Monday, June 24, 2013
Laughing At The Trees
Do I dare jump off this bridge yet? Would I yet again freefall into the water like a rock as has happened before? Or do I dare think that this time, I will have learned to fly?
Monday, June 17, 2013
The Things I Know
I've just had a revelation as to why the whole situation with my aunt bothered me.
It was a Tuesday. She'd gone into the hospital yet again, pain so unbearable, she couldn't stand. That will sometimes happen with a stroke and given her health, it was only a matter of time before the stroke happened. Luckily - or maybe unluckily - she survived the stroke and did well with rehab.
Until the pain got worse.
Maybe, just maybe, I would be wrong about my feeling, that complete dread, that this is the end and to say goodbye now before it happenes. Grandma was there in the dream, that swirling dream about the place where my aunt had lived for many years, my mom answered the door, Grandma was there, my mom, my great aunt and uncle, dressed for a nice occasion, and my Grandma said to me, "We're waiting for Joan to come back." She was not there yet...but soon would be.
I will mention now, I've never met my Grandma, my dad and aunt's mother. She died before I was born. But she still smiled at me and kissed my forhead in my dream.
It was Tuesday. "Please call me back," I heard my dad's voice say in the voicemail, "I need to talk to you about your aunt's condition."
We'd go to lunch every so often, and in those days, many times, places I could not afford on my own. We - and the whole family, actually - loved good food. The Coast, Sabor, North Shore Bistro. Red Lobster was always hilarious, as she'd bring her own kitchen shears to crack the king crab legs. The plate would come, and she'd pull a plastic bag with the shears out of her purse. The last year she went to State Fair, she had trouble walking even past the gate. "I'm not going to make it," she said. "Don't be silly," I told her, "they have scooters and wheelchairs for rent. Let's get one." As a child, I loved going with her on the bus to Northridge, I'd lean agaist her and say, "Auntie, you are really soft. You make a good pillow." She was my auntie pillow.
"So...I'm calling you back. What's going on?" I said to my dad. "She's decided to discontinue dialysis," he said, his voice cracking a little. "She will be going into hospisce. The doctors say it will take about a week."
I had called on a Saturday in September to see if I could do my laundry at their house because the people in my apartment building were assholes when it came to laundry. "Hello," my aunt answered, pain evident in her voice. "Are you okay?" I asked, forgetting about my laundry. So from then on, almost every Saturday morning, I would go over and do her laundry, to spare her the pain of going up and down the stairs to the basement. Of course, I brought my laundry over to do as well. We'd sit and chat, watch How It's Made, munch on ten year old cheddar and crackers.
It took forever for them to transfer her to hospice. They wheeled her in. "I'm so sorry," she said, "I never wanted to be a burden." "You were never a burden," my dad told her. "Because we love you," I said, "nothing was a big deal or a burden." "Stay with me," she said. "I will, Auntie, I will." So every day for 7 days, I showed up with my lunch, watched TV, and talked to her, even when she no longer could respond.
There are times in my life where people disappoint me. I'm okay with that, it happens, it's life. But to be honest, there are some disappointments so horrible, I can never reconcile it with my soul. It's like the chasm of disappointment creates a river of resentment so deep, that nothing the other peson says or does will ever repair it. I recognize those moments when they happen; I'm just not good at letting go at that point and freeing myself from my feelings. Oh, I loved Zombie, I really did. He disappointed me often but I learned to live with it, even when he talked about himself for 20 minutes straight before I could blurt out, "Joan's going into hospice".
I flipped through the channels. Nothing was on that I wanted to watch. I touched her arm. "I'm not good at this, Auntie," I said. I spotted the CD case - the one she had always taken with her to dialysis - and flipped through it. I don't remember what the title of the CD was, but it was all the church songs, some of them the ones that I had loved to sing when I was in choir. I turned off the TV, put on the CD, and for the first time in a very long time, I sang church songs, touching her arm. She was still soft. Still my auntie pillow.
"All I need for you to do is my dishes," I told him. "I've been so busy, I haven't had time to do everything." My expectation was that he would do my housework while I was at the hospice. I was so overwhelmed, so, so overwhelmed. "Shouldn't I go?" he asked. "No, I need you to help me here." I will say at this point, I would have preferred he kicked me in the leg. I learned a very valuable lesson that day - between physical violence/verbal abuse and emotional jackassery, I'd much rather be beat than have my heart ripped out of my chest and stomped on. Internal bleeding goes away; looking at the person you once loved with all your heart knowing that if something horrible happens, it will be all about them and fuck you, wondering when that horrible moment will come again is heartbreaking. And it will come again, only a matter of time. Instead of saying, "Of course I will do this for you because I love you and you are facing an extremely difficult time," he said, "WHAT? I didn't get to say goodbye! Why can't I go with you? She'll be gone forever. Why can't I go? I need to see her." And on. And on. Insisting and pleading and insisting some more. It wasn't until I had finished showering and crying in the shower, that I had decided that it was over between us and that all the feelings that I ever had for him had swirled down the drain, now lost to the sewage pipe. "Rest assured," I told him as I getting dressed, "that it will be over if you make me do this." Cue another round of tears. Eventually, he relented and just let me go alone to see my aunt.
We were her children, she didn't have any of her own. She spoiled us when our parents couldn't. Travels to Disney World and a trip anywhere in the world when we were 16. She was our Fairy Godmother. And here Zombie was, demanding that I take him to the hospice. Even Mr Kicked Me In The Leg had not been that much of an asshole when my mother died.
Looking back on it now, I should have just let the fruit flies take over, and kicked him out of my apartment, never to be seen again, except at my aunt's funeral. You never expect the people you love to hurt you so badly, but it happens. I kept the sweatshirts that I had painted for her and every so often, I pull them out and touch them, remembering the hugs and kisses and bus rides and lunches.
It was a Tuesday. She'd gone into the hospital yet again, pain so unbearable, she couldn't stand. That will sometimes happen with a stroke and given her health, it was only a matter of time before the stroke happened. Luckily - or maybe unluckily - she survived the stroke and did well with rehab.
Until the pain got worse.
Maybe, just maybe, I would be wrong about my feeling, that complete dread, that this is the end and to say goodbye now before it happenes. Grandma was there in the dream, that swirling dream about the place where my aunt had lived for many years, my mom answered the door, Grandma was there, my mom, my great aunt and uncle, dressed for a nice occasion, and my Grandma said to me, "We're waiting for Joan to come back." She was not there yet...but soon would be.
I will mention now, I've never met my Grandma, my dad and aunt's mother. She died before I was born. But she still smiled at me and kissed my forhead in my dream.
It was Tuesday. "Please call me back," I heard my dad's voice say in the voicemail, "I need to talk to you about your aunt's condition."
We'd go to lunch every so often, and in those days, many times, places I could not afford on my own. We - and the whole family, actually - loved good food. The Coast, Sabor, North Shore Bistro. Red Lobster was always hilarious, as she'd bring her own kitchen shears to crack the king crab legs. The plate would come, and she'd pull a plastic bag with the shears out of her purse. The last year she went to State Fair, she had trouble walking even past the gate. "I'm not going to make it," she said. "Don't be silly," I told her, "they have scooters and wheelchairs for rent. Let's get one." As a child, I loved going with her on the bus to Northridge, I'd lean agaist her and say, "Auntie, you are really soft. You make a good pillow." She was my auntie pillow.
"So...I'm calling you back. What's going on?" I said to my dad. "She's decided to discontinue dialysis," he said, his voice cracking a little. "She will be going into hospisce. The doctors say it will take about a week."
I had called on a Saturday in September to see if I could do my laundry at their house because the people in my apartment building were assholes when it came to laundry. "Hello," my aunt answered, pain evident in her voice. "Are you okay?" I asked, forgetting about my laundry. So from then on, almost every Saturday morning, I would go over and do her laundry, to spare her the pain of going up and down the stairs to the basement. Of course, I brought my laundry over to do as well. We'd sit and chat, watch How It's Made, munch on ten year old cheddar and crackers.
It took forever for them to transfer her to hospice. They wheeled her in. "I'm so sorry," she said, "I never wanted to be a burden." "You were never a burden," my dad told her. "Because we love you," I said, "nothing was a big deal or a burden." "Stay with me," she said. "I will, Auntie, I will." So every day for 7 days, I showed up with my lunch, watched TV, and talked to her, even when she no longer could respond.
There are times in my life where people disappoint me. I'm okay with that, it happens, it's life. But to be honest, there are some disappointments so horrible, I can never reconcile it with my soul. It's like the chasm of disappointment creates a river of resentment so deep, that nothing the other peson says or does will ever repair it. I recognize those moments when they happen; I'm just not good at letting go at that point and freeing myself from my feelings. Oh, I loved Zombie, I really did. He disappointed me often but I learned to live with it, even when he talked about himself for 20 minutes straight before I could blurt out, "Joan's going into hospice".
I flipped through the channels. Nothing was on that I wanted to watch. I touched her arm. "I'm not good at this, Auntie," I said. I spotted the CD case - the one she had always taken with her to dialysis - and flipped through it. I don't remember what the title of the CD was, but it was all the church songs, some of them the ones that I had loved to sing when I was in choir. I turned off the TV, put on the CD, and for the first time in a very long time, I sang church songs, touching her arm. She was still soft. Still my auntie pillow.
"All I need for you to do is my dishes," I told him. "I've been so busy, I haven't had time to do everything." My expectation was that he would do my housework while I was at the hospice. I was so overwhelmed, so, so overwhelmed. "Shouldn't I go?" he asked. "No, I need you to help me here." I will say at this point, I would have preferred he kicked me in the leg. I learned a very valuable lesson that day - between physical violence/verbal abuse and emotional jackassery, I'd much rather be beat than have my heart ripped out of my chest and stomped on. Internal bleeding goes away; looking at the person you once loved with all your heart knowing that if something horrible happens, it will be all about them and fuck you, wondering when that horrible moment will come again is heartbreaking. And it will come again, only a matter of time. Instead of saying, "Of course I will do this for you because I love you and you are facing an extremely difficult time," he said, "WHAT? I didn't get to say goodbye! Why can't I go with you? She'll be gone forever. Why can't I go? I need to see her." And on. And on. Insisting and pleading and insisting some more. It wasn't until I had finished showering and crying in the shower, that I had decided that it was over between us and that all the feelings that I ever had for him had swirled down the drain, now lost to the sewage pipe. "Rest assured," I told him as I getting dressed, "that it will be over if you make me do this." Cue another round of tears. Eventually, he relented and just let me go alone to see my aunt.
We were her children, she didn't have any of her own. She spoiled us when our parents couldn't. Travels to Disney World and a trip anywhere in the world when we were 16. She was our Fairy Godmother. And here Zombie was, demanding that I take him to the hospice. Even Mr Kicked Me In The Leg had not been that much of an asshole when my mother died.
Looking back on it now, I should have just let the fruit flies take over, and kicked him out of my apartment, never to be seen again, except at my aunt's funeral. You never expect the people you love to hurt you so badly, but it happens. I kept the sweatshirts that I had painted for her and every so often, I pull them out and touch them, remembering the hugs and kisses and bus rides and lunches.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Look At Her Van Goh
(Taken from a writing on my phone, while at the bar.)
I used to know a lot of people but apparently I don't anymore. Fun, I had fun once, but the deserts of time have dried up and I am alone in the crowd once again. We used to take our fun seriously but as of late - ages later it seems - the fun well has dried up or withered or something egregious. All that's left is cold doorwarys and beer. And the arythmic cackles of whores cutting through the soft jazz, piercing eardrums and hopes to get laid.
It was a typical Friday night. No different than the current Friday nights. Eventually people would filter out - beer, the bar, the fading voices of lofty ideals for Saturday, it didn't matter. Sooner or later, dignity came stumbling out a fustrated and forlorn mess. You can cure the hangover but not the pathectic shell of a human being.
As far as shells go, though, it wasn't that bad. It had yet to be hardened by motivational exercise, untouched by organic food, an organism purely full of refined chemicals. Such beautiful chemicals they were! Alas, they were the kind that ended one's lifewspan early, much to the chargrin of genetics that would otherwise last until 90.
And maybe that was everyone's story - the Story of Chemeically Induced Shortened Lifespans. Who has the time far un UberChristain Lifestyle? Certainly not the denziens of this great city! Beer flowed like water, an artisanal well of failed hopes and dreams with a slightly hoppy flavor. A delicate balance of sobriety and drepression, which most people decide to call "fun".
Which is all well and good, until you realize it isn't.
I used to know a lot of people but apparently I don't anymore. Fun, I had fun once, but the deserts of time have dried up and I am alone in the crowd once again. We used to take our fun seriously but as of late - ages later it seems - the fun well has dried up or withered or something egregious. All that's left is cold doorwarys and beer. And the arythmic cackles of whores cutting through the soft jazz, piercing eardrums and hopes to get laid.
It was a typical Friday night. No different than the current Friday nights. Eventually people would filter out - beer, the bar, the fading voices of lofty ideals for Saturday, it didn't matter. Sooner or later, dignity came stumbling out a fustrated and forlorn mess. You can cure the hangover but not the pathectic shell of a human being.
As far as shells go, though, it wasn't that bad. It had yet to be hardened by motivational exercise, untouched by organic food, an organism purely full of refined chemicals. Such beautiful chemicals they were! Alas, they were the kind that ended one's lifewspan early, much to the chargrin of genetics that would otherwise last until 90.
And maybe that was everyone's story - the Story of Chemeically Induced Shortened Lifespans. Who has the time far un UberChristain Lifestyle? Certainly not the denziens of this great city! Beer flowed like water, an artisanal well of failed hopes and dreams with a slightly hoppy flavor. A delicate balance of sobriety and drepression, which most people decide to call "fun".
Which is all well and good, until you realize it isn't.
Sunday, June 09, 2013
I Don't
So yesterday kinda sucked. The theme for the day on PBS Create was "I Do" and while I can stand Sarah Moulton and her dinner for two show, the rest of it depressed the everliving fuck out of me. I went from okay to THE WORLD MUST BURN in three shows.
Oh, man, was it a mood. The shelf didn't work out so I had to go back to Menards to get a new one, crying the whole way there. Luckily, I can hear my dad coming up steps, so I could stave off the tears. Nobody needs to see me like that.
I thought about everything that happened - what he did that I couldn't stand the touch of him, how he proposed...and my mind starting connecting the other awful bits of this business, the way my mother treated me, during the wedding planning and the way she treated me after the breakup. My head was swirling with the most depressing thoughts, floating around, knocking against my skull, and I was crying, crying because I didn't have anyone to talk to about this horrible thing, which is just as well, I think, because if I did, it would have been hours of whiny, and I hate that. I hate that it still pops into my head, the clusterfuck of my twenties, how I wish I had broken up with him before we got engaged, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have done what he did, maybe then I wouldn't have learned that my mother would turn into Momzilla over my fucking wedding, more maybes that would never happen because it's in the past. Even if I went back in time to my younger self, she wouldn't have believed what will transpire in her future because you never anticipate that your loved ones would hurt you so deeply that you wish you would die because suddenly the mask slips off and you realize that you've never been important, it's about them, it's always been about them, and they've never given a shit about you, and it just sits there laid out naked and raw, something awful that you can't look at but can't look away. I had dreams once, but I don't even try to anymore because I hate feeling disappointed in something I can't control because it's a useless endeavor and why feel that when you can't change the outcome.
I knew it was there always lurking in a drawer, hiding, waiting for the random moment when I'd clean out my drawers and completely forgot I put there and then I'd see it and put it on, feeling sad and hopeless and angry all at the same time. Oh, how that hurt! I said I wasn't in the mood. Did you enjoy yourself while I cried silently to myself hoping that this would be quick so that I could go kill myself? I'm sorry you didn't realize that you hurt me until you saw me crying, and no, no apology in the world wouldn't work, it couldn't work, I was afraid and confused and scared that you just did that, I was ashamed and didn't want anyone to know, and hell, even I didn't want to know. And being young and stupid I tried - oh, how I tried! - but it always lurked there in the back of my head that you were not safe and would never be safe and in twenty years one day I'd wake up and just kill you wearing a remorseless and resigned mask because my soul would have long been drained out of my body and all that would be left is a shell of a once carefree human. And my mother would stand by and cheerlead it all with the unrelenting attitudes that made her annoying in the first place that we could finally bond as mother and daughter and I'd have to fake like I wanted the advice from someone who prided herself on how she was fierce mother and how she kept us safe when in reality every day at school was fresh new horror of how I'd be bullied by the entire fucking class...no, not just one or two bullies, but everybody, my pleas to switch schools falling on deaf ears, finally sneaking the rum from the cabinets at 11 because nobody believed me and I'd lost hope and resigned myself to this hellish existence, none of my teachers brought it up to my parents, and one said anything to my parents about it, not that she'd believe them anyway. And this was the woman that would run my wedding and do everything that she didn't get to do, and was mad enough when her wish fulfillment vehicle struck back and broke it off with the fiancee that she made it clear that he'd always be welcome in HER house.
"I swear to God, Cuz, it's cursed or something," said after spending yet another day packing until 1 am. "I mean, I don't believe that it is really but sometimes I think it is. All of my relationships end like this, maybe it's keeping me from meeting someone who happens to know what respect means, but really, maybe not. I'll never get that close to getting married again. He's gonna have to be insanely exceptional for that to happen, and since my standards are apparently too high at 'basic respect' and 'actually listens to me', and not 'project assumptions on me even when I've said and done the complete opposite'. I mean, why do they do that? Why are they surprised when I say something, like we've never had this conversation before, because you know me, it's not like I'm SHY about my views or anything. I just don't get why this is pattern with all of them. I've done serious soul searching, and since I'm the only constant in my relationships, I'm the one who must be doing something wrong. For the life of me, I can't figure it out. So it's nice to sometimes think it's not me."
And in a flurry of boxes, papers, all sorts of whatnots, it was found after the move. One last time, my brain said, one last time to wear it. I put it on. Do you really want to get rid of it? It's so pretty. You probably will never get another one of those ever. Are you really sure? Two pictures, then it was off my hand and into the box, off to the jewelers to be sold and never heard from again because it had to go and it was very ridiculous that I'd had it that long. "Are you sure?" the lady asked when she told me the price. I hesitated for a moment - gone forever whispering in my head - and said "Yes".
In the car, I shed a few tears. "It's okay to cry," my cousin said, "he was a big part of your life at one time." I was quiet for a moment, wiping away a tear, then said, "I remember when he gave it to me. It was just like him not have the ring sized or how it would look. It was all diamonds and too small. When I put it on, I said, 'Is this for your other girlfriend?' And then I went home and my mother freaked out. 'Is that a friendship ring?' 'No, mom, it's an engagement ring, but it's not completed yet, there's rubies that go here and here.' 'What, it's not ALL diamonds?' I just stood there for a moment because that was silly. She was so mad at my dad for keeping it a secret from her."
And then I started the car to head home and unpack the boxes, thinking about how I was going to arrange all of the furniture I had crammed into the computer room.
(Updated for spelling/grammar/memory errors.)
Oh, man, was it a mood. The shelf didn't work out so I had to go back to Menards to get a new one, crying the whole way there. Luckily, I can hear my dad coming up steps, so I could stave off the tears. Nobody needs to see me like that.
I thought about everything that happened - what he did that I couldn't stand the touch of him, how he proposed...and my mind starting connecting the other awful bits of this business, the way my mother treated me, during the wedding planning and the way she treated me after the breakup. My head was swirling with the most depressing thoughts, floating around, knocking against my skull, and I was crying, crying because I didn't have anyone to talk to about this horrible thing, which is just as well, I think, because if I did, it would have been hours of whiny, and I hate that. I hate that it still pops into my head, the clusterfuck of my twenties, how I wish I had broken up with him before we got engaged, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have done what he did, maybe then I wouldn't have learned that my mother would turn into Momzilla over my fucking wedding, more maybes that would never happen because it's in the past. Even if I went back in time to my younger self, she wouldn't have believed what will transpire in her future because you never anticipate that your loved ones would hurt you so deeply that you wish you would die because suddenly the mask slips off and you realize that you've never been important, it's about them, it's always been about them, and they've never given a shit about you, and it just sits there laid out naked and raw, something awful that you can't look at but can't look away. I had dreams once, but I don't even try to anymore because I hate feeling disappointed in something I can't control because it's a useless endeavor and why feel that when you can't change the outcome.
I knew it was there always lurking in a drawer, hiding, waiting for the random moment when I'd clean out my drawers and completely forgot I put there and then I'd see it and put it on, feeling sad and hopeless and angry all at the same time. Oh, how that hurt! I said I wasn't in the mood. Did you enjoy yourself while I cried silently to myself hoping that this would be quick so that I could go kill myself? I'm sorry you didn't realize that you hurt me until you saw me crying, and no, no apology in the world wouldn't work, it couldn't work, I was afraid and confused and scared that you just did that, I was ashamed and didn't want anyone to know, and hell, even I didn't want to know. And being young and stupid I tried - oh, how I tried! - but it always lurked there in the back of my head that you were not safe and would never be safe and in twenty years one day I'd wake up and just kill you wearing a remorseless and resigned mask because my soul would have long been drained out of my body and all that would be left is a shell of a once carefree human. And my mother would stand by and cheerlead it all with the unrelenting attitudes that made her annoying in the first place that we could finally bond as mother and daughter and I'd have to fake like I wanted the advice from someone who prided herself on how she was fierce mother and how she kept us safe when in reality every day at school was fresh new horror of how I'd be bullied by the entire fucking class...no, not just one or two bullies, but everybody, my pleas to switch schools falling on deaf ears, finally sneaking the rum from the cabinets at 11 because nobody believed me and I'd lost hope and resigned myself to this hellish existence, none of my teachers brought it up to my parents, and one said anything to my parents about it, not that she'd believe them anyway. And this was the woman that would run my wedding and do everything that she didn't get to do, and was mad enough when her wish fulfillment vehicle struck back and broke it off with the fiancee that she made it clear that he'd always be welcome in HER house.
"I swear to God, Cuz, it's cursed or something," said after spending yet another day packing until 1 am. "I mean, I don't believe that it is really but sometimes I think it is. All of my relationships end like this, maybe it's keeping me from meeting someone who happens to know what respect means, but really, maybe not. I'll never get that close to getting married again. He's gonna have to be insanely exceptional for that to happen, and since my standards are apparently too high at 'basic respect' and 'actually listens to me', and not 'project assumptions on me even when I've said and done the complete opposite'. I mean, why do they do that? Why are they surprised when I say something, like we've never had this conversation before, because you know me, it's not like I'm SHY about my views or anything. I just don't get why this is pattern with all of them. I've done serious soul searching, and since I'm the only constant in my relationships, I'm the one who must be doing something wrong. For the life of me, I can't figure it out. So it's nice to sometimes think it's not me."
And in a flurry of boxes, papers, all sorts of whatnots, it was found after the move. One last time, my brain said, one last time to wear it. I put it on. Do you really want to get rid of it? It's so pretty. You probably will never get another one of those ever. Are you really sure? Two pictures, then it was off my hand and into the box, off to the jewelers to be sold and never heard from again because it had to go and it was very ridiculous that I'd had it that long. "Are you sure?" the lady asked when she told me the price. I hesitated for a moment - gone forever whispering in my head - and said "Yes".
In the car, I shed a few tears. "It's okay to cry," my cousin said, "he was a big part of your life at one time." I was quiet for a moment, wiping away a tear, then said, "I remember when he gave it to me. It was just like him not have the ring sized or how it would look. It was all diamonds and too small. When I put it on, I said, 'Is this for your other girlfriend?' And then I went home and my mother freaked out. 'Is that a friendship ring?' 'No, mom, it's an engagement ring, but it's not completed yet, there's rubies that go here and here.' 'What, it's not ALL diamonds?' I just stood there for a moment because that was silly. She was so mad at my dad for keeping it a secret from her."
And then I started the car to head home and unpack the boxes, thinking about how I was going to arrange all of the furniture I had crammed into the computer room.
(Updated for spelling/grammar/memory errors.)
Thursday, June 06, 2013
What's In A Name? Cheese.
"I hate it when people call you Mouse, don't introduce yourself like that."
Perhaps, but not really. You see, the origin of this name isn't because I'm short and like chesse. It's not because I'm "mousy" or anything.
It has to do with a conversation I had very long ago with friends. As in, almost 10 years ago long ago. We've long moved on to other bars, lives, genders, but at the time we were sitting around and talking. And when you engage in such endevors among friends, you end up with strange topics of conversations such as "If you were named after a cartoon character, who would it be?"
Now for some bit of background. When I was a child, I had a fascination with all things Cartoon Mouse. From Disney's Cinderella to Tom and Jerry and anything that had a Cartoon Mouse. Since I was a child, I was rather annoying about it. I made my parents hold the door open for all 27 of my Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends. My mother thought that maybe a dose of reality would quell my fascination with Cartoon Mice by making me check the pantry for dead mice in the mouse traps that we set. Unfortunatly, my imagination is stronger and more stubborn than mere reality. When I checked the traps, there wasn't any mice...until one jumped out from behind the cans. Because I was 5 and startled, I slammed the pantry door shut...on the the mouse's tail. It was stuck trying to scurry away and I was glued to the wall screaming in terror. After my mother's eyes rolled straight out of her head, she went and got my father to get rid of the mouse. He came back in, bitten and annoyed, and said that he'd killed it. Cue an overdramatic 5 year old wailing over a dead mouse. And it was another year or two that they had to hold the door open for the 27 Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends.
Mouse. It's my thing.
My second favorite cartoon ever is this one:
I LOVED that episode. I don't think of myself as a mouse, per se, but The White Mouse. The Explosive Mouse. So when I say "I'm Mouse", I'm saying that I'll blow you up if you try to hurt me. And there's nothing mousy about that bit of badassery.
Bring it, motherfuckers, I'm Mouse.
Perhaps, but not really. You see, the origin of this name isn't because I'm short and like chesse. It's not because I'm "mousy" or anything.
It has to do with a conversation I had very long ago with friends. As in, almost 10 years ago long ago. We've long moved on to other bars, lives, genders, but at the time we were sitting around and talking. And when you engage in such endevors among friends, you end up with strange topics of conversations such as "If you were named after a cartoon character, who would it be?"
Now for some bit of background. When I was a child, I had a fascination with all things Cartoon Mouse. From Disney's Cinderella to Tom and Jerry and anything that had a Cartoon Mouse. Since I was a child, I was rather annoying about it. I made my parents hold the door open for all 27 of my Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends. My mother thought that maybe a dose of reality would quell my fascination with Cartoon Mice by making me check the pantry for dead mice in the mouse traps that we set. Unfortunatly, my imagination is stronger and more stubborn than mere reality. When I checked the traps, there wasn't any mice...until one jumped out from behind the cans. Because I was 5 and startled, I slammed the pantry door shut...on the the mouse's tail. It was stuck trying to scurry away and I was glued to the wall screaming in terror. After my mother's eyes rolled straight out of her head, she went and got my father to get rid of the mouse. He came back in, bitten and annoyed, and said that he'd killed it. Cue an overdramatic 5 year old wailing over a dead mouse. And it was another year or two that they had to hold the door open for the 27 Imaginary Cartoon Mice Friends.
Mouse. It's my thing.
My second favorite cartoon ever is this one:
I LOVED that episode. I don't think of myself as a mouse, per se, but The White Mouse. The Explosive Mouse. So when I say "I'm Mouse", I'm saying that I'll blow you up if you try to hurt me. And there's nothing mousy about that bit of badassery.
Bring it, motherfuckers, I'm Mouse.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Adventures At Work
I definitely had someone like that...I could feel my brain cells sliding out the wood plank to jump off of. Now I must send it around work.
Sunday, June 02, 2013
Just Laugh, You Silly
In the middle of the street, this line just sits there. l really try not to take myself seriously. I mean, yeah there will be times that l have to be serious but fuck it, doesn't have to be all the time.
The thing about fun is that it's addictive. I always fall for that moment when you click with someone and can't stop thinking about them but I'm always cautious with myself because I know I'm awkward and weird and a little offputting at times. It doesn't help that sometimes my enthusiasm is mistaken for desparation.
[pensive acoustic guitar music]
(I love closed captioning, especially descriptions of the music playing...I wouldn't have described the music as "pensive".)
But I am me and there's not much I can do about it. So I'll just laugh and see where the journey takes me.
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