipping my hand under the stream to see if it had changed from icy to steamy, I realized it never would and so I hopped in bathed with amazing speed.

I survived, but now I was angry. Angry interchangeably with the egg and the dried out bun. And the beds and the surprise awakening and the arctic cleansing. So I insisted we leave. Dublin. Seriously.

We took a train to Howth, a little fishing village not too far away, and spent the remainder of our brief trip there. It was beautiful. And quiet. And wonderfully antiquated. But we missed seeing Dublin. And that is regrettable. 

Arousal Dysfunction.

Forgetting she'd already asked me five times previously, a colleague asked again if I'd yet read Fifty Shades of Grey. When I told her no, she said (with what I would call undisguised disapproval), "Oh, of course not. You're too pure." I laughed, because I was trying to imagine anyone I know thinking that word about me. But she explained. She meant that my taste in writing is too refined to enjoy reading amateurish prose. While this isn't necessarily true (OK, I think maybe it is), I do kind of take pleasure in knowing that others think of me this way. Literary snobbishness seems like a desirable quality to have.

The conversation carried on, with her and another women insisting that I could get past the inadequacies in style because I would thoroughly enjoy all the sex. That I could agree with, so I accepted the rumpled, roughed-up, sweat-upon, broken-spined volume that was being shoved in my hands. Seriously, this is the shape it was in when it was lent to me:

Its condition actually gave me hope, and I looked forward to a good fire stoking (so to speak).

Today, I finally decided to give it a try. But within the first sentences, I realized I was reading nothing more than the poorly formed thoughts of a dull adolescent girl. I threw the book down. Angry. I picked it back up and paged through until I found a combination of words that indicated there was some congress about to happen. :sigh: Still, nothing. Total trash. Sadly, not the good kind.

P.S. Considering that I can be a bit intolerant at times, I thought I'd just see if anyone on Amazon agreed with me. Oh, only about 5,411 people.
 

Maybe I Think.

Here's a little tribute to the many garter snakes that inhabit our backyard. Not one met its end by a mower blade today. I suspect this song has little to do with them, baby or not. That's OK by me.

Not Funny.

We decided it might be fun to watch some old SNL episodes from the 1990s, and the first one we queued up featured Kyle MacLachlan (whom we've loved from Twin Peaks and I from Sex & the City) and musical guest Sinéad O'Connor (whom we've both simply loved). We wondered as we pressed play if this was the one. It was not. That one came two years later. 

Still, we were struck by the similarities between then and now. Twenty years later, there is still war. More war. There are still abominations carried out by religious and other trusted leaders. Had we not known, we could have turned this on and been watching an episode from last week. 

And, I say: come on. Let's use our hearts and imaginations and break out of this bullshit.

Pez.

You know what? No matter where we go in life, we're always going to encounter difficult people. They may simply annoy us, they may obstruct our paths, or they may seem to exist for the sole purpose of shattering our spirits. 

Some we can walk away from. Some walk away from us. No matter. Because there will always be another walking toward us or one that we're advancing toward. This may seem pessimistic, but I think I've lived enough of this life to consider it realistic.

Which is why breathing a sigh of relief when a problem goes away, or believing that life would be so much better if this particular problem did, is short sighted, and also imagines no emotional freedom. It says that the power lies in others and not in ourselves. It says that our happiness and prosperity are not in our control.

I've know this for a while, but it's time to put it to practice: I can change no person or their behavior, but I can change how I respond. And I can change much it will affect my sensibilities.

That's all I can do. And if I've got that mastered, it's all I need.

Respect.

Today, a 30-year-old party girl who rents a campervan to go to all the summer music festivals, who still believes in the power of glow sticks, and who makes every single married and single man in our office swoon when she walks by squealed, genuinely, while broadcasting to our entire department, "You are SOOOOOO COOOOOOL!!!!!"

She meant me, moi, mi...for real. I was so taken aback that all I could think to say was, "Yaaaaaaay!"

Yeah, that really happened. It was kind of awesome. All I had to do was introduce her to Violent Lips and show her a picture of me actually wearing them.

Instant, everlasting credibility. Or, as the kids say: cred. ;)

 

Easily Dismissed.

The VP and my boss called me to an impromptu meeting early this morning. As I bent to sit down, I turned to one to search her expression for any clues, and then the other. But their faces were emotionless, until one began to speak.

She said, "Allison, you've really let yourself go. You've gained weight and you've lost your toned physique."

"I know," I said. I bowed my head in genuine shame.

She continued, "...And you haven't been applying yourself lately and it shows in your work."

:silence:

"You really haven't made any valuable contributions in several months."

"I know," I repeated. This time more automatically, without considering the accusation or its validity.

I thought we were just having a counseling meeting, but then she stood and said, "You're fired!"

"You can't," I said. "I've never been fired from anything in my life!"

As they escorted me to my cubicle with a box to clear out my desk, I continued to plead. Even as it dawned on me that it might be a hidden blessing. But my mind kept circling back to the disgrace of being fired. Not laid off for redundancy, but fired for inadequacy. And, for putting on weight, which I felt seemed pretty insignificant, and only related to my work in my ancillary role on our health and wellness team. Plus, it's only about five pounds. And, I hadn't been slacking at work at all! I cursed myself for agreeing so quickly when it's been quite the contrary.

I considered it could be a dream, but there we all were standing in my cube, packing up my belongings. As I pulled jar after jar of peanut butter from my overhead bin, I thought: wait, I don't have an overhead bin... And, then: wait, I don't eat peanut butter. It's too fattening...  

She Had it Coming.

Key Lime Pie Incident update:

Much to our surprise, we were never called to a private corner of the house or awakened in the night by the ruckus of violent retching. And just when I thought the thief would get no comeuppance for her deeds, I discovered the punishment this morning. 

Yes, from the looks of the war zone that was once the litter box, the pie exited her weak, bony frame with the force and destruction of an atom bomb. I'm a bit surprised she survived with her innards intact. 

Poor thing, I thought. Or tried to think, but instead giggled. 

You might consider me unkind, but trust me: she's been earning the nickname Asshole Face for 15 years.
 

Oh, Behave.

The family just left a bit ago, and the day played out perfectly. That is if you forget that Puck snuck up on the dining room table while were all visiting and ate nearly a whole slice of key lime pie. Whether we witness it or not, there will be green cat puke to clean up sooner or later.

I was thinking today, as my mom was on exceptionally good behavior, that I have been too hard on her. Then again, when she is good, she is very good...but when she is bad, well, someone call in the lion tamers so we can get this circus back in the tents.

This past year has been especially difficult (more for her than any of us, I'm sure) and at one point she wrote a long letter to my sister and me. She ended it with a quote by Oscar Wilde:

"Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."

I suppose I best try to prove her & Mr. Wilde wrong. 

Word to Your Mother.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day and I've been rushing around since early afternoon getting ready to host my family for lunch tomorrow. Off and on I've paused to catch up with the news of the world (:ahem: facebook), and just now stopped for a longer minute on an NPR story that featured 6-word stories to honor moms.

Maybe I didn't think hard enough, but this one came almost immediately to my mind, and I feel it fits perfectly for mine:

"I know you tried your best."

It has positive and negative connotations to it, just as our relationship has had equal moments of both.

When we were little girls, she sewed all our clothes herself, and often stitched tiny, matching outfits for our Barbies. She made elaborate cakes for our Birthdays and volunteered in our elementary school classrooms.  She remained a stay-at-home mom long after we needed her to be home.

As we got older, she struggled with how to deal with teenage daughters. (Who wouldn't?) And she made some life-altering mistakes with both of us. Most parents probably do. I know this is a big reason why I chose not to be one.

Once we both had left home for college, she tried to make sense of what she was meant to do, if it was no longer to raise children. She strives still today to find her meaning, and her inability to do so has manifested in some troubling habits. Ones that affect her health and affect her connections with everyone in our family. It is tough to be powerless as she searches to find her way back to mental and physical wellness. Despite the pain and alienation she's created, I still love her. Of course. And, I know she tries her best.

Mean People Suck.

This story came to me today via an email from a coworker with the subject line: People I Want to Punch. 

Feeling pleased that it wasn't followed by: You. Meet me in the parking lot after 4:00, I read on. Turns out the CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch is a douchebag and has been since at least 2006 and we're now just taking notice.

The gist of his story is that he won't carry large/plus sized clothing (particularly women's) in his stores because he doesn't want "fat chicks/dudes" ruining the super-cool, in-crowd image that his brand evokes.

Now, here's the thing. I just wrote a few nights ago that I thought it was irresponsible to use plus-sized models in marketing, because I feel it encourages the masses to think that obesity is OK (and, thus, not seek more ambitiously a healthier lifestyle). So, what is the difference here? Had he refused to sell x-sized clothes under that rationale, rather than one inspired by exclusion and discrimination, would I have felt OK about it?

How different is it to show larger-sized clothes on a model than to sell them in stores? Does selling sizes up to quadruple XL enable just as similarly? Maybe.

But here's the thing: there is a vast difference between actions of conscientiousness and actions of cruelty and intolerance. If you're not perfect, you can't buy his clothes? The perfect answer here is: OK. No problem.

The interesting part of this is that I have never set foot in one of these stores. It is better that I say nothing about it than continue to give it more attention. Except that I did consider it a thought-provoking anti/complement to my other recent feelings.

Anyway, on a final note, this guy is especially a DB because he has so obviously had an exceptional (shall we say, surprising) amount of plastic surgery. When hatred starts from within, there is really no help for a person, is there?

A Head Full of Cabbage.

I slept very little last night, not because being deeply troubled about the state of my professional life was keeping me awake, but because I had a completely inappropriate dream about a community salad bar I would be helping coordinate today at work. Inappropriate, I say, since I was not overly concerned about it. I wondered if we would have enough food, but that was the extent of the mental energy I had devoted to it.

No matter, because a 7-second blip still played on loop for hours in my slumbering subconscious, which consisted of the following question: Do we have enough cabbage? Do we have enough cabbage? Do we have enough cabbage? 

(Really, my brain should try out for a part in the next Harmony Korine film. It would perform an improvisational dance as part of the audition.)

Despite all this, I ended up having a decent, if not, downright pleasant day. Which reminds me that circumstances can change drastically from one day to the next. I know why this is, and it has much to do with a quiet dysfunction that's rumbling underneath the tightly-looped, polyester carpet that our business casual shoes walk around on from 8-5.

I'll leave it at that and focus on the mindfulness that has come to my emotional rescue time & again in these difficult days. And, share with you this wonderful piece that I heard this evening on WGVU:

Click this. Read it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

(I've been waiting for the audio to load. It hasn't yet, so I am posting as is.)

Be Happy.

I had another one of those tough days that made me once again wish I was a fine-feathered starling tugging at worms in the ground. This has to stop, one way or another, I think.

As I try to find new ways to tread in the increasingly turbulent waters that I swim in for most of my waking, weekday hours, I am looking to the moments that bring me joy when I get to give my flailing limbs & mind a rest.

Pizza & beer at The Mitten? A good start. 

A little bitch session? Hmmm...it has its pros & cons.

Music to soothe the sinking swimmer? Better.

I started with Don't Worry, Be Happy. (Well, one has to start somewhere.) I followed it with Give Up the Funk. Followed by Let's Groove. Followed by Silly Love Songs. That'll do for tonight. 

Clash of the Stubborn.

So Ben and I were debating the other night on a subject that I'd like to say is not being disclosed because of personal reasons, but it's actually because neither of us can remember what it was. Or, I should say, which it was. We do debate regularly and so it could have been any number of topics.

What I do remember is that I was dumbfounded that he didn't agree with me, and so I thought that if I just continued with my incredibly solid reasoning and logic, he would eventually cede his position. Nope.

I had been at it for a good twenty minutes when he finally asked, "Why can't I just have my opinion?" And, I said something like, "Because I think you're wrong and you just need to see that." ::blank stare::

And then he said, "We don't have to agree on everything, you know." And then I said, "But I want you to agree with me on this. It's very important." <so important I can't remember, mind you.

And this went on for a bit until finally it hit me that it doesn't really matter. Nothing changes if we don't agree. Nothing changes if we do. I guess I forgot Rule #9.

Right. 

A Big Deal.

I recently read a story on and a ton of accompanying praise for H&M, who started using plus-sized models in its advertising.

Look, as a formerly plump girl, I know that there's nothing worse than seeing a garment that drapes beautifully on the size 2 mannequin, but bunches nightmarishly on a size 12 frame. I've seen it in my own reflection and it's not cool.

That said, is the answer to excessively grow the size of the example? Why go to the other extreme, when a healthy size 8 is a perfectly average option?

Being overweight is not healthy, and it takes an incredible toll on every inch of our anatomies. Encouraging our population to embrace their extra pounds is, in my mind, as irresponsible as promoting cigarettes to kids. But there's a wide line between shaming and enabling. It's called Medium.

I have more to say, but I do believe that the angry mob outside my house is looking for me. If I'm able to outrun them, I have an idea why. Just saying. 

Human Behavior.

Continuing on yesterday's thought, I am reminded of a passage in Robert B. Cialdini's book "Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion" that I was reading a couple of years back.

On the subject of Commitment and Consistency (which he calls "Hobgoblins of the Mind"), he says: 

"Like other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our near obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Once we have made a choice or taken a stand, we will encounter personal and interpersonal pressures to behave consistently with that commitment. Those pressures will cause us to respond in ways that justify our earlier decision."

This explains why some stubbornly deny truths that have been proven by science (climate change and evolution come to mind). Or have bumper stickers on their cars from 2004 that say "I stand behind George W. Bush." Still? Really? Or stay in toxic, abusive, or dead-end relationships.

This phenomenon is likely what drives my friend to continue to devote 110% to her already abandoned job. I'm not saying that I would immediately start doing a shitty job if I were in my last two weeks—I have way too much pride in my work and in my reputation to do that. But I wouldn't stay late and skip lunches and fight losing philosophical battles with my manager. Because it's over, right? Except that's how she's always done it, and to stop now would not be how she identifies who she is.

I'm not saying she's wrong, I'm just saying it's interesting.  

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0NqC_SQGk

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0MLU4Nmgo

Like the other weapons of influence, this one lies deep within us, directing our actions with quiet power. It is, quite simply, our nearly obsessive desire to be (and to appear) consistent with what we have already done. Read more: http://snipi.co/l/0:1le0MLU4Nmgo

If You Leave.

I am approaching the end of my one-year writing obligation and I find I am losing steam. In this period, I am thinking about a friend who resigned from her job, but has stayed on indefinitely out of goodwill toward the company as well as a why not? attitude, given that her new adventure hasn't started yet and may not at all.

I have quit many jobs in the past. Some without a known prospect, and, about the same amount, with one. As I've aged and taken on more responsibilities, a known one is practically required. Though the fantasy of not needing one remains, hovering in the back of my mind.

So, my friend, who has a foot out the door and planted in the grounds of a completely different future, continues to perform her current duties with the tenacity and permanency of a person who is going nowhere. And, I suppose, I find this strange. When we make a decision to leave, it seems realistic that we move on in entirety; taking our head-space with us as well. Which is likely why a 2-weeks' notice has become so popularized.

When I asked her about this, she told me that if she were to behave any differently now, then everything she once was in this role would be false. That all along, she was just acting.

Interesting.

 

Metal Mettle.

My house has been filled with the foreign sounds of George Jones for the past several days, and while I've been given ample chance to appreciate him, I just can't find the love. Thank goodness, and, of course, I do not mean that I am appreciative of Jeff Hanneman's unfortunate and untimely passing, that there's a change of noise in the house.

You might be surprised to know that when I was in my last semester of high school, I was listening to Slayer. As well as a lot of other heavy metal. I had gravity-defying hair, brought to me by the magicians at Aqua Net; I wore a fringed leather jacket that moved well when headbanging was required; and I somehow made tight jeans with sneakers work.

I can't explain why I loved it. The energy? The bad boys who were associated with it? The subversiveness? Leather?

Tonight I looked low & lower in our basement for the cassette of Reign in Blood that I am fairly certain I still have from those days. Side A and Side B were identical, which was probably not intended genius, but made for a quick repeat of the album without ever having to rewind. I couldn't find it, but I know it's lurking down there somewhere.

Meanwhile, here is the final song:

P.S. I ended up listening to most of the album tonight while previewing videos, and you know what? That is some dark shit. I can't imagine I absorbed any of those lyrics back in the day. I think I just liked driving around raising hell with my friends. While wearing leather.

 

  

Rustic Roots.

My parents both came from Iowa, and, as they gradually moved eastward, they seemed to enjoy leaving behind the economy of small towns, and the antiquity of outdoor plumbing. Yes, my dad's high school class was comprised of a mere six individuals, and, until around age 15, my mom and her family left the warmth and comfort of their home to take their constitutionals.

On landing in Michigan, they abandoned any shred of country, and, except for an occasional Hee-Haw, the sounds of rural America did not reach our ears.

No Dolly Parton, no Hank Williams Sr., no Willie Nelson. And, no George Jones.

While all the former have become familiar to me, George is new. (Which seems a bit late, this week's news considered.) And, while I remain on the fence, Ben tells me he's the real deal.

Duh....

It's 10:24 p.m. as I start this post. I had a couple of hooray it's 80 degrees in May beers after my regular Wednesday workout and I thought I might experiment with a little drunk poetry. So I recorded myself on my phone reading a favorite piece by Pablo Neruda.

You know what? Drunk people are stupid. And, they sound even stupider. Even to a drunk person.

I'm going to go drink a glass of water and we're all going to forget this silliness.

Goodnight.

Yes. that's really it.

Sorry.

You don't want to see that video, I promise.