In 1974, Barry Manilow hit the charts with a song called, "Mandy." I was three years old at the time, and my father, a jazz pianist, still traveled a lot. However, when he was home or when we went to see him play, he would pat his piano bench and ask me to, "have a seat and help him out with the words." So I would. Though I never knew a single lyric, I would get on stage, curl up beside him, and - much to his genuine amusement - bellow out whatever was in my head.
He always joked that - on those nights, if the club had caught fire, he'd have screamed, "Children and rhythm-section first!" My mother was not amused.
At any rate, one time, when I was in Kindergarten at a Catholic school (and already studying Latin), my dad was performing, and my sister asked him to play Mandy... so he did. When he asked me to give him a hand, I climbed on stage, nestled up next to him, and crooned into the microphone, "OH MANDY. CAUSE YOU CAME, AND YOU SAW, AND YOU CONQUERED... Oh Mannnndy." Now, if you know the song, then you know that the actual lyrics go something like this, "Oh Mandy. You came and you gave without taking. Oh Mandy." Til he died, it was one of his favorite stories about me.
He would have turned 76 this month and I still miss him.
Have you ever had someone who just got you? Someone who understood you and accepted you through all of your faults and idiosyncrasies? That was my dad... and I was not an easy child. All jokes aside, I could have been the poster child for Ritalin. In fact, at Easter, when everyone else had baskets full of candy, I was allowed to have one chocolate bunny - which I would devour in three bites, before running laps around the house, until I eventually collapsed into a sugar coma, where I would drool and twitch in my sleep like a rabid gerbil. My siblings were literally forbidden from giving any of their candy to me. I may very well have been the only child to grow up hearing their mother say, "It's OK, honey. You don't have to share with your sister. Everyone understands that kids can be a little selfish, whiny, and needy sometimes. You're just like tiny men." But I digress.
The point is that when people would say, "She's so awkward/high-strung/high-maintenance/high-anxiety," my dad would tell me that I wasn't any of those things. I was just... Coltish... somewhere between a pony who was still getting her bearings and a racehorse who wanted to run until she hit her stride. And he told me to sing.. especially when I didn't know the lyrics... because I would always find the words.
I suppose Jazz pianists are pretty smart guys. After all, wasn't it Thelonious Monk who said, "Play it your own way. Don’t play what the public wants. Play what you want and let the public pick up on what you're doing — even if it takes them fifteen, twenty years." Well, it's taken me forty, but I'm finally doing my own thing. Carpe diem and all that, I guess.
Talk to you later.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Laughter is the Best Medicine
This week, Hallmark failed me completely. Though you can actually find numerous books about topics like, “Why mommy looks so scary after her face lift,” there’s nothing for boob jobs. Nada. Zip. Zilch. So, two days ago, when my dearest friend's daughter (BLZ) got a breast reduction, I took the matter into my own hands (figuratively speaking) and sent flowers instead.
Now, to completely understand the full horror of the following exchange, please put yourself in the position of the poor sales clerk who innocently asked, “What would you like written on the card,” and had to hear, “I hope you like your new boobs. I can’t wait to see them.” After the awkward silence between us passed, she cleared her throat, then read it back for clarification… to which I could only reply, “You know, I really hate giving you the name on my Visa card right now.” But I did... and worse than that, I did it from work... in my cube... and worse than that, as with each and every time in my life that I have been mortified, I felt compelled to explain.
Here is what that poor teenage cashier had to hear, “It’s for my friend’s daughter… Oh my God, but NOT LIKE THAT! I’m not some freak-pervert and I SWEAR I’m TOTALLY straight. It's just that BLZ wasn’t happy with her chest, and as someone who has hit forty – believe me, I understand what that girl is talking about... even though she's getting a reduction and I’m just a victim of gravity.”
They say that silence is actually God talking. I don't believe that. I believe that florist was judging me. At any rate, it ended OK... My friend's daughter texted me and said that she laughed pretty hard when she got the lilies. Hopefully it really is the best medicine and in some small way I helped a kid whom I’ve always adored.
Now, to completely understand the full horror of the following exchange, please put yourself in the position of the poor sales clerk who innocently asked, “What would you like written on the card,” and had to hear, “I hope you like your new boobs. I can’t wait to see them.” After the awkward silence between us passed, she cleared her throat, then read it back for clarification… to which I could only reply, “You know, I really hate giving you the name on my Visa card right now.” But I did... and worse than that, I did it from work... in my cube... and worse than that, as with each and every time in my life that I have been mortified, I felt compelled to explain.
Here is what that poor teenage cashier had to hear, “It’s for my friend’s daughter… Oh my God, but NOT LIKE THAT! I’m not some freak-pervert and I SWEAR I’m TOTALLY straight. It's just that BLZ wasn’t happy with her chest, and as someone who has hit forty – believe me, I understand what that girl is talking about... even though she's getting a reduction and I’m just a victim of gravity.”
They say that silence is actually God talking. I don't believe that. I believe that florist was judging me. At any rate, it ended OK... My friend's daughter texted me and said that she laughed pretty hard when she got the lilies. Hopefully it really is the best medicine and in some small way I helped a kid whom I’ve always adored.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
To quote the Bard, "Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time."
In 1892, Walt Whitman published one of the most beautiful and poignant lines ever penned, "That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse." However, before he gave us that answer, he asked us this question first, "What good amid these, O me, O life?"
Enter Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple.
Now, before I continue, I should tell you that Epenetus Dalrymple was a real person... whose name I love more than Huckleberry Finn’s and whose life story I know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about... much like in 150 years, people will know very little about my tale - even though (to loosely quote the poet) I'm here today, my life exists, my identity is declared, and that… for as foolish and as faithless as I am (for who more foolish and faithless than I), I have a point to make. Granted, it’s convoluted and scattered as usual, but I swear I have one – so please bear with me.
You see, last month, I turned forty and married DB, my partner of two and a half years. Neither of which is insignificant. Nor is the fact that my mom ACTUALLY forgot the first point and called us back half-way through the second.
About my fortieth, when I told her that she missed my birthday (a big one no less), she simply said, “No I didn’t. I was helping you repress it so you could be thirty-nine for as long as possible.” Honestly, that woman thinks of everything. As for calling us back during the wedding - before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. In 2005, my mom contracted a virus which severely damaged her heart. Fortunately… it was caught in time and the surgeon was able to repair the mitral valve. Unfortunately… during the procedure, she ended up with a Staph infection that devolved into full-blown septic shock and landed her in a coma for three months. After "coming to," she spent an entire year in physical therapy learning to breathe on her own, eat on her own, walk on her own, and live without assistance… only to come home in 2006 and bury the love of her life, my father. In essence, the heart she fought so hard to fix was shattered all over again.
When we told her that it was time to forgive our dad for dying and the universe for making her sick, she said, “I’m neither bitter nor a germ-a-phobe. I’m just a firm believer that Sartre was right “Hell is other people.” I guess the up-side of her deeply-held conviction is that everyone has to believe in something. The down-side? She will not travel anymore, period. She's like the Godfather. You go to her and pay your respects. She doesn't come to you... And if she does, things in your life are REALLY bad and about to get a whole lot worse now that she's there and she's pissed.
At any rate, in order to strike a balance where everyone’s needs could be met, my Uncle called her before the wedding… kept her on the phone... put his mobile in his tux pocket… then walked me down the aisle. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, and he handed me over to DB… my uncle’s slacks began vibrating. Yes, SHE GOT DROPPED AND ACTUALLY CALLED BACK… Since I wasn’t sure how to say, “I swear, my Uncle’s pants aren’t PULSATING because he’s excited to see you. That’s just my mother in his pocket.” I simply let it go. But I digress…
The point is that, later that week, DB and I left for upstate New York to decompress at a beautiful bed and breakfast on a private lake in the Adirondack’s. And, because there’s so much history there, we spent several hours perusing numerous Revolutionary War cemeteries. If that sounds like an odd way to spend a honeymoon, then I know more than ever that I married the right man. You see, graveyards don’t bother me. In fact, I find them peaceful, and I love speculating on the lives of the people buried in them… including Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple’s.
Here’s what I know about him for sure: He was married. He was widowed. He had children (some of whom he lost). And he died at sea as an old man… Here’s what I conjectured (to DB’s amusement):
1. Like Huckleberry Finn, Epenetus was a wonderfully naughty child. Can’t you just hear his exasperated mother shouting, “EPENETUS DALRYMPLE - GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT CREEK, PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON, AND GO CUT THAT WOOD LIKE I TOLD YOU TO.”
2. He was ADORED by his wife, Josephine, who - on more than one occasion, must have said to her husband, “Why, Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple, put your wiener away. You will NOT touch me with that thing tonight.” And then she let him.
3. He worshipped his wife and never remarried. Instead, he was a loving grandfather who fished and told tales of his perfectly misspent youth.
4. He died at sea… in his skiff … in a storm… and was deeply missed by everyone who survived him.
Now, it should be stated again, I don’t pretend to be right. That’s just how I see his life in my head… which made me wonder, really wonder - what will people read into my life in fifty years when they see my tombstone, especially if it says what I want it to say, “I told you I was sick.” And so… because of a man I’ve never met… who rests in a New England cemetery I’ll never visit again… I’m going to try and contribute MY verse to this crazy play.
Yes, I entered a writing contest.
So, wish me luck – and not just because I'm more competitive than a Drag Queen and want to win, but because Shakespeare was right, 'neither marble nor gilded monuments shall outlive this powerful rhyme.' I want my loved ones (and their loved ones’ loved ones) to know that it’s OK to be crazy. It runs in the family… but so does a good sense of humor. I also want them to know how deeply they were loved, so no one ever has to wonder - not even 150 years from now.
Talk to you later (and rest in peace Epenetus Dalrymple).
Enter Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple.
Now, before I continue, I should tell you that Epenetus Dalrymple was a real person... whose name I love more than Huckleberry Finn’s and whose life story I know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about... much like in 150 years, people will know very little about my tale - even though (to loosely quote the poet) I'm here today, my life exists, my identity is declared, and that… for as foolish and as faithless as I am (for who more foolish and faithless than I), I have a point to make. Granted, it’s convoluted and scattered as usual, but I swear I have one – so please bear with me.
You see, last month, I turned forty and married DB, my partner of two and a half years. Neither of which is insignificant. Nor is the fact that my mom ACTUALLY forgot the first point and called us back half-way through the second.
About my fortieth, when I told her that she missed my birthday (a big one no less), she simply said, “No I didn’t. I was helping you repress it so you could be thirty-nine for as long as possible.” Honestly, that woman thinks of everything. As for calling us back during the wedding - before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. In 2005, my mom contracted a virus which severely damaged her heart. Fortunately… it was caught in time and the surgeon was able to repair the mitral valve. Unfortunately… during the procedure, she ended up with a Staph infection that devolved into full-blown septic shock and landed her in a coma for three months. After "coming to," she spent an entire year in physical therapy learning to breathe on her own, eat on her own, walk on her own, and live without assistance… only to come home in 2006 and bury the love of her life, my father. In essence, the heart she fought so hard to fix was shattered all over again.
When we told her that it was time to forgive our dad for dying and the universe for making her sick, she said, “I’m neither bitter nor a germ-a-phobe. I’m just a firm believer that Sartre was right “Hell is other people.” I guess the up-side of her deeply-held conviction is that everyone has to believe in something. The down-side? She will not travel anymore, period. She's like the Godfather. You go to her and pay your respects. She doesn't come to you... And if she does, things in your life are REALLY bad and about to get a whole lot worse now that she's there and she's pissed.
At any rate, in order to strike a balance where everyone’s needs could be met, my Uncle called her before the wedding… kept her on the phone... put his mobile in his tux pocket… then walked me down the aisle. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, and he handed me over to DB… my uncle’s slacks began vibrating. Yes, SHE GOT DROPPED AND ACTUALLY CALLED BACK… Since I wasn’t sure how to say, “I swear, my Uncle’s pants aren’t PULSATING because he’s excited to see you. That’s just my mother in his pocket.” I simply let it go. But I digress…
The point is that, later that week, DB and I left for upstate New York to decompress at a beautiful bed and breakfast on a private lake in the Adirondack’s. And, because there’s so much history there, we spent several hours perusing numerous Revolutionary War cemeteries. If that sounds like an odd way to spend a honeymoon, then I know more than ever that I married the right man. You see, graveyards don’t bother me. In fact, I find them peaceful, and I love speculating on the lives of the people buried in them… including Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple’s.
Here’s what I know about him for sure: He was married. He was widowed. He had children (some of whom he lost). And he died at sea as an old man… Here’s what I conjectured (to DB’s amusement):
1. Like Huckleberry Finn, Epenetus was a wonderfully naughty child. Can’t you just hear his exasperated mother shouting, “EPENETUS DALRYMPLE - GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT CREEK, PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON, AND GO CUT THAT WOOD LIKE I TOLD YOU TO.”
2. He was ADORED by his wife, Josephine, who - on more than one occasion, must have said to her husband, “Why, Mr. Epenetus Dalrymple, put your wiener away. You will NOT touch me with that thing tonight.” And then she let him.
3. He worshipped his wife and never remarried. Instead, he was a loving grandfather who fished and told tales of his perfectly misspent youth.
4. He died at sea… in his skiff … in a storm… and was deeply missed by everyone who survived him.
Now, it should be stated again, I don’t pretend to be right. That’s just how I see his life in my head… which made me wonder, really wonder - what will people read into my life in fifty years when they see my tombstone, especially if it says what I want it to say, “I told you I was sick.” And so… because of a man I’ve never met… who rests in a New England cemetery I’ll never visit again… I’m going to try and contribute MY verse to this crazy play.
Yes, I entered a writing contest.
So, wish me luck – and not just because I'm more competitive than a Drag Queen and want to win, but because Shakespeare was right, 'neither marble nor gilded monuments shall outlive this powerful rhyme.' I want my loved ones (and their loved ones’ loved ones) to know that it’s OK to be crazy. It runs in the family… but so does a good sense of humor. I also want them to know how deeply they were loved, so no one ever has to wonder - not even 150 years from now.
Talk to you later (and rest in peace Epenetus Dalrymple).
Saturday, July 2, 2011
You can't have everything... where would you put it?
Do you remember The Odd Couple? It started out as a play by Neil Simon (with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau), then became a TV show (with Tony Randall and Jack Klugman). For those of you who have NO idea what I’m talking about, the story basically revolves around two roommates:
You see, though DB and I have been partners for over two years, we never truly co-habitated until a month ago. Sure, we stayed together, but we each had our own “spaces” to retreat to. I owned my house…. he owned his house… and we went back-and-forth around work and placement schedules. No doubt it had its drawbacks, but it also protected him from how insane I am. Now that we’re in one house (a rental while ours is being built), it’s literally “full-on crazy” with very little reprieve for a man whom I love more than life. And it’s not just because we’re planning a wedding or building a house… though those make lovely excuses. It’s honestly because I’m just CRAZY. I like things the way I like them, “A place for everything and everything in its place,” which makes me a HORRIBLE roommate.
When I met my best friend for lunch and asked her what she thought, she said, “I’ve loved you longer than he has, but you’d be IMPOSSIBLE to live with. It’d be like bringing a baby home from the hospital. Seriously, you babble incessantly when you’re happy, you cry non-stop when you aren’t, and a good game of itsy-bitsy spider will genuinely occupy you for hours. Besides that, you eat every twenty fucking minutes, sometimes through the night, and you’d honestly let someone pick you up and carry you from room-to-room if you could find a way to make it happen. Besides that, you’re prone to rashes. And… speaking of, at least he doesn’t have to change your diaper. That fine task will fall to me, your Medical Power of Attorney, when you’re ninety and you stroke out because you refuse to exercise.” I hate it when she’s right.
At any rate, the point is that - of all the Neil Simon characters out there - I always wanted to be like the witty, adorable, care-free Corie in Barefoot in the Park... not Felix Unger in the Odd Couple, and I’m not sure when or how it happened - I only know that it did. That said, I guess I’ll have to take DB’s advice and just be myself… and not just because everyone else is taken, but also because this is the person he fell in love with… even if I do occasionally sign my notes, “FU” (for Felix Unger).
- Felix Unger - An anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, neat-freak who is so high-maintenance that he wears his seat-belt at a drive-inn movie theatre
- Oscar Madison - A funny, laid-back guy who craves peace and normalcy and just wants Felix to stop leaving him lengthy to-do lists and random notes that are always signed, "F.U." (for Felix Unger)
You see, though DB and I have been partners for over two years, we never truly co-habitated until a month ago. Sure, we stayed together, but we each had our own “spaces” to retreat to. I owned my house…. he owned his house… and we went back-and-forth around work and placement schedules. No doubt it had its drawbacks, but it also protected him from how insane I am. Now that we’re in one house (a rental while ours is being built), it’s literally “full-on crazy” with very little reprieve for a man whom I love more than life. And it’s not just because we’re planning a wedding or building a house… though those make lovely excuses. It’s honestly because I’m just CRAZY. I like things the way I like them, “A place for everything and everything in its place,” which makes me a HORRIBLE roommate.
When I met my best friend for lunch and asked her what she thought, she said, “I’ve loved you longer than he has, but you’d be IMPOSSIBLE to live with. It’d be like bringing a baby home from the hospital. Seriously, you babble incessantly when you’re happy, you cry non-stop when you aren’t, and a good game of itsy-bitsy spider will genuinely occupy you for hours. Besides that, you eat every twenty fucking minutes, sometimes through the night, and you’d honestly let someone pick you up and carry you from room-to-room if you could find a way to make it happen. Besides that, you’re prone to rashes. And… speaking of, at least he doesn’t have to change your diaper. That fine task will fall to me, your Medical Power of Attorney, when you’re ninety and you stroke out because you refuse to exercise.” I hate it when she’s right.
At any rate, the point is that - of all the Neil Simon characters out there - I always wanted to be like the witty, adorable, care-free Corie in Barefoot in the Park... not Felix Unger in the Odd Couple, and I’m not sure when or how it happened - I only know that it did. That said, I guess I’ll have to take DB’s advice and just be myself… and not just because everyone else is taken, but also because this is the person he fell in love with… even if I do occasionally sign my notes, “FU” (for Felix Unger).
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Dear Gay Mafia - It's me again
Do you remember the Big Audio Dynamite song, Dial a Hitman? Well, I think the Gay Mafia should steal some notes from their song sheet, "If you got a problem, pick up the telephone..." but with a twist... because I don't mean I want to order a gay hit... I have several of those on my iPod already (including "Born this Way" by Lady Gaga). I'm actually talking about a crisis hot-line for straight women who need to "Hear a Queer” when their best gay friend is out of town… on vacation…at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico… with his partner… completely unavailable via text… and a girl needs advice… but I’m not bitter.
You see, last weekend, I went to a tennis tournament, without sunscreen, and got horribly burnt. And normally, I wouldn't care too much; however, I'm getting married soon, and my dress has spaghetti straps - while I... I have a farmer's tan. Add to this dilemma the fact that my people are Irish and prone to skin cancer, hence I can't even go to a tanning bed to even it out, and voila - conundrum. So, Dear Don Queerleone, if you're out there, do a girl a solid and please reply. OK?
That said, here’s what you cannot recommend:
1) Tanning cream (as I have already wasted over an hour and a half on-line and an hour at Macy’s “spot testing” my options, only to find several shades of hell that don’t even work for an orange. Beside that, I refuse to show up at my own wedding looking like George Hamilton in Love at First Bite).
2) A new dress (though I found a Vera Wang to die for, my ass is bigger than my budget at this point, and I cannot spend large sums of money that I do not have).
3) A bolero, jacket, or wrap to cover it (my dress is SUPER New Englandy and EXTREMELY simple, and - while I love the furniture and oval boxes that ‘The United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing’ make, I do not want a “Shaker your Money Maker” look or feel).
What I need is for the fashion police to point me in the right direction. Oh, and because you’re the only true organized crime, can you also find me a five foot tall metal chicken: http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/
(you REALLY do have to click or copy and paste this link into your browser and read this post).
Anyway, thanks Gay Mafia. I look forward to your response. Note (in Mob Speak): If you fail me, you will find yourself sleeping with the fishes (or as Jack from Will and Grace once said about a gay whack job, “sleeping with trout almondine drizzled with lemon and capers”).
You see, last weekend, I went to a tennis tournament, without sunscreen, and got horribly burnt. And normally, I wouldn't care too much; however, I'm getting married soon, and my dress has spaghetti straps - while I... I have a farmer's tan. Add to this dilemma the fact that my people are Irish and prone to skin cancer, hence I can't even go to a tanning bed to even it out, and voila - conundrum. So, Dear Don Queerleone, if you're out there, do a girl a solid and please reply. OK?
That said, here’s what you cannot recommend:
1) Tanning cream (as I have already wasted over an hour and a half on-line and an hour at Macy’s “spot testing” my options, only to find several shades of hell that don’t even work for an orange. Beside that, I refuse to show up at my own wedding looking like George Hamilton in Love at First Bite).
2) A new dress (though I found a Vera Wang to die for, my ass is bigger than my budget at this point, and I cannot spend large sums of money that I do not have).
3) A bolero, jacket, or wrap to cover it (my dress is SUPER New Englandy and EXTREMELY simple, and - while I love the furniture and oval boxes that ‘The United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing’ make, I do not want a “Shaker your Money Maker” look or feel).
What I need is for the fashion police to point me in the right direction. Oh, and because you’re the only true organized crime, can you also find me a five foot tall metal chicken: http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/
(you REALLY do have to click or copy and paste this link into your browser and read this post).
Anyway, thanks Gay Mafia. I look forward to your response. Note (in Mob Speak): If you fail me, you will find yourself sleeping with the fishes (or as Jack from Will and Grace once said about a gay whack job, “sleeping with trout almondine drizzled with lemon and capers”).
Monday, May 30, 2011
It's a Good Day for the Blues
Not only is that one of the greatest songs ever written, Malford Milligan, Storyville's soulful, sage, black-albino lead singer is right, "Sometimes you fly so high, you can't find a place to land,” but still... "It's a good day for the blues." Well, I get it. Though I am the recipient of countless, huge blessings (I’m marrying an amazing man this summer, the children we share in this space are healthy and happy, we’re building a beautiful home that’s one step closer to finished every day, etc. etc.), I find myself complaining about something... nothing... everything... anything, and frankly - it's ridiculous. In fact, when I went home to Appalachia a little while ago, my mom was so exasperated that she called me on it and said, “mkromd, do you think we created language as a species to accommodate your inner need to whine? If so, do you suppose Mother Nature gave me feet to walk away from you while you do it… or to simply put my foot up your ass so you’ll stop?”
I ask you, in all honesty - is it all becoming clearer how I became this person? Is it?
The worst part is that she’s right. Scratch that, the WORST part is that she had my family jump on the bandwagon. And I don’t mean my brothers and sister – people with whom I can actually fight back. I mean her cousins and aunts, women in their seventies, eighties and nineties. People you simply can’t debate… and not just because they’re deaf or because your mother will kill you for being disrespectful. Women you can’t bitch in front of because they actually have reasons to complain… and still don’t do it. Women who have buried children and partners, witnessed more than one war, and fought for the right to vote, the right to fair pay, and the right to live their lives as they see fit. Women who did all of it with a stiff upper lip... in a corset... silently... grateful for the things they had - not miserable over the things they lost.
So, when these women tell you, “You’re missing out on the happiest times of your life.” You listen.
And then you loosely remember the words of comedic genius, Louis CK, who basically said, “Everything’s amazing and nobody’s happy. In my lifetime alone, the changes in the world have been incredible. When I was a kid, we had a rotary phone - a phone that you had to stand NEXT to and you had to DIAL it. It was so primitive that it actually sparked, and it made you hate people with zeros in their numbers - because it was more work. You were like, ‘This guy's number has two zeros, screw him.’ And if someone called and you weren't home, the phone would just ring lonely by itself. There was no voicemail… And if you wanted money, you had to go INTO the bank (during the three hours it was open), stand in line, and write yourself a check… like an idiot. Then... when you ran out of money, you just couldn’t do anything. You were broke and you were done…
We live in an amazing world, and it's wasted on people who don’t appreciate it. Everyone has their own phone and we all complain if we lose a signal - even though that signal is going to space and needs a second to get back… And that's not even the worst of it. FLYING is the worst.
People come back from flights, tell you about it, and make it sound like a horror story. They actually turn their flight into the equivalent of the Oregon Trail and make it sound like the worst day of their life, ‘First of all we didn't board for 20 minutes. Then we got on the plane ONLY to sit on the runway for 40 minutes. We had to SIT there.’ To which I want to reply, ‘Oh really, what happened next? Did you fly through the air like a bird? Did you partake in the miracle of human flight? You were flying! That's amazing! Everybody on every plane should be constantly telling themselves, ‘Oh my God, WOW, we’re flying. We’re sitting in a chair in the sky... and sure it doesn't go back a lot… and it smells... but we’re FLYING.’ Cause, here's the thing. People talk about flight delays, but you can go from New York to California in FIVE hours. That trip used to take thirty years and a bunch of you would die along the way (and/or have a baby)... Seriously, you'd be with a whole different group of people by the time you got there. Now you watch a movie and you're home…”
Or something like that. I could never do him justice, so you’ll have to Google it. In the meantime, have a great week, and don’t sweat the small stuff, because - to quote the true God of comedy, Woody Allen, “Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.” Talk to you later.
I ask you, in all honesty - is it all becoming clearer how I became this person? Is it?
The worst part is that she’s right. Scratch that, the WORST part is that she had my family jump on the bandwagon. And I don’t mean my brothers and sister – people with whom I can actually fight back. I mean her cousins and aunts, women in their seventies, eighties and nineties. People you simply can’t debate… and not just because they’re deaf or because your mother will kill you for being disrespectful. Women you can’t bitch in front of because they actually have reasons to complain… and still don’t do it. Women who have buried children and partners, witnessed more than one war, and fought for the right to vote, the right to fair pay, and the right to live their lives as they see fit. Women who did all of it with a stiff upper lip... in a corset... silently... grateful for the things they had - not miserable over the things they lost.
So, when these women tell you, “You’re missing out on the happiest times of your life.” You listen.
And then you loosely remember the words of comedic genius, Louis CK, who basically said, “Everything’s amazing and nobody’s happy. In my lifetime alone, the changes in the world have been incredible. When I was a kid, we had a rotary phone - a phone that you had to stand NEXT to and you had to DIAL it. It was so primitive that it actually sparked, and it made you hate people with zeros in their numbers - because it was more work. You were like, ‘This guy's number has two zeros, screw him.’ And if someone called and you weren't home, the phone would just ring lonely by itself. There was no voicemail… And if you wanted money, you had to go INTO the bank (during the three hours it was open), stand in line, and write yourself a check… like an idiot. Then... when you ran out of money, you just couldn’t do anything. You were broke and you were done…
We live in an amazing world, and it's wasted on people who don’t appreciate it. Everyone has their own phone and we all complain if we lose a signal - even though that signal is going to space and needs a second to get back… And that's not even the worst of it. FLYING is the worst.
People come back from flights, tell you about it, and make it sound like a horror story. They actually turn their flight into the equivalent of the Oregon Trail and make it sound like the worst day of their life, ‘First of all we didn't board for 20 minutes. Then we got on the plane ONLY to sit on the runway for 40 minutes. We had to SIT there.’ To which I want to reply, ‘Oh really, what happened next? Did you fly through the air like a bird? Did you partake in the miracle of human flight? You were flying! That's amazing! Everybody on every plane should be constantly telling themselves, ‘Oh my God, WOW, we’re flying. We’re sitting in a chair in the sky... and sure it doesn't go back a lot… and it smells... but we’re FLYING.’ Cause, here's the thing. People talk about flight delays, but you can go from New York to California in FIVE hours. That trip used to take thirty years and a bunch of you would die along the way (and/or have a baby)... Seriously, you'd be with a whole different group of people by the time you got there. Now you watch a movie and you're home…”
Or something like that. I could never do him justice, so you’ll have to Google it. In the meantime, have a great week, and don’t sweat the small stuff, because - to quote the true God of comedy, Woody Allen, “Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.” Talk to you later.
Monday, May 23, 2011
To quote the Buddha, "Attachment causes suffering."
... and to quote my best friend at lunch last week, "mkromd, even your emotional baggage is Prada." Personally, I think both of them are saying the same thing... which is unfortunate for me because I tend to be that person who keeps good luggage for life. But I digress. This post isn't a silent cry for help about my Prada “problem.” It's actually about a book I'm re-reading called, "A New Earth" by Eckhardt Tolle. If you haven't read it, you should. It's life-changing. However, I should warn you - it's not an easy read. It's about learning to extinguish your ego.
Now... at this point in our story, it should be noted that my ego is the Mohammed Ali of egos (except that it doesn't fly like a butterfly, it flies coach because it's incredibly cheap when it comes to airfare… how do you think I can afford Prada on my budget). But that's STILL not the point. The point is that my ego will not go down without a fight. In fact, it's SO massive that the other night, as I was lying in bed reading this book, I honestly said to myself, "Self... what if the eight people who don’t know you but read mkromd anyway think you've stopped writing because you were taken on May 21 by the Rapture? Perhaps you should write something - just so no one wonders.” Yes. Really.
At any rate, I apologize if you were worried. I wasn’t raptured; I’ve just been swamped… especially a few weeks ago, when I was summoned home (to Appalachia by my family for my nephew’s graduation party not by God to avoid Armageddon – just to clarify). And, while there, I ran my ego’s end-of-times concerns past my mother, who ACTUALLY said, “Yes, you and Kissinger must have been worried sick about the people you’d leave behind.” When I reminded her that our former Secretary of State’s out-of-control ego orchestrated the Vietnam War for personal and political gain, she had the nerve to add insult to injury by replying, “True, but if there’s only one slot left, and it’s between you and him, he has a Nobel Peace Prize.”
Thank God my ego isn’t just massive, it also suffers from Attention Deficit Disorder, which makes it hard to hold a grudge (well, truth be told, it has ADHD and something else, but when my therapist diagnosed me, I wasn’t really paying attention, so I have NO idea what all I have).
On the UP note, while I was home, I also got to spend some time with my brother (who is an incredibly gentle being that was badly damaged in an ugly divorce but has found solace in organic gardening). So we’re standing in this amazing vegetable patch he’s planted and he’s explaining to me why he doesn’t know if he can come to my wedding because he just doesn’t believe in marriage anymore and he doesn’t want his negative energy to impact my happiness, etc. etc. When I asked him if he was at least dating (it’s only been seven years), he jokingly said, “I don’t know. Maybe I need a sign.” And that’s when we HONESTLY (I swear on all that is holy) heard, “THIS IS THE VOICE OF GOD….”
But… to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Several years ago, our oldest brother was in a horrible accident and almost died. He was thankfully life-flighted from our local hospital to a state-of-the-art one an hour away, where they saved his life. In return, my parents and several of their friends donated land in the woods near their homes for another helicopter pad - should anyone else ever need that kind of medical assistance. And from time-to-time, even though it’s fenced and gated, because it has Loud Speakers for Public Announcements, people use it for non-medical events as well (tornado warnings, etc). However, given the May 21 Rapture madness, this time it was being used illegally by a religious group. Yes, they broke in and started proselytizing.
Now… that they broke into a gated helicopter pad so God could easily find and take them wasn’t the good part. That they were announcing their location to him… JUST IN CASE... was AWESOME. And it wasn’t just that they were crazy… it’s that they were crazy and shouting the BEST questions like, “Are you a crack whore? Are you a womanizer? Have you tried to find Jesus in a bottle...” that made my brother and me drop EVERYTHING and haul through the woods to answer them. Too bad the cops showed up before God. I REALLY wanted to confess that the Devil does indeed wear Prada.
At dinner that night, when we told our mother what we had done, she said, “Be glad you weren’t caught. You wouldn’t just be gettin it from your Uncle, the town Judge, you’d be Armagettin from me.” At seventy, she’s still funny.
Now... at this point in our story, it should be noted that my ego is the Mohammed Ali of egos (except that it doesn't fly like a butterfly, it flies coach because it's incredibly cheap when it comes to airfare… how do you think I can afford Prada on my budget). But that's STILL not the point. The point is that my ego will not go down without a fight. In fact, it's SO massive that the other night, as I was lying in bed reading this book, I honestly said to myself, "Self... what if the eight people who don’t know you but read mkromd anyway think you've stopped writing because you were taken on May 21 by the Rapture? Perhaps you should write something - just so no one wonders.” Yes. Really.
At any rate, I apologize if you were worried. I wasn’t raptured; I’ve just been swamped… especially a few weeks ago, when I was summoned home (to Appalachia by my family for my nephew’s graduation party not by God to avoid Armageddon – just to clarify). And, while there, I ran my ego’s end-of-times concerns past my mother, who ACTUALLY said, “Yes, you and Kissinger must have been worried sick about the people you’d leave behind.” When I reminded her that our former Secretary of State’s out-of-control ego orchestrated the Vietnam War for personal and political gain, she had the nerve to add insult to injury by replying, “True, but if there’s only one slot left, and it’s between you and him, he has a Nobel Peace Prize.”
Thank God my ego isn’t just massive, it also suffers from Attention Deficit Disorder, which makes it hard to hold a grudge (well, truth be told, it has ADHD and something else, but when my therapist diagnosed me, I wasn’t really paying attention, so I have NO idea what all I have).
On the UP note, while I was home, I also got to spend some time with my brother (who is an incredibly gentle being that was badly damaged in an ugly divorce but has found solace in organic gardening). So we’re standing in this amazing vegetable patch he’s planted and he’s explaining to me why he doesn’t know if he can come to my wedding because he just doesn’t believe in marriage anymore and he doesn’t want his negative energy to impact my happiness, etc. etc. When I asked him if he was at least dating (it’s only been seven years), he jokingly said, “I don’t know. Maybe I need a sign.” And that’s when we HONESTLY (I swear on all that is holy) heard, “THIS IS THE VOICE OF GOD….”
But… to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Several years ago, our oldest brother was in a horrible accident and almost died. He was thankfully life-flighted from our local hospital to a state-of-the-art one an hour away, where they saved his life. In return, my parents and several of their friends donated land in the woods near their homes for another helicopter pad - should anyone else ever need that kind of medical assistance. And from time-to-time, even though it’s fenced and gated, because it has Loud Speakers for Public Announcements, people use it for non-medical events as well (tornado warnings, etc). However, given the May 21 Rapture madness, this time it was being used illegally by a religious group. Yes, they broke in and started proselytizing.
Now… that they broke into a gated helicopter pad so God could easily find and take them wasn’t the good part. That they were announcing their location to him… JUST IN CASE... was AWESOME. And it wasn’t just that they were crazy… it’s that they were crazy and shouting the BEST questions like, “Are you a crack whore? Are you a womanizer? Have you tried to find Jesus in a bottle...” that made my brother and me drop EVERYTHING and haul through the woods to answer them. Too bad the cops showed up before God. I REALLY wanted to confess that the Devil does indeed wear Prada.
At dinner that night, when we told our mother what we had done, she said, “Be glad you weren’t caught. You wouldn’t just be gettin it from your Uncle, the town Judge, you’d be Armagettin from me.” At seventy, she’s still funny.
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